(no subject)
Weird-verse, which I'll name Mythosverse and tag accordingly when I can be arsed. This directly follows this ficlet. A/Z.
It is under drawn bowstrings and accusing eyes that Metis is escorted to the towering cliffside fortress that Scoithín Ard-Rigan calls home. She reasons with herself that it is more prudent to bide her time, to win her point by persuasion rather than force, and moreover, the waning moon presents her with a disadvantage. She could teleport out, but then she would have accomplished nothing of her orders. And surely the Chieftain of the Blooming could be made to understand the horrors and atrocities of his planet's savage climate and lands, the benefits that her technology could bring. One did not rule-- or rule long-- without any sense or reason.
The castle is worn gray stone, strong and proud, jutting over the cliff with a straightforward sort of arrogance. Inside, it lacks the luxury and elegance of the Moon Palace, but at least, Metis muses, she is escorted to a small room in a high tower rather than a dungeon, in chains. The Terran prince might be a barbarian, but he wasn't a complete brute. Still, she looks at anything other than him as he strides through the torch-lit halls with lithe, almost feline movements, cloak billowing behind him. The walls are adorned with fantastic tapestries, scarlet and sapphire and green and gold glowing under the firelight. From a distant chamber, she can hear faint, sweet notes of lute song.
Scoithín Ard-Rigan pulls open the door to the tower room and bows with mocking courtesy. "Your quarters, milady," he drawls, gesturing her inside. "You can even see your precious moon from the window, if you'd like. I don't doubt that it is not as fancy as you're accustomed to, but we destitute mortals must make do." His eyes are green and hard as emeralds. "Shall I call in a maidservant to bring you a meal, draw you a bath?"
His tone grates on her usually-buried sense of pride, and Metis sticks out her chin. "I shall not require any assistance, thank you. And of course, Ard-Rigan, you have my gratitude for your hospitality." Her frosty politeness is pointedly scornful as his sarcasm.
"I'd say you were welcome, but it'd be a lie," Scoithín says bluntly. "I shall leave you to your leisure, then, milady." Stepping forward, he reaches out, fast as a serpent, and grasps her chin roughly between his fingers. "You can escape if you put your mind to it," he whispers. "Fly away in the silver moonlight, never to return. I won't chain you down. But meddle with my lands again, and you'll wish I had let my marksmen shoot you."
He's gone in a swirl of felt cloak and burnished golden hair before she can respond, and the door slams behind his back hard enough to make the torch-light flicker.
***
The room is plain, circular in shape and uncarpeted, with a simple wooden bed and a white ceramic ewer of water in a cast-iron stand. A narrow wooden wardrobe has nothing inside but a cloak much like Scoithín's and a plain white lawn shirt, obviously also his. There is a small writing desk and an equally spartan chair in front of it. The only items of any interest to Metis whatsoever are a shelf full of books over the desk, and a small terra-cotta flowerpot on the window ledge.
***
Scoithín Ard-Rigan does not visit her the next day. At dawn, a quiet, docile handmaid comes in with fresh water, then a tray of food, and leaves without a word to Metis. She is left to her own devices, and after an hour of pacing the narrow confines of the room, picks up a book at random.
It is a volume of myths and legends, of quibbling gods and imperfect heroes. Metis reads about great quests and greater loves, of tricksters and nymphs and fantastical beasts. In one tale, the seasons are explained by a mother's grief over a lost child. In another, the first harvest is the result of a creator god planting corn in the body of Mother Earth as a gift to humankind. In still another, the gods war within themselves and throw the world into chaos and destruction, but upon peace's return, the world is repopulated by the last two human survivors. In every country and culture, Metis finds, the eccentricities of nature and the cycle of life and death is widely accepted, explained by folklore and fancy. The trees and rivers are revered as though inhabited by sentient beings. The stars are given names, the winds are given stories.
Metis finds herself so fascinated that she spends the day reading, eating the food that is given to her when she is hungry, and when the night falls and the handmaid comes in to light the torches and water the flowerpot, she barely notices that she has not seen Scoithín Ard-Rigan all day.
The next day, she reads a tome on history.
The day after that, a stack of scientific periodicals.
In the flower-pot, tiny green sprouts start to appear, a paler, softer green than Scoithín's eyes. It is only after the moon is full again, after Metis has read through more than half of the books in the room, that the Chieftain returns. The usual handmaid, whose name is Lynette and whom by now is on quite friendly terms with Metis, comes in that evening with a spring in her step and without the usual tray of food.
