Dec. 23, 2005; 9:05 p.m.
Standard disclaimers apply. As well as standard pleading: please don't sue me!
Shahrastini
By Ninetails
Chapter 1: How the Story Begins (Duo's POV)
Once, in days long past even the graybeards among you remember them only in stories, there lived a king who had two sons. Their names were Treize and Heero.
This king, as most ancient stories go, was rumored far and wide to be a very wise man. Where other rulers raised their sons in jealousy and anger, keeping themselves strong by causing those around them to be weak, this king strengthened himself by making those around him strong. He raised his sons in harmony and love, despite the fact that they came from different mothers. And so, at his passing, his kingdom reaped not the whirlwind, but a great reward. For the princes, though of different mothers, did not quarrel over their father's earthly goods. Instead, Treize, the eldest, said to his brother, Heero, "Hear my words, my brother. Younger than I and half of my blood, I have witnessed you grow into the fine man you are today. Though I am oldest and could, by law, rule all, instead I will make a different choice. Hear now what I propose:
"The kingdom of our father is a vast one. Let us then divide it between us, each attending to his domains and never making war upon the other. In this way, our people will know peace and all will prosper."
Heero gazed upon the blue eyes that almost mirrored his own, silently pondering on his brother's surprising words. "My brother, truly you are our father's worthy successor for, even in your greatness, you seek to do me honor. I have seen how much you love our father and the people of his kingdom, and truly, you are a worthy king to them. I will therefore be satisfied with the lands you grant me and never seek to overthrow you."
Then Treize divided the kingdom, keeping for himself the vast lands of India and Indochina. But to his brother he gave the city of Samarkand, the trade routes and the lands thereof – all jewels of great value.
And so the brothers embraced each other and parted.
But all this is yet to come, for I have let the story run on ahead of itself.
Now at his father's death, Treize inherited not only the king's lands. He also inherited his court and palace. He inherited courtiers and advisors. Chief among them, most high and highly prized, was his vizier. A fitting title for "the one who bears burdens."
What burdens this vizier was to bear in the service of his young king shall soon be told.
The vizier was older than his new master, being more of Treize's father's age, and he had two sons. Though they were far apart in years, they were close in love. The younger was a child of ten as this tale opens. His name was Quatre. The elder was a young man of seventeen. He was called Duo.
Quatre's mother had been a great lady at court. But Duo's mother had come from afar. Ah! Many were the tales told about her: Helena the Storyteller.
As a young man, the vizier had led forces of Treize's father to a great victory, deep in the heart of one of his lands. When he returned home, he brought with him a bride, daughter of a people both fierce and proud. They lived not in cities and settlements as others did, but traveled always from place to place, as if their true home in the world had yet to be found. They obeyed the laws of all the lands they passed through, yet made alliances with none.
Greatly honored among the Lost Ones were the Storytellers – the tellers of stories or fortunes. It was whispered that the vizier's young wife was greater than all the Storytellers who had come before her, be it man or woman. So great was her gift that her people wept and cast themselves upon the ground when they understood that she meant to part from them. For, once gone, she would become a stranger and could never return - so their customs said. And it had been prophesied at Helena's birth that in her time, she would come to bear the greatest Storyteller of them all.
Though she loved the vizier, when the time for parting with her people came, Helena also wept. For many days and nights the tears fell from her eyes without ceasing, across all the miles to her new country. Only when the out runners declared that the towers of the king's palace were actually in view did Helena dry her eyes. For the sake of a story she herself would never tell, she knew that she must put away her sorrow.
And so it was that Helena the Storyteller came to her new home. She was possessed of an intellect as sharp as the blade of a newly honed knife, and a beauty so terrible only a few could bear to look upon it. But Helena herself had never had to pass the test of gazing upon her own features. For she was as it was whispered all the truly great Storytellers are:
Helena the Storyteller was blind.
The vizier and Helena lived quietly in their quarters in the king's great palace. In the second year of their marriage, Helena presented the vizier with a child. A son. They gave to him the name of Duo, a fitting name for one whose parents come from truly different worlds.
Though Duo grew to young adulthood in the palace, he kept himself far from the pomp and circumstance of court functions, or the brutal sport the young palace courtiers engaged themselves in. His father, the vizier, sat at the king's right hand. He was loved and trusted. But, even as the years went by and Duo's mother showed herself to be true and virtuous, few of the people she had come to live among gave their love to Helena the Storyteller. She had not been born in that place, and the fear of such a one proved to be too strong.
