Hi!
Yes, I'm still working on Choices. Some recent (and much
appreciated) prodding on this project, however, propelled me to finish off
a segment of it, and take it up again.
I originally wrote this prologue many months ago, and reading it
over now, I still like it -- but find it a tad overwritten (melodramatic?
pretentious?). I'm not even sure if I'll keep the whole thing, anymore,
since current story plotting may have invalidated some of it . . . but I
figured I'd post it again, anyway. I'll probably have the next segment
out by around the start of school (keeping in mind, of course, that I've
yet to meet a self-imposed fanfic deadline).
Very special thanks go out to Bridget Engman-Wilde, who provided
the much-needed translation of the v.38 big fight (of which I, at this
time, only used a small segment). Thanks!
Comments, as always, appreciated. Suggestions and criticism as
well. (And I applogize for any formating errors that may arise, I'm not
sure what may be causing it. If there _are_ any, let me know...)
Later!
-Michael Noakes
***
Let the Curtain Fall
Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored;
Light dies before thine uncreating word:
Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall;
And universal darkness buries all.
-The Dunciad
Prologue:
Deep, mellifluous voice, only the slightest
hint of mockery marring its smoothness:
"The sun goes down, and over all
These barren reaches by the tide
Such elusive glories fall,
I almost dream they yet will bide
Until the coming of the tide."
The sun touched the horizon ere the final
word died, tinting the hissing ocean blood-red.
Night descended quickly, softly, an inky velvet
curtain falling over the hungry waves, jagged
cliffs, piercing rain. The winds, momentarily
calm, resumed their earlier voracity. Through the
dark and the lashing weather stepped two figures.
Neither seemed particularly perturbed by the
hostile climate.
"Nice poem," commented the taller of the two.
"It felt . . . appropriate," answered the
second. His voice, so rich in timber and sonorous
in poetry, was strangely flat in normal
conversation.
No further words were exchanged as the two
picked their way along the precarious craggy cliff-
edge. A pale, wavering light fell across them,
washing the broken path in a flat whiteness. A
break in the clouds above offered a brief glimpse
of the moon.
The same resounding voice cut through the
howling winds once more:
"The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits --"
"Not quite as appropriate, I'd say,"
interrupted the taller one. He smirked.
A brief pause. "Really?"
A moment later the winds died, the rain
reduced to a mere drizzle, and even the ocean lost
much of its furor. The man glanced at his poetic
companion in some surprise, opened his mouth,
closed it without a word.
"Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! You hear the grating roar. . ."
He continued to speak, drawing each word out
slowly, savoring the roll, the flavor of each
vowel, consonant, diphthong, sound as it crossed
his tongue; he did this even as they approached a
strange protuberance jutting out at the very edge
of the cliff, an oddly rounded stone piercing
through a finger of rock extended treacherously
over the thrashing waters far below. The sounds
of crashing waves, ferocious erosion, tearing
winds howled up and around the seemingly tiny
perch in a cacophony of Nature's fury, an odd
pocket of angry noise in the suddenly silent
surroundings.
". . .Of pebbles which the waves draw back,
and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin. . ."
He interrupted his own recital to turn to
face the man following. He pointed to where the
rocky crag first stretched away from the rock
face. "There," he said, voice once again flat.
"Wait there." With that he turned away and
carefully worked his way towards the rounded
stone.
His tall companion stepped over to the
indicated position. He quickly surveyed the
immediate surroundings, tested the ground -- its
slickness, toughness, texture -- with a few
scuffling kicks, then shrugged off his jacket and
threw it aside. The heavy air immediately
drenched his shirt. The thin material clung to
his frame, outlining a smooth, muscular torso: he
was young, and strong, with a fighter's body, an
athlete's build. "They'll be coming soon?" he
asked, stretching slightly, working shoulders,
waist, knees.
"Yes. As soon as I start."
The man nodded. "They'll be worth my time?"
An irritated glance, and a note of
displeasure in the answer. "You know what I
expect; you know their reputation. What do you
think?"
The fighter hesitated before answering, then,
with a contented smile, said: "I'm thinking I'm
finally in for a good fight."
But the other man was no longer listening,
for he stood before the stone, his back turned to
the awesome stretch of grey-black churning water
below and behind, to the wind-dragged clouds
backlit by the hidden full moon, to the precipice
mere feet from his heel. His hands moves quickly,
easily across the stone, fingers splayed and
lightly touching, nearly caressing the smooth
surface. The stone -- at least, the part of it
that projected above the rocky crag, since it was
obvious that at least half of it remained buried -
- was shaped in a manner reminiscent of an egg
facing downward; the lightly curving top rose to
the man's chest. Bland greyness fell aside as a
wayward shaft of moonlight skimmed across the
stone: beneath the pale illumination, that stone
shimmered slightly, as if riddled with a million
minuscule flecks of gold; veins of deeper color,
at times purplish, at times reddish, crawled
across and through the strange rock.
It was along these multitudinous veins that
the man ran his tremulously chasing fingers, as he
faintly resumed chanting, voice soft -- almost
choking, it seemed at times, with barely
suppressed emotion: awe, glee, fear -- yet
somehow still carrying through the rising winds
and noise.
". . .With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in."
A long, shrill cry, a pitiful, piercing
wailing, broke free, shudderingly growing in
strength: it was a sound a broken man bemoaning
the horrid injustice of a slaughtered family might
give, emerging in jerky, disrupted sobs; or,
perhaps, like that of a whining, whimpering babe,
youthful discordant scream strangely warped,
pitched beyond the capacity of a human throat,
animalistic and alien in intonation; it was the
sound of a natural order crying out against a
corrupt and horrible rape of its very being. The
cry emerged from the stone the man lovingly
caressed. A smile played lightly across his lips;
an ugly fire lit his eyes.
His mouth moved with verse unheard over the
horrible moaning of the stone. After what felt an
eternity to the unconsciously shivering fighter --
still rooted in his position -- the cry hit a peak
and quickly fell in intensity. And as the sound
dropped in volume, the man's voice was once again
heard:
". . .now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world."
The stone let go of its plaintive crying, a
single mourning note echoing down through the
jagged crannies of the cliff and dying, dying. . .
gone. Silence, unearthly in the aftermath of such
painful noise, settled over them both.
"Is that. . . it?" asked the young man, eyes
scanning the surrounding dark, only momentarily
glancing towards the older man next to the stone.
"Of course not!" was the snappish response.
There was the sound of a deep breath being taken.
"What did I tell you about interrupting me when I
started?"
The fighter nodded. "It's just that I. . ."
And then, before he could complete his
sentence, the stone erupted in scintillating,
blinding light. The two men felt a physical blow
slam into their bodies, a concussion of released
power from the now-glowing stone tearing through
and past them. The younger man braced himself for
the impact; the older man, closer to the source,
arms already thrown protectively across his eyes,
stumbled backwards. Eyes opened wide in surprise
and in disbelief as he stepped back over the edge
of the cliff and found nothing there but empty
space and hungry gravity. His mouth worked
soundlessly -- a cry of `No!', but inaudible and
unheard -- and, arms flailing, he lost balance and
fell sideways.
A sudden snap. Flash of argent rising light
and pale moon off of glistening chain. Tightening
of sinew and pulling back against the pull of the
Earth. For a moment the older man hung suspended
over the edge of the cliff, one foot still
touching rock, the other impossibly dangling above
nothing, the waves and wind crashing and howling
with increased fervor as if in anger at being
denied their victim. The chain wrapped around his
torso ran back to the young man's hand; with an
expert tug on the kusari-gama, he pulled his
companion back to safety.
Before any words could be exchanged, there
was a second release of power; better prepared
this time, neither fell before the renewed pulse.