"Ard-Rigan invites you to dine with him, milady," she tells Metis. "I can bring you a suitable gown."
Metis is of the mind to dispense with such ceremony, but Lynette refuses to hear any of it. A short while later, she is brought down, clad not unlike the ladies of the Terran court in dark blue samite embroidered with gold thread. Scoithín Ard-Rigan bows when he sees her, but there is still something sardonic in his guise. They share a silent meal of honeyed bread and stewed meat, and Metis reminds herself not to be put off by his stare.
"One would almost think you were a courtier, decorative and harmless," he remarks with a raised eyebrow. "Most, seeing you, would write you poetry and fight wars in your name to win your favour."
"You did not need to dine with me if you hate me," Metis says stiffly. "I was doing quite well without you." She refuses to ask him where he's been.
It seems as though he intends to tell her, regardless. "I have been working in the lands where I caught you, milady," he says in a deceptively mild voice. Up close, Metis can see traces of dirt and dust still clinging to his clothes. "The villagers who depend on the river to survive were starving. The harvest will be scarce this year, and the fishing poor. But I have grain and meat saved in my stores to feed them through the winter."
Metis' eyes widen. Never had she expected there to be such dire consequences for such a simple thing as diverting a river to a different path. Scoithín stares down into her face with his hard green eyes and reaches up to toy with an errant lock of her hair.
"You know nothing about the land, the sea and skies. To interfere with the natural cycle of things is disastrous and unwise. My servants tell me that you have been reading the books in the room. Did you learn anything?"
"I learned a great deal," Metis says with as much dignity as she can muster.
"You need to learn more," he replies, eyes glinting. "I do recall you saying that you had all the time in the world. But of course-- what is time to those who are practically immortal? I can teach you what you need to know, and why your high-and-mighty Queen's magic and technology cannot exist in this world."
He's giving her a choice, Metis realises. She can accept, and perhaps eventually persuade him or at least reach a compromise. Or she can refuse, and leave, never to return. Metis stands, proud and resolute, and holds out her hand.
"I'm a lady of honour," she tells Scoithín icily. "And there is always room for more knowledge."
He takes her hand, then grins, transforming from stern chieftain into an almost-approachable, roguishly handsome young man in the blink of an eye. His fingers are warm and strong, rough from work. "Well, then. I hope you enjoy traveling."
It is under drawn bowstrings and accusing eyes that Metis is escorted to the towering cliffside fortress that Scoithín Ard-Rigan calls home. She reasons with herself that it is more prudent to bide her time, to win her point by persuasion rather than force, and moreover, the waning moon presents her with a disadvantage. She could teleport out, but then she would have accomplished nothing of her orders. And surely the Chieftain of the Blooming could be made to understand the horrors and atrocities of his planet's savage climate and lands, the benefits that her technology could bring. One did not rule-- or rule long-- without any sense or reason.
The castle is worn gray stone, strong and proud, jutting over the cliff with a straightforward sort of arrogance. Inside, it lacks the luxury and elegance of the Moon Palace, but at least, Metis muses, she is escorted to a small room in a high tower rather than a dungeon, in chains. The Terran prince might be a barbarian, but he wasn't a complete brute. Still, she looks at anything other than him as he strides through the torch-lit halls with lithe, almost feline movements, cloak billowing behind him. The walls are adorned with fantastic tapestries, scarlet and sapphire and green and gold glowing under the firelight. From a distant chamber, she can hear faint, sweet notes of lute song.
Scoithín Ard-Rigan pulls open the door to the tower room and bows with mocking courtesy. "Your quarters, milady," he drawls, gesturing her inside. "You can even see your precious moon from the window, if you'd like. I don't doubt that it is not as fancy as you're accustomed to, but we destitute mortals must make do." His eyes are green and hard as emeralds. "Shall I call in a maidservant to bring you a meal, draw you a bath?"
His tone grates on her usually-buried sense of pride, and Metis sticks out her chin. "I shall not require any assistance, thank you. And of course, Ard-Rigan, you have my gratitude for your hospitality." Her frosty politeness is pointedly scornful as his sarcasm.
"I'd say you were welcome, but it'd be a lie," Scoithín says bluntly. "I shall leave you to your leisure, then, milady." Stepping forward, he reaches out, fast as a serpent, and grasps her chin roughly between his fingers. "You can escape if you put your mind to it," he whispers. "Fly away in the silver moonlight, never to return. I won't chain you down. But meddle with my lands again, and you'll wish I had let my marksmen shoot you."
