Freya's Blade (5)
Greetings, friends. Here follows chapter 3 of Freya's Blade. I will not be posting any more revisions, as there was no substantial revision to the rest of the story.
This takes place immediately after the village raid scene, so you might want to read back a little bit. I know its been a long time since any of you have read that. This is an important scene, and I'm really curious how effective it is. At any rate, I hope it is enjoyable
Chapter 3
Forn’s eyes open to the fading stars, and all he knows is wonder. He is alive. He can see greens and pale blues, hear the wind in creaking eaves and feel its cold breath on his naked skin. He turns his head and light and warmth come upon him, bleeding life into his freezing body. Predawn shines behind dark clouds, glowing at their edges with the rising sun. Towers of white smoke drift lazily from smolders as the growing light warms the ashes of the village.
He stands carefully, seeming not to notice the sword still lodged through his torso. He clings to Freya’s Blade with his right hand. He looks into its deep-carven traceries of knotwork, seeing its silver beauty for the first time in the light of day. His eyes wander, wide and wondering, peacefully taking in the waking day. The burnt remains and corpses about him draw not his eyes. He sees only the naked trees around the village, dark with the morning damp, and the tender grasses wavering in the chilling winds.
Then he sees her.
She stands alone in the rising light, pale skin aglow beneath the silver-green leaves of her garment. He sees his own serenity reflected in her wide blue eyes.
All the beauty of the morning fades before her, and he cannot breathe, but steps forward entranced. Their hands meet, and in that instant of warm overwhelming contact, some power flares from Elwynn, envelopes them, and they slip from the world.
Time begins to slide past them.
The glorious budding of the sun unfolds all at once, and it leaps up the sky and arcs nimbly over the world.
Her hands trace his body, holding and healing the wounds of his flesh. His eyes slip closed and he shudders. The trickling warmth of her healing touch overwhelms. Her small hand finds the hilt of the sword in his back. Her other hand slides down to the fist in which he grips Freya’s Blade and holds it fast. She tells him, without words, that if he lets go of that sword he will die. Half following her own intoxicated longings, and half trying to distract him, she leans up and caresses her open lips and tongue on his throat as she wrenches the bloodless sword from his back and drops it in the ashes below. The ripping agony flares in her own flesh, and they gasp together, but her healing hand presses into the wound on his back. She feels her own healing for the first time in her life, in the corresponding place on her own back, warming and healing with tickling pleasure like the scratching of a great itch.
The sun falls from the sky and drops behind the trees, its light and shadows racing over the two and leaving them for a moment in the dying dusk-glow, until all fades to starlight.
The moon rises behind her head, soaring up to its zenith, sweeping its light and shadows over her features as she finishes her healing work.
His eyes open, beholding hers in the passing moonlight. Nothing of his life or past or even the night before matters now, only that this unequalled beauty stands before him, and he wants her. His bare arms close around her shoulders, crushing her against him with a long slow kiss. Her hands slide up his chest to grip his neck. The moon falls behind him, and the sun bursts into the sky, flying overhead and setting, the moon chasing after through the fresh dark.
Forn grips her, a wildfire alive and burning in his arms. All his being is desire for her. They feel the waves of each other’s lust as strong as they felt each other’s pain, and they kiss fiercely until kissing is not enough.
They tear at each other’s clothes until in a rush of heat he is inside her and they love, standing in the ashes of his burned village as the great lights of the sky chase each other in swift arcs overhead.
But still it is not enough. They feel each other’s sensations screaming in their own heads, they crush themselves together, but it is never close enough or pure enough.
Finally, as pleasure climbs to its inevitable peak, and they cry out like newborn gods in the throes of creation, the veil of flesh that separates their spirits is torn, and for brief moments they swim within each other.
Scattered glimpses of memory flash before them, faces and voices in the dark, feelings of warmth and security, vivid smells long forgotten.
Elwynn and Forn watch through the eyes of his memory. He is a boy of eight, standing stoic in the shadows of his family’s hovel. His father stands over him in leather armor, and looks hard at him before kneeling to embrace him. Forn is crushed in comfortable heat, and the sharp smell of his father mingles with the strange stink of the leather. He feels the bristle of a cheek and his father’s breath for the last time as the old man speaks. “Watch bravely, lad. Do not flinch. If I fall, ye will be the man, and ye must never flinch. Ye must look after my Bonny, and my baby-girl. Do whatever ye judge best.”
The boy makes to answer, but the father silences him with a look. And then he stands, takes his pig-hunting spear from the wall, and walks out to join the pathetic band of armed villagers that are to stand against the coming Invaders.
Elwynn and Forn watch from the hardening eyes of an eight-year-old.
On a deep green field, under the half-light of a low drizzle, a gang of thirty armored raiders from across the seas, howling and laughing and singing, makes war on a band of fifty farmers. Two Warriors of the People decked in brightly colored cloaks, ride in and fight in glory among the peasants, dealing death to the Invaders. The farmers rally around them, and men fall screaming on both sides. Forn watches his father reach the front of the battle, spear one Invader through the throat, then another in the gut below a great round shield. He spears a third in the helmet, but his spear sticks and will not pull free.
