Fic: Lord of the Western Sun
Jan. 22nd, 2009 08:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tanarillIt is done! It was very hard to write, mostly because the Lord of the Western Sky took a while to figure out what he wanted his backstory to be, and in the meantime I was left grappling with the parts of his history and motivation and purpose that I knew.
Title: Egg
Fandom: None. I wrote this! Mineminemine.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Creepy shit.
Chihuatl had first seen the Lord of the Western Sun fly when he was six. No one had believed him then, of course, and he earned a beating anyway because talking about him was bad luck. He hadn't understood at the time what it was that he had seen, either. All he knew was that the huge black bird flew like an eagle, and his feathers shone.
The Lord of the Western Sun flew rarely, and when he flew, he brought-
Chihuatl would've liked to have been able to say destruction, but he knew that wasn't quite true. The destruction was, of course, but he was more and more certain, as the end of the cycle approached, that it was a side effect. Or perhaps the precursor. But there was some step in the middle there.
The interregnum, too, was going to last six years, when usually they lasted no more than eighteen months. A lot could happen in a time gap that long. The current nobles, except for the very good ones, would almost certainly end up dead-whether or not they were, except for the very good ones, already holed up in the mountains. The priests were waiting for the omens that would show who was supposed to lead them through, but so far, nothing.
And the Lord of the Western Sun was flying.
Although not at this moment, because at this particular moment, his not-as-big-as-one-might-expect body, feathered in gleaming black, was perched on the drooping lower branch on Chihuatl's favorite tree, and looking at him. Or at least the skull is pointed in his direction and the green lights in the empty sockets are flaring like miniature suns. Or perhaps full-sized ones, very far away.
This close, he can see that it's just a skull.
"Shut up," it says, only it doesn't actually make any noise that isn't only in Chihuatl's head. "You think too loudly."
"I am sorry?" Chihuatl is uncertain about this, but whatever else he is, he's still powerful. Maybe a god. Maybe. No one seems quite sure on this point. Powerful, though, absolutely.
It extends one wing toward him and the words, "Take the bent feather," echo in Chihuatl's mind. He looks again, because they are black-on-black and it takes him a moment to find the feather that is bent and tug it gently.
"Just pull it out." Skulls don't have expressions, but this one nevertheless gave off the impression of annoyance.
So Chihuatl pulls, and the feather comes loose and a little bloody right at the quill.
The world goes a little crazy.
When it rights itself, Chihuatl was still standing in approximately the place in relation to the Lord of the Western Sun, and still holding the feather, but they are in the Bone Nest. They really couldn't be anywhere else, and the fact that most of the bones aren't human is not really comforting. The not-really-a-bird is perched on the edge, looking down at him. "Please don't kill me."
"I am not going to kill you."
"Oh."
"I am," says the Lord of the Western Sun, "going to make you."
The Bone Nest is, in the stories, built of the bones of the people the Lord of the Western Sun had killed. He's fairly sure that this isn't right, because most of the birds belong to small animals and birds and other things that a bird of precisely that size might hunt. They have been stacked and interlocked and woven together in a way that nothing without hands should be able to manage, and they are all chalk-white.
The Lord of the Western Sun is seen rarely, but more often near an interregnum. The myths are all quite clear that it's the interregnum that brings him, not the other way around, and that he is in some way responsible for the fact that they end. They are also clear that he flies with the destruction of an interregnum, and is someone to be avoided.
Chihuatl knows this, and he's standing in the Bone Nest.
"I-"
"You know me." Those green eyes, like the color of a new leaf or the flicker of a snake.
"I-"
"This break is very long. Very long, and it is going to take a lot of work to preserve the world."
"But the Feathered King-" says Chihuatl. The Feathered King doesn't always appear. But for particularly long interregnums like this one, he's supposed to, lead the world through the destruction brought by the interregnum. He hasn't yet.
A kind of mirthless echo of a laugh. "Yes. The Feathered King. Think a moment. The gods do not allow anyone not of their own choosing to lead. If they did, then any ambitious might seize power."
"Yes, of course," says Chihuatl, who knows this from his earliest childhood.
"But they sleep during the interregnum, and during that time, any ambitious man can seize power."
"Until the gods wake-"
"That is too long!" The eyes flare, then subside. "The king is the first to die, because he will always have enemies. Then the nobles, who are generally hated for having what the people do not. Then the soldiers begin to take what they want, because with no one to control them, they run amok. And soon the people live in fear. They do not go about their proper business, not when leaving the town means uncertainty. But if they do not work, then there is, soon, too little food. The raids become worse. Villages turn on one another, sacking and killing to survive another day. And the men who lead-not all of them, but some-turn their eyes to the throne.
"The Feathered Kind is the one who wins. The one who thinks fast enough and learns quickly enough to conquer all the other petty leaders and make sure that there is food for everyone he protects, so that the people follow him. The priests who are waiting for him to appear will be waiting when they die, because the Feathered King is a result of a long break."
Chihuatl remains silent. Having the Lord of the Western Sun talking to him did that.
"Now imagine what happens if there is no Feathered King."
Chihuatl doesn't have to imagine. Chihuatl knows. No Feathered King means that, when the gods wake up, the people are too busy warring to offer them anything, and too busy starving to remember that anything need be offered. The gods go hungry, weaken, and eventually die. And then the sun goes out.
"Exactly. I make sure that the world survives these breaks, among other things. And so it is my duty to see that there is at least one person capable of becoming the Feathered King-and that he does."
Chihuatl stared. He would readily admit that he was dreamer, that he spent too much time watching the stars and not enough watching his feet. But he could see what was coming just as clearly.
"I don't-I can't-"
"You can and you will."
"I-"
"You will. Because if you don't, the world ends."
" . . . isn't there somebody else?"
"Do you want the world to end?"
"No!"
"Then there is no one else."
Chihuatl takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. And then waits.
"There is a reason," says the Lord of the Western Sun, "that he is called the feathered king. My feather." There's a sudden pain, and when Chihuatl looks down he's only half surprised to find that he's holding an obsidian knife by the blade.
"Your blood is mine."
It's just a feather again, albeit a bloody one.
"My blood is yours."
Because there was-had been-a little bit of whatever it was that the Lord of the Western Sun called blood still on the feather. When it was a knife.
"And I will fly with you always."
There is, for a moment, the sensation with none of the reality of falling. The landing is obvious, though, because he can see again. He's staring at a tree he's known his entire life. He looks around, but there's nobody. No Lord of the Western Sun. He opens his hand, and there's no feather, either.
But there is an old scar, of exactly the kind that he'd have if, for example, he'd tried to pick up a very sharp knife by the blade.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, someone who isn't him shifts, feathers rustling in the darkness. And laughs.
There ya go. Now Hopefully I can poke the Megilat muses back into life. [pokes hopefully]
Title: Egg
Fandom: None. I wrote this! Mineminemine.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Creepy shit.
Chihuatl had first seen the Lord of the Western Sun fly when he was six. No one had believed him then, of course, and he earned a beating anyway because talking about him was bad luck. He hadn't understood at the time what it was that he had seen, either. All he knew was that the huge black bird flew like an eagle, and his feathers shone.
The Lord of the Western Sun flew rarely, and when he flew, he brought-
Chihuatl would've liked to have been able to say destruction, but he knew that wasn't quite true. The destruction was, of course, but he was more and more certain, as the end of the cycle approached, that it was a side effect. Or perhaps the precursor. But there was some step in the middle there.
The interregnum, too, was going to last six years, when usually they lasted no more than eighteen months. A lot could happen in a time gap that long. The current nobles, except for the very good ones, would almost certainly end up dead-whether or not they were, except for the very good ones, already holed up in the mountains. The priests were waiting for the omens that would show who was supposed to lead them through, but so far, nothing.
And the Lord of the Western Sun was flying.
Although not at this moment, because at this particular moment, his not-as-big-as-one-might-expect body, feathered in gleaming black, was perched on the drooping lower branch on Chihuatl's favorite tree, and looking at him. Or at least the skull is pointed in his direction and the green lights in the empty sockets are flaring like miniature suns. Or perhaps full-sized ones, very far away.
This close, he can see that it's just a skull.
"Shut up," it says, only it doesn't actually make any noise that isn't only in Chihuatl's head. "You think too loudly."
"I am sorry?" Chihuatl is uncertain about this, but whatever else he is, he's still powerful. Maybe a god. Maybe. No one seems quite sure on this point. Powerful, though, absolutely.
It extends one wing toward him and the words, "Take the bent feather," echo in Chihuatl's mind. He looks again, because they are black-on-black and it takes him a moment to find the feather that is bent and tug it gently.
"Just pull it out." Skulls don't have expressions, but this one nevertheless gave off the impression of annoyance.
So Chihuatl pulls, and the feather comes loose and a little bloody right at the quill.
The world goes a little crazy.
When it rights itself, Chihuatl was still standing in approximately the place in relation to the Lord of the Western Sun, and still holding the feather, but they are in the Bone Nest. They really couldn't be anywhere else, and the fact that most of the bones aren't human is not really comforting. The not-really-a-bird is perched on the edge, looking down at him. "Please don't kill me."
"I am not going to kill you."
"Oh."
"I am," says the Lord of the Western Sun, "going to make you."
The Bone Nest is, in the stories, built of the bones of the people the Lord of the Western Sun had killed. He's fairly sure that this isn't right, because most of the birds belong to small animals and birds and other things that a bird of precisely that size might hunt. They have been stacked and interlocked and woven together in a way that nothing without hands should be able to manage, and they are all chalk-white.
The Lord of the Western Sun is seen rarely, but more often near an interregnum. The myths are all quite clear that it's the interregnum that brings him, not the other way around, and that he is in some way responsible for the fact that they end. They are also clear that he flies with the destruction of an interregnum, and is someone to be avoided.
Chihuatl knows this, and he's standing in the Bone Nest.
"I-"
"You know me." Those green eyes, like the color of a new leaf or the flicker of a snake.
"I-"
"This break is very long. Very long, and it is going to take a lot of work to preserve the world."
"But the Feathered King-" says Chihuatl. The Feathered King doesn't always appear. But for particularly long interregnums like this one, he's supposed to, lead the world through the destruction brought by the interregnum. He hasn't yet.
A kind of mirthless echo of a laugh. "Yes. The Feathered King. Think a moment. The gods do not allow anyone not of their own choosing to lead. If they did, then any ambitious might seize power."
"Yes, of course," says Chihuatl, who knows this from his earliest childhood.
"But they sleep during the interregnum, and during that time, any ambitious man can seize power."
"Until the gods wake-"
"That is too long!" The eyes flare, then subside. "The king is the first to die, because he will always have enemies. Then the nobles, who are generally hated for having what the people do not. Then the soldiers begin to take what they want, because with no one to control them, they run amok. And soon the people live in fear. They do not go about their proper business, not when leaving the town means uncertainty. But if they do not work, then there is, soon, too little food. The raids become worse. Villages turn on one another, sacking and killing to survive another day. And the men who lead-not all of them, but some-turn their eyes to the throne.
"The Feathered Kind is the one who wins. The one who thinks fast enough and learns quickly enough to conquer all the other petty leaders and make sure that there is food for everyone he protects, so that the people follow him. The priests who are waiting for him to appear will be waiting when they die, because the Feathered King is a result of a long break."
Chihuatl remains silent. Having the Lord of the Western Sun talking to him did that.
"Now imagine what happens if there is no Feathered King."
Chihuatl doesn't have to imagine. Chihuatl knows. No Feathered King means that, when the gods wake up, the people are too busy warring to offer them anything, and too busy starving to remember that anything need be offered. The gods go hungry, weaken, and eventually die. And then the sun goes out.
"Exactly. I make sure that the world survives these breaks, among other things. And so it is my duty to see that there is at least one person capable of becoming the Feathered King-and that he does."
Chihuatl stared. He would readily admit that he was dreamer, that he spent too much time watching the stars and not enough watching his feet. But he could see what was coming just as clearly.
"I don't-I can't-"
"You can and you will."
"I-"
"You will. Because if you don't, the world ends."
" . . . isn't there somebody else?"
"Do you want the world to end?"
"No!"
"Then there is no one else."
Chihuatl takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. And then waits.
"There is a reason," says the Lord of the Western Sun, "that he is called the feathered king. My feather." There's a sudden pain, and when Chihuatl looks down he's only half surprised to find that he's holding an obsidian knife by the blade.
"Your blood is mine."
It's just a feather again, albeit a bloody one.
"My blood is yours."
Because there was-had been-a little bit of whatever it was that the Lord of the Western Sun called blood still on the feather. When it was a knife.
"And I will fly with you always."
There is, for a moment, the sensation with none of the reality of falling. The landing is obvious, though, because he can see again. He's staring at a tree he's known his entire life. He looks around, but there's nobody. No Lord of the Western Sun. He opens his hand, and there's no feather, either.
But there is an old scar, of exactly the kind that he'd have if, for example, he'd tried to pick up a very sharp knife by the blade.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, someone who isn't him shifts, feathers rustling in the darkness. And laughs.
There ya go. Now Hopefully I can poke the Megilat muses back into life. [pokes hopefully]
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Date: 2009-01-24 12:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-01-24 01:43 am (UTC)