This time they could observe the great gout of
primordial energy as it shot from the earth,
rising in a shimmering column towards the sky.
And when it reached its apex, behind the obscuring
ceiling of clouds, there was a responding rumble
and shuddering across the entire firmament. Winds
rose and rain lashed horribly against the humans
standing firm on the high cliffs. The man, still
tangled in the chain of the fighter's weapon, fell
against the glowing stone, clutching it against
the pulling winds.
"It is your turn now!" he yelled, voice
somehow carrying through the howling winds.
The young man nodded once. He tossed the
sickle weapon in his hand aside.
And waited.
From the sky above there was another bone-
rattling boom; a crackling, sparking ball
coalesced high above, awful and terrifying to
behold. And then, as if growing multiple jagged
arms, it reached out and touched the ground.
The young man jumped back lightly as electric
rain showered about him, converging and striking
six spots in a semi-circle about him. He realized
that, if a semi-circle, then the still-glowing
stone, veins more prominent than ever like some
earthly beating heart, would be its center; he
heard his companion return to his verse, words
heard but barely registering as adrenalin coursed
through his body; felt the stinging rain, tugging
wind, slight slickness of the rock and gravel and
grass beneath his feet, and adjusted accordingly;
and saw. . .
Saw, as the earth rumbled and ruptured and
peeled back where each heavenly bolt had struck;
saw as five faintly glowing figures rose from
earth and set solid foot upon solid earth.
Ancient armor untainted by the rust and decay of
ages glistened under the falling rain; heraldry
not seen for nearly two millennia was exposed to
human sight; dark, hard eyes peered with hostility
from bearded, weathered faces. With nary a word
swords were drawn and the five moved forward into
aggressive postures.
There was a strange moment of silence as the
six combatants seemed to size each other up, a
moment in which even the weather seemed subdued.
A voice sang to them from the stone:
"And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggles and
flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night."
And then. . .
the battle was joined. . .
and. . .
*** *** *** *** ***
*** *** *** *** ***
. . . Ranma recovered quickly from the teeth-
jarring blow to the back of his head. The howling
cyclonic winds on which he hovered quickly tore
the boulder away. He could not afford to
acknowledge the pounding pain in his head, the
burning of his skin as speeding sand and stone
tore and flailed him raw; he could not blink,
flinch, turn away: too much was at stake.
With smooth, sure twists and steps he wove
his way nearer his opponent, dodging and ducking
wayward stones still caught in the maelstrom of
his own making. The boulders proved more help
than hindrance: as he moved in closer, riding the
chunk of rock and ice he was firmly attached to by
his weapon, they provided extremely good cover.
Necessary, too: with a cry of "Why you. . . ," his
foe began desperately lashing out with blasts of
energy , incinerating any and every rock
threatening to the bastard's hide, and coming near
to scorching Ranma's own.
Th . . . this panic, Ranma realized, there's
no doubt about it! Saffron's weak -- he's
vulnerable to simple kicks and punches!
Galvanized by the realization that his foe was not
invulnerable, the martial artist swooped in during
a moment's distraction on his enemy's part. "EAT
THIS!" he screamed. "METEOR LEG STRIKE!"
Swinging around a hurtling boulder, he slammed
both legs into Saffron's head.
Eyes open but empty, the lord of Phoenix
Mountain tumbled away into the center of the
cyclone. Ranma felt a savage, bitter pleasure as
Saffron disappeared among the violent turbulence
that swirled at the root of the Hiryu Shoten Ha.
"Serves you ri. . . ," he started to mutter, when
a rumbling, bubbling sound from below cut him off.
His eyes widened in disbelief -- and fear -- as
unnatural and terrifying power swelled and
ballooned outward from the center of the tornado.
