Disclaimer: Nope, sorry, all of Garth Nix's characters here are his, not
mine. Mine? Mine? Who says they're mine? What do you mean, a rumor that I'm
holding them hostage?! Me?!
erialarrowman: thanks for being both nice and helpful. As you probably noticed, I rewrote quite a bit, although more on the first chapter than the prologue. Give me feedback!
A/N: I haven't read Abhorsen, so my canon's probably all wrong. I'd appreciate you telling me if I'm getting anything wrong . . . PLEASE review. I'd really like some feedback here!
Prologue
It was quite late, and cold, and there was but one passerby on the streets in the Old Kingdom at so late an hour and in such weather. The lone traveler was a young but beautiful lady swathed head to toe in a long black cloak. Her rightfully cheery round face was gaunt with exhaustion and worry, her naturally flowing golden hair greasy and matted. The young woman's honey-caramel skin and clear, bright emerald eyes easily identified her as one of the Clayr, the folk who dwelled in the Glacier and had the ability to see the future. Unfortunately, easily identifiable was the last thing she wanted to be right now. She drew her cloak more tightly around her and hurried along to her destination. As she walked, she mumbled a handful of words, over and over again, like a mantra.
"Lirael . . . royal family . . . curse . . . no . . . my duty . . . must warn . . ." She shivered, and her hands and lips formed the Charter marks for light, comfort, and warmth. A miniscule flame appeared in front of her, hovering and following like a magical lapdog.
Suddenly, the woman heard what sounded like something that could be footsteps, if the mood took it, echo on the cobblestones as someone came out of an alley. As something emerged, it became obvious that these were no real footsteps, given the creature's lack of feet. It was a person-- no, a creature-- almost eight feet tall, put together from the darkest of darkness. Darkness that brought to mind the darkness of a small child, shrieking from a nightmare in the middle of the night, when nobody hears. The darkness of what is seen from tightly shut eyes as the viewer's loved one takes their final breath. The darkness, ultimately, of hopelessness and despair. The figure glided toward the bedraggled woman, wearing a black cloak sewn with threads of blood, hatred, and betrayal. The Clayr gasped softly, and the look on her face was the utterly hopeless one of someone who has staked everything and now is confronted with the very thing she hides from. Though she knew little of death and the dead, the person-- or thing-- approaching her was quite obviously one of the Greater Dead.
"Dovilan!" she cried in disgust and horror. He, or it, smiled a mockery of a smile. When it began to speak, it was in a low, dry rasp that made the hearer think of the triumphant cry of a murderer successfully completing their work, of revenge being slowly and deliciously extracted. It sent shivers up the woman's spine. "I'm afraid we can't have you finishing your little errand. /Think/ about the repercussions," Dovilan hissed. It reached toward her, and she found herself unable to move as it sent her into Death, through gate after gate, until she finally went past the Ninth Gate.
Not far away, in the palace, nestled within the capital city of Belisaere, the young Queen Ellimere gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, and named her immediately-"Firali".
Yuck, it's awful, isn't it? Oh, well. Take a nanosecond or two, please, and give me some helpful feedback. Tell me if hated it, loved it, whatever . . . I appreciate it!
erialarrowman: thanks for being both nice and helpful. As you probably noticed, I rewrote quite a bit, although more on the first chapter than the prologue. Give me feedback!
A/N: I haven't read Abhorsen, so my canon's probably all wrong. I'd appreciate you telling me if I'm getting anything wrong . . . PLEASE review. I'd really like some feedback here!
Prologue
It was quite late, and cold, and there was but one passerby on the streets in the Old Kingdom at so late an hour and in such weather. The lone traveler was a young but beautiful lady swathed head to toe in a long black cloak. Her rightfully cheery round face was gaunt with exhaustion and worry, her naturally flowing golden hair greasy and matted. The young woman's honey-caramel skin and clear, bright emerald eyes easily identified her as one of the Clayr, the folk who dwelled in the Glacier and had the ability to see the future. Unfortunately, easily identifiable was the last thing she wanted to be right now. She drew her cloak more tightly around her and hurried along to her destination. As she walked, she mumbled a handful of words, over and over again, like a mantra.
"Lirael . . . royal family . . . curse . . . no . . . my duty . . . must warn . . ." She shivered, and her hands and lips formed the Charter marks for light, comfort, and warmth. A miniscule flame appeared in front of her, hovering and following like a magical lapdog.
Suddenly, the woman heard what sounded like something that could be footsteps, if the mood took it, echo on the cobblestones as someone came out of an alley. As something emerged, it became obvious that these were no real footsteps, given the creature's lack of feet. It was a person-- no, a creature-- almost eight feet tall, put together from the darkest of darkness. Darkness that brought to mind the darkness of a small child, shrieking from a nightmare in the middle of the night, when nobody hears. The darkness of what is seen from tightly shut eyes as the viewer's loved one takes their final breath. The darkness, ultimately, of hopelessness and despair. The figure glided toward the bedraggled woman, wearing a black cloak sewn with threads of blood, hatred, and betrayal. The Clayr gasped softly, and the look on her face was the utterly hopeless one of someone who has staked everything and now is confronted with the very thing she hides from. Though she knew little of death and the dead, the person-- or thing-- approaching her was quite obviously one of the Greater Dead.
"Dovilan!" she cried in disgust and horror. He, or it, smiled a mockery of a smile. When it began to speak, it was in a low, dry rasp that made the hearer think of the triumphant cry of a murderer successfully completing their work, of revenge being slowly and deliciously extracted. It sent shivers up the woman's spine. "I'm afraid we can't have you finishing your little errand. /Think/ about the repercussions," Dovilan hissed. It reached toward her, and she found herself unable to move as it sent her into Death, through gate after gate, until she finally went past the Ninth Gate.
Not far away, in the palace, nestled within the capital city of Belisaere, the young Queen Ellimere gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, and named her immediately-"Firali".
Yuck, it's awful, isn't it? Oh, well. Take a nanosecond or two, please, and give me some helpful feedback. Tell me if hated it, loved it, whatever . . . I appreciate it!