And so even as the parents in the kingdom withheld their love and trust from the mother, so did they teach their children to do the same to her child. And though he never saw them nor lived amongst them, Duo grew up like the people of his mother. Searching yet never finding his true place in the world. And he grew up lonely.
The palace of the king was vast and lovely, and in it there flowed many beautiful fountains. One in particular, the young Duo loved. It was not large, rather a small pool shaded by a pomegranate tree and tucked into a corner of a secluded garden. In it swam many beautiful golden fish. It was tiled with stone of such a piercing blue that looking down into the water was exactly the same as looking up into the sky.
This quiet corner of the palace was Duo's favorite place – the closest he had ever come to finding where he belonged. And so it happened that one day at the beginning of his eighth year, his happiness at being in the palace he loved best made Duo set aside his usual caution, and he was taken by surprise.
A group of young courtiers' children set upon him, lifted him up, and threw him into the pool with such force that the branches of the pomegranate tree shook above him. Duo struck his head upon the stones that lined the pool and his red blood flowed out into the water.
When the courtiers' children saw what they had done, they became afraid. How terrible, they feared, would be the revenge of Helena the Storyteller! And so they fled, leaving Duo sitting in a pool of bloody water sobbing as though his heart would break. And thus his mother found him.
"Why do they treat me so?" Duo cried when he saw his mother. "I do nothing to them. Nothing!"
Though she thought perhaps her own heart would break when she heard the pain and despair in her son's voice, Helena the Storyteller answered calmly, "Nothing is all you need do, Duo, my son. Being yourself is enough. For you are not the same as they are, and they can neither forgive nor forget it. Come now, dry your eyes and get out of the water."
But Duo was hurt and angry, and he felt rebellious. He stayed right where he was. "But I want to be the same!" he cried. "Why must I be different?" He splashed the water with an angry fist. "I won't get out until you tell me."
Before Duo knew what his mother intended, Helena the Storyteller strode to the fountain, lifted her skirts, and waded into the water. She tore one of her sleeves and made a bandage to bind Duo's bleeding head. How Helena knew to do this when she could not see the injury, Duo did not know.
"Get up, go into our apartments, and put on dry clothing," Helena commanded her son. "Then go to my chest and bring me the length of cloth you will find inside."
Though his spirit still felt bruised, Duo did as his mother commanded, for he understood that this was the only way Helena would give him an answer – with a story.
While Duo changed into dry robes, Helena the Storyteller stood in the water, her blind eyes cast downward. As if she could see the pool Duo loved so well, now bloody and sullied. And from her eyes there fell two tears, one each, from the left eye and the right. As Helena's tears struck the water, the pool was cleansed, and the water ran clear once more.
When Duo returned, he found his mother sitting beside the fountain, her skirts already dry. At the sound of her son's footsteps, Helena held out a hand.
"What have you brought me?" she inquired.
Duo reached out and placed a length of cloth into his mother's hand. It was silk as fine and sheer as gossamer, the same color blue as the stones that lined the fountain. Duo watched as Helena brushed her fingers across the surface of the cloth, and he felt the hair rise on his arms.
For he knew that woven into the cloth so finely that only the hands of the storyteller could discover it, there was a tale waiting to be told. And he knew that this was the true storyteller's art. Not the speaking aloud, for that was something anyone might do, but the deciphering of the tale woven into the cloth. A secret known only to the Storytellers.
"Ah!" Helena said when she was finished. "You have chosen well, my little one."
Duo made a sound that might have been a laugh and plopped down beside his mother on the edge of the fountain.
"It was hardly a choice," he said. "That was the only piece of cloth in the whole trunk."
"That's as it should be," Helena replied with a smile, "For it means that this story is yours. Will you hear it?"
"I will," Duo said.
"Then I will give you its name," said his mother. "It is called…"
TBC
A/N:
I have NO idea what the story should be called! This is based on one of my favorite books, "The Storyteller's Daughter," but with my own twist. Gah. I'm too lazy to continue, but tell me what you think. Ok, that's over. Merry Christmas! (in advance, I guess…) Ja.
And yes, I know that I'm weird, writing the chapter 1st before the prologue. Eheh. And yes, I decided to name this "Shahrastini." I'm gonna include historical facts somewhere in the AN of a later chapter.
Thanks so much, camillian, for the review. Couldnt really reply, since you don't have an account (and this site banned replying to reviews so...) Gah. Really, thanks SO much! (huggles you)
Lastly, I thank Pandora-chan for editing (beta-ing?) this chappie. Thanks SO much, and for the critiques (?) as well. (huggles)