He's gone in a swirl of felt cloak and burnished golden hair before she can respond, and the door slams behind his back hard enough to make the torch-light flicker.
***
The room is plain, circular in shape and uncarpeted, with a simple wooden bed and a white ceramic ewer of water in a cast-iron stand. A narrow wooden wardrobe has nothing inside but a cloak much like Scoithín's and a plain white lawn shirt, obviously also his. There is a small writing desk and an equally spartan chair in front of it. The only items of any interest to Metis whatsoever are a shelf full of books over the desk, and a small terra-cotta flowerpot on the window ledge.
***
Scoithín Ard-Rigan does not visit her the next day. At dawn, a quiet, docile handmaid comes in with fresh water, then a tray of food, and leaves without a word to Metis. She is left to her own devices, and after an hour of pacing the narrow confines of the room, picks up a book at random.
It is a volume of myths and legends, of quibbling gods and imperfect heroes. Metis reads about great quests and greater loves, of tricksters and nymphs and fantastical beasts. In one tale, the seasons are explained by a mother's grief over a lost child. In another, the first harvest is the result of a creator god planting corn in the body of Mother Earth as a gift to humankind. In still another, the gods war within themselves and throw the world into chaos and destruction, but upon peace's return, the world is repopulated by the last two human survivors. In every country and culture, Metis finds, the eccentricities of nature and the cycle of life and death is widely accepted, explained by folklore and fancy. The trees and rivers are revered as though inhabited by sentient beings. The stars are given names, the winds are given stories.
Metis finds herself so fascinated that she spends the day reading, eating the food that is given to her when she is hungry, and when the night falls and the handmaid comes in to light the torches and water the flowerpot, she barely notices that she has not seen Scoithín Ard-Rigan all day.
The next day, she reads a tome on history.
The day after that, a stack of scientific periodicals.
In the flower-pot, tiny green sprouts start to appear, a paler, softer green than Scoithín's eyes. It is only after the moon is full again, after Metis has read through more than half of the books in the room, that the Chieftain returns. The usual handmaid, whose name is Lynette and whom by now is on quite friendly terms with Metis, comes in that evening with a spring in her step and without the usual tray of food.
"Ard-Rigan invites you to dine with him, milady," she tells Metis. "I can bring you a suitable gown."
Metis is of the mind to dispense with such ceremony, but Lynette refuses to hear any of it. A short while later, she is brought down, clad not unlike the ladies of the Terran court in dark blue samite embroidered with gold thread. Scoithín Ard-Rigan bows when he sees her, but there is still something sardonic in his guise. They share a silent meal of honeyed bread and stewed meat, and Metis reminds herself not to be put off by his stare.
"One would almost think you were a courtier, decorative and harmless," he remarks with a raised eyebrow. "Most, seeing you, would write you poetry and fight wars in your name to win your favour."
"You did not need to dine with me if you hate me," Metis says stiffly. "I was doing quite well without you." She refuses to ask him where he's been.
It seems as though he intends to tell her, regardless. "I have been working in the lands where I caught you, milady," he says in a deceptively mild voice. Up close, Metis can see traces of dirt and dust still clinging to his clothes. "The villagers who depend on the river to survive were starving. The harvest will be scarce this year, and the fishing poor. But I have grain and meat saved in my stores to feed them through the winter."
Metis' eyes widen. Never had she expected there to be such dire consequences for such a simple thing as diverting a river to a different path. Scoithín stares down into her face with his hard green eyes and reaches up to toy with an errant lock of her hair.
"You know nothing about the land, the sea and skies. To interfere with the natural cycle of things is disastrous and unwise. My servants tell me that you have been reading the books in the room. Did you learn anything?"
"I learned a great deal," Metis says with as much dignity as she can muster.
"You need to learn more," he replies, eyes glinting. "I do recall you saying that you had all the time in the world. But of course-- what is time to those who are practically immortal? I can teach you what you need to know, and why your high-and-mighty Queen's magic and technology cannot exist in this world."
He's giving her a choice, Metis realises. She can accept, and perhaps eventually persuade him or at least reach a compromise. Or she can refuse, and leave, never to return. Metis stands, proud and resolute, and holds out her hand.
"I'm a lady of honour," she tells Scoithín icily. "And there is always room for more knowledge."
He takes her hand, then grins, transforming from stern chieftain into an almost-approachable, roguishly handsome young man in the blink of an eye. His fingers are warm and strong, rough from work. "Well, then. I hope you enjoy traveling."