It hungrily consumed the rock and debris still
caught in the winds; and then, after a moment,
with a burst and surge of flame, it collapsed in
on itself. Ranma felt himself being drawn in; a
savage blast of fire and molten rock erupted
towards him; only by placing his crystalline
boulder between him and the attack did he manage
to survive. Even then, the heat was painful and
raised blisters on his exposed flesh.
Out of the fiery upheaval below rose a
figure: like a phoenix reborn, Saffron spread his
wings wide and gazed down at his antagonist with
undisguised contempt. How like an angel he looks,
thought Ranma absently, then shook his head and
dismissed the errant thought. No time, no room
for distractions. Focus.
"Ha!" said Saffron, lips curling up in a
sneer, "Looks like you've gotten a little too
carried away, peasant. It's over."
Ranma braced himself for the worse, thinking,
Dammit, if this fight drags out any longer, Akane
and I are both. . . .
And then Saffron was screaming to the
heavens, arms spread and glowing with manifest
rage: "Phoenix Mountain Royal Family Ultimate
Technique! IMPERIAL ARMAGEDDON BLAST!"
And suddenly the world was nothing but flame;
an impossible ball of fire loomed before him. He
was frozen. There was nothing he could do,
nothing anyone could do against this kind of
might. What was he, who was _he_, to presume
against such raw, primal, elemental power such as
_that_?
There was a brief, epiphanic, eternal moment,
suspended between full realization, awareness, and
oblivion -- a moment in which all suddenly became
clear, in which, finally, he understood -- and
then. . .
Fire. . .
Burning . . .
Screaming?
With a strangled, startled yelp, Ranma bolted
upright in his bed. The sheets stuck tenaciously
to his sweat soaked body; his heart pounded in his
chest, breathing came in rapid gulps of air. What
the hell, he thought, drawing one hand across a
clammy brow, that dream again, that damn, stupid
dream.
Only. . . it had never been that vivid
before, never that clear, real, terrifying. That
was what was so bad about it: the emotions -- the
accuracy. No one knew, he had never admitted to
anyone the fear, the mind-numbing terror he had
felt while fighting Saffron. But -- why the
nightmares? Why did it always end at the same
place?
Ranma knew what came next, of course. He
won. It was that simple.
And that was six months ago (six months?
Already?)! So why the nightmares, now?
He fell back onto his futon, releasing a
sigh. What did it matter. The vivid feelings of
the dream were already fading, leaving nothing but
lingering saltiness on skin, a slight sense of
unease, and an unpleasant taste in his mouth.
Hell, it's even time to get up, he noted, seeing
the sun beaming in brightly through the window.
I'm surprised Mom or Pop even let me sleep in this
long. . .
Although, he realized, why shouldn't they?
Why should he bother getting up early? Today
promised to be an entirely uneventful day; another
beautiful, peaceful day.
He sighed.
Just like every other day.
*** *** *** *** ***
*** *** *** *** ***
The stone lay a shattered, broken ruin.
Five ancient corpses slowly disintegrated,
insatiable time taking what was properly its own.
Two men walked away from the cliff.
"You did well."
The taller man shrugged. "Eh. They were
good, Zara . . . but I was better."
"Good. You need to be. For that was the
first of many -- and the easiest of the lot."
A moment's silence. "Oh. Well then. So
where to next?"
"Japan."
Behind them, the rising sun touched the
horizon. In the light's angry red hue, the sky
seemed streaked with blood, and the ocean filled
with its violent excess.
Continues in:
Let the Curtain Fall
Act One, Induction
* * * * * * * * * *
There they stood, ranged along the hillside, met* E-mail at:
To view the last of me, a living frame * s669330@aix2.uottawa.ca
For one more picture! in a sheet of flame * Homepage/Fanfiction:
I saw them and I knew them all. And yet * aix2.uottawa..ca/~s669330
Dauntless the slug-horn to my lips I set, * * * * * * * * *
And blew. "_Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came._"
-Robert Browing, "Childe Rolande to the Dark Tower Came" (34)
* * * * * * * * * *