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Mar 01, 2008 08:12 pm
Edited : Mar 27, 2008 01:13 am |
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The journal Of Autarkis
1)Chapter 1
It is my breathing days that haunt me now; it is there that I will begin. When I was born, Normandy had not yet conquered fledgling England, although that time was not far ahead of us, and the south of the isle consisted of a multitude of shires under the cohesive small kingdoms of Mercia, East Anglia, and Wessex. It was a time of transformation; not only for England, but for all of Europe ... myself included.
I don't want to talk very much about my family, because in truth, they had very little to do with what eventually happened, and I never really felt any connection with them anyway. Even as a child, the fact of our shared blood was the only real bond that existed. My mother was a Northumbrian laird's daughter with a wicked Pictish streak, and my father traced his roots back to some obscure relation of Thelred. Despite the slightly outlandish mix of their combined heritage, they were a textbook example of Anglo-Saxon domesticity; my father derived satisfaction and a sense of duty by the daily functions of ruling his slice of the land and the serfs that farmed it. Hanging a chicken thief by the heels, feasting on pheasants gifted by a visiting eorl, and church on Whitsunday. Occasionally it occurs to me to wonder how they managed to produce such a maladjusted heir. The name that I was given at birth is one that I have abandoned. For the sake of history, I am called Autarkis ... for truly, I am one who belongs nowhere.
Before Harold of Wessex called all of us to arms, in the face of the Norman threat, I had been engaged to the daughter of a neighboring lord, a sullen, vaguely pretty girl with the intelligence of a sheep. The whole thing had been arranged, of course; it was perfectly clear that I was expected to begin work on producing an heir. It seems that while I was away learning the base joy of carnage, she grew impatient and married my brother. I can't really say that it was much of a loss.
This prelude is no more than just that, however; a dull sidenote for the events that led to my current state. My story did not begin until I met a mercenary from the coast; another willful youth rebelling against his noble blood, his familial duty and the peace of rural living. His name was -- is -- Morgan Brisbane, and for better or worse, he is as much my maker as any biblical god.
(Story and images are the joint spawn of Ravenscarred and Carneithwen
11)
(Warning ;from this chapter on, this story takes a much darker turn, and some readers may find parts (or all) of it offensive. If that doesn't put you off your dinner, read on ,R )
I was focused so intently upon my host in this unexpected ; and in my admittedly limited experience, highly unorthodox role, that I scarcely noticed that Garrick had joined the bizarre courtyard tableau; solemn as though he were attending Mass, he pointedly stared across the gaggle of spectators without speaking until all conversation ceased, then allowed the quiet to build just a little. If I had been thinking more clearly, I might have enjoyed some private cynical amusement at his sense of drama. Morgan, arms folded across his chest, lounged at ease in the windswept shadow of the barbican; battle axe propped against a rough hewn post, he cast a glance toward his steward that was at once mildly amused and irritated. Despite his casual posture, I could sense the tension coiled through his body like electricity; even at a distance, I had the irrational feeling that it was contagious, and the imagined infection had all the substance of reality. My limbs tensed of their own accord, and a light tremor vibrated in a low fever pitch through my body.
Perhaps sensing some turbulence himself, Garrick cleared his throat and announced in the requisite formal language the name and misdeed of the unfortunate lady, who had turned a ghastly ashen hue; her eyes flickered wildly about the courtyard, so wide that her pupils were dark pinpricks afloat in a field of white. Garrick stepped quickly down after his short declaration without glancing toward her, and vanished into a group of onlookers. I had seen Morgan stir into motion, and I did not realize for a moment that I was holding my breath as he approached the bound prisoner. At a glance, his countenance appeared stoic, even dispassionate, yet there was something more, an intensity thinly veiled behind his dark eyes. I dared not scrutinize it more closely. Terrified pleas for mercy and heartwrenching sobs echoed from the stone, amplified by the contrasting silence of the gaping cluster of commoners; all were wasted upon Morgan, who gave no visible sign of interest, let alone sympathy ; and all the while, I twisted my sweat slicked palms together in an agony of fascination and unease, those piteous cries stirring my blood on a primal level like an animal drawn to the screams of trapped prey.
I will not recount the details of the execution in all of their horrific glory here; I must assume that any who stumble across this account are not afflicted by the sickness that was awoken in me that day. Perhaps it was already there, lying dormant inside my skull like a malignant fetus inside an egg ,much of my recollection is blurred with time, smeared crimson, almost surreal now. Some memories of that day, however, have lost none of their clarity.
Blood, suspended for an improbable instant in a vivid, glistening arc of gore; screams of unthinkable agony and despair, so gut wrenching that any human being would be moved to cover their ears against the sound , the metallic tang of fresh blood ; humid copper rusting in the cold air. Like a wolf, I caught that scent in a heady rush, and rational thought fled like swift smoke. Scarcely aware of what I was doing, I lunged blindly to my feet before the gore-caked axe descended for the last time; I was vaguely aware of Morgan's attention falling upon me (even then, it carried palpable weight), and then I was stumbling toward the castle in great, uneven strides, roughly shoving aside anyone who happened to be in my path.
I did not witness the merciful end of the spectacle outside, but by then, I did not care. My heart was hammering in my chest, sporadic breath bursting raggedly from my constricted lungs, as my feet blundered headlong toward a destination that my body knew far better than my dizzy, clouded mind.
***due to a request by the author ,this story is removed......you may go to Renderosity galleries and look up Carneithwen to follow the story in her work....*** |
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