A sword flashes in the cloud-muted light, and Forn sees his father’s head burst like a ripe fruit and fall in two directions.
His world falls to a darkness of tears, and the memory collapses, but Elwynn pulls them away, away to the woods where he had gone that evening, but they are in her memory now, and through her eyes, the woods are a wilderness dark and rich and strange to him.
She flies through a woodland world where all the colors bleed, where she feels every tree she passes thinking its own slow thoughts. She sees their emotions through the vivid light of their spirits, the dull red and brown struggles as roots strive against one another for water.
She seems to flex, and cool rain filters through the fluttering canopy. The dull reds and browns fade to rejoicing greens and blues as the trees drink to contentment and cool winds caress their aching limbs.
She spreads this joy ever as she passes through her wood, for she it is that calls the winds and rains and warmth, each in its measure, for she feels the need for each as mortal man feels hunger for food and thirst for drink. She is the heart of the forest, the mind at its center, and it is her body.
She comes across a deer, and feels each tiny nip as it plucks leaves from her forest. She pauses from all her labor to run with it awhile, and Forn is lost within the memory of sheer physical pleasure. Beside the deer she feels its every sensation. Every pump of muscle, every lungful of air, every mouthful of foliage swallowed and every slurp from the cool brook dazzles nerves, surpassed all human imaginings of pleasure.
They awaken slowly from her memory, their bodies alight, and press themselves together. They are lying down now, locked together, watching the world turn around them.
Clouds ripple and trickle across the sky like the surface of a lake in the wind. Shadow and light sweep over, golden then silver in the darkness, driving shafts of light the storm-clouds. They relish the sweet rain on their bodies as rays of sun and moon cut flashing through and vanish.
The lights blend into one arc, sliding down a steady gloaming sky. All around them spring creeps up from the ruins of the village and the wintered trees. Grasses sprout thick and green from the black earth beneath them, the trees bud full and lush, all at once bursting in the vibrant colors of full blossom.
This takes place immediately after the village raid scene, so you might want to read back a little bit. I know its been a long time since any of you have read that. This is an important scene, and I'm really curious how effective it is. At any rate, I hope it is enjoyable
Chapter 3
Forn’s eyes open to the fading stars, and all he knows is wonder. He is alive. He can see greens and pale blues, hear the wind in creaking eaves and feel its cold breath on his naked skin. He turns his head and light and warmth come upon him, bleeding life into his freezing body. Predawn shines behind dark clouds, glowing at their edges with the rising sun. Towers of white smoke drift lazily from smolders as the growing light warms the ashes of the village.
He stands carefully, seeming not to notice the sword still lodged through his torso. He clings to Freya’s Blade with his right hand. He looks into its deep-carven traceries of knotwork, seeing its silver beauty for the first time in the light of day. His eyes wander, wide and wondering, peacefully taking in the waking day. The burnt remains and corpses about him draw not his eyes. He sees only the naked trees around the village, dark with the morning damp, and the tender grasses wavering in the chilling winds.
Then he sees her.
She stands alone in the rising light, pale skin aglow beneath the silver-green leaves of her garment. He sees his own serenity reflected in her wide blue eyes.
All the beauty of the morning fades before her, and he cannot breathe, but steps forward entranced. Their hands meet, and in that instant of warm overwhelming contact, some power flares from Elwynn, envelopes them, and they slip from the world.
Time begins to slide past them.
The glorious budding of the sun unfolds all at once, and it leaps up the sky and arcs nimbly over the world.
Her hands trace his body, holding and healing the wounds of his flesh. His eyes slip closed and he shudders. The trickling warmth of her healing touch overwhelms. Her small hand finds the hilt of the sword in his back. Her other hand slides down to the fist in which he grips Freya’s Blade and holds it fast. She tells him, without words, that if he lets go of that sword he will die. Half following her own intoxicated longings, and half trying to distract him, she leans up and caresses her open lips and tongue on his throat as she wrenches the bloodless sword from his back and drops it in the ashes below. The ripping agony flares in her own flesh, and they gasp together, but her healing hand presses into the wound on his back. She feels her own healing for the first time in her life, in the corresponding place on her own back, warming and healing with tickling pleasure like the scratching of a great itch.
The sun falls from the sky and drops behind the trees, its light and shadows racing over the two and leaving them for a moment in the dying dusk-glow, until all fades to starlight.
The moon rises behind her head, soaring up to its zenith, sweeping its light and shadows over her features as she finishes her healing work.
His eyes open, beholding hers in the passing moonlight. Nothing of his life or past or even the night before matters now, only that this unequalled beauty stands before him, and he wants her. His bare arms close around her shoulders, crushing her against him with a long slow kiss. Her hands slide up his chest to grