Fireproof is another one of those prompts that needs explaining, I think. Have you been splitting logs for winter and inadvertently fireproofed some? Or is this regret: the boys discovering that something expensive to replace isn't fireproof after all?
Fireproof
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Mercy’s voice was thin and high and set teeth on edge. She leaned over the balcony, the musicians quietly getting up behind her and sneaking away, and glared down at the crowd below. Her normally pale face was now the white of exposed bone and her fair hair streamed out from her head as though she was in a strong wind. She was shaking, and her knuckles, where her hands gripped the balcony’s railing, were as pale as her face. “There is no reason for you to hunt me, and less for you to want to punish me. And you know you cannot, or you wouldn’t be breaking the Accords like this.” Her voice rose to a shriek, and her eyes bulged from her head. “Clementia,” said Moros, and the silence in the room was absolute: the Incarnates didn’t need to hold their breath as they simply stopped breathing while they listened. “You have defied me seven times, and seven is the number of Fate.” Noiselessly the Incarnates in the Long Hall looked at one another. A very gently pressure wave seemed to be pushing them: no-one was openly or obviously moving, but a gap was just starting to form through the crowd that might, if Moros were inclined to follow it, take him to the stairs to the balcony. “I have asked you to explain yourself, and you have run away. I have reminded you that my task is to assign the destiny of all living things, and you have turned a deaf ear.” “Would you have listened had I spoken?” Mercy stared down at Moros, still quivering like a tree in a storm. A hint of a tear welled up at the corner of her left eye. “Or did you just want me to obey?” “Everyone is subject to Fate,” said Moros. “That was written before the Accords. I do not make the rules, I apply them. As goes for Death here. We two have no choices in what we do: Death may dawdle in reaching someone, but he cannot choose not to end their life. I may shape a doom that fits a person’s actions, but I may set no-one’s life aside and ignore it.” “Have you tried?” Mercy was probably trying to sound conciliatory, but she sounded petulant. As Death watched her, he began to realise that at the core of her anger was hatred. “Perhaps you should doom yourself to leaving someone be and see how that works out.” The twin elven creatures that Narusheteli was currently presenting as turned as smoothly as ice sliding over ice and the female one gazed at Mercy while the male one gazed at Moros. “That would terminate this universe,” said the female one. Her voice was soft, rich and resonant. The Incarnates who heard it were put in mind of drowning slowly in a vat of body-temperature chocolate, feeling the dark liquid gently wash over their faces, filling their mouths and nostrils, sealing their eyes shut and supporting them down into oblivion. “I am still curious about this place,” she continued. “I would not like to see that happen.” “So I must suffer?” Mercy screamed at Narusheteli, her voice deafening and echoing around the Long Hall like secondary shocks from a major earthquake. “We are not human here! We do not perceive a greater good that we should sacrifice ourselves in favour of! We are us! And we will do as we please!” “You are not fireproof, Clementia,” said Moros. “Give me Freda, or I will demonstrate.”
He sat by the fire, carving strange runes into the little box, consulting the book at his side every so often. After a long while, he sat back with a long breath of satisfaction.
He reread a certain passage in the book, running his finger under the words, to be sure he didn't miss anything in the complicated sentences. He glanced at the box, sometimes, checking it met all the specifications. At the end of the page, he picked up his work and tossed it into the fire. The flames shot up around it, whooshing into the chimney, and then died down. There sat the little box, unharmed, with the flames crackling around it.
He scooped it onto the hearth with the fire shovel. Once it cooled, he picked it up and inspected it thoroughly. It worked! The runes in the old book did render something fireproof!
Greg - I think... it was something Max said. Yes. He was playing with a toy or telling a story about something that couldn't be burned, and I thought 'you mean it's fireproof'... though I'm happy to say I knew better than to get involved :P
I am highly enjoying this reveal you're doing here. You are handling it masterfully.
Morganna - good to see you around these parts again!
Your second paragraph is especially good. You really paint a picture there. And I'm also curious as to why this man is creating fireproof things.
3 comments:
Fireproof is another one of those prompts that needs explaining, I think. Have you been splitting logs for winter and inadvertently fireproofed some? Or is this regret: the boys discovering that something expensive to replace isn't fireproof after all?
Fireproof
“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Mercy’s voice was thin and high and set teeth on edge. She leaned over the balcony, the musicians quietly getting up behind her and sneaking away, and glared down at the crowd below. Her normally pale face was now the white of exposed bone and her fair hair streamed out from her head as though she was in a strong wind. She was shaking, and her knuckles, where her hands gripped the balcony’s railing, were as pale as her face. “There is no reason for you to hunt me, and less for you to want to punish me. And you know you cannot, or you wouldn’t be breaking the Accords like this.” Her voice rose to a shriek, and her eyes bulged from her head.
“Clementia,” said Moros, and the silence in the room was absolute: the Incarnates didn’t need to hold their breath as they simply stopped breathing while they listened. “You have defied me seven times, and seven is the number of Fate.” Noiselessly the Incarnates in the Long Hall looked at one another. A very gently pressure wave seemed to be pushing them: no-one was openly or obviously moving, but a gap was just starting to form through the crowd that might, if Moros were inclined to follow it, take him to the stairs to the balcony. “I have asked you to explain yourself, and you have run away. I have reminded you that my task is to assign the destiny of all living things, and you have turned a deaf ear.”
“Would you have listened had I spoken?” Mercy stared down at Moros, still quivering like a tree in a storm. A hint of a tear welled up at the corner of her left eye. “Or did you just want me to obey?”
“Everyone is subject to Fate,” said Moros. “That was written before the Accords. I do not make the rules, I apply them. As goes for Death here. We two have no choices in what we do: Death may dawdle in reaching someone, but he cannot choose not to end their life. I may shape a doom that fits a person’s actions, but I may set no-one’s life aside and ignore it.”
“Have you tried?” Mercy was probably trying to sound conciliatory, but she sounded petulant. As Death watched her, he began to realise that at the core of her anger was hatred. “Perhaps you should doom yourself to leaving someone be and see how that works out.”
The twin elven creatures that Narusheteli was currently presenting as turned as smoothly as ice sliding over ice and the female one gazed at Mercy while the male one gazed at Moros. “That would terminate this universe,” said the female one. Her voice was soft, rich and resonant. The Incarnates who heard it were put in mind of drowning slowly in a vat of body-temperature chocolate, feeling the dark liquid gently wash over their faces, filling their mouths and nostrils, sealing their eyes shut and supporting them down into oblivion. “I am still curious about this place,” she continued. “I would not like to see that happen.”
“So I must suffer?” Mercy screamed at Narusheteli, her voice deafening and echoing around the Long Hall like secondary shocks from a major earthquake. “We are not human here! We do not perceive a greater good that we should sacrifice ourselves in favour of! We are us! And we will do as we please!”
“You are not fireproof, Clementia,” said Moros. “Give me Freda, or I will demonstrate.”
He sat by the fire, carving strange runes into the little box, consulting the book at his side every so often. After a long while, he sat back with a long breath of satisfaction.
He reread a certain passage in the book, running his finger under the words, to be sure he didn't miss anything in the complicated sentences. He glanced at the box, sometimes, checking it met all the specifications. At the end of the page, he picked up his work and tossed it into the fire. The flames shot up around it, whooshing into the chimney, and then died down. There sat the little box, unharmed, with the flames crackling around it.
He scooped it onto the hearth with the fire shovel. Once it cooled, he picked it up and inspected it thoroughly. It worked! The runes in the old book did render something fireproof!
Greg - I think... it was something Max said. Yes. He was playing with a toy or telling a story about something that couldn't be burned, and I thought 'you mean it's fireproof'... though I'm happy to say I knew better than to get involved :P
I am highly enjoying this reveal you're doing here. You are handling it masterfully.
Morganna - good to see you around these parts again!
Your second paragraph is especially good. You really paint a picture there. And I'm also curious as to why this man is creating fireproof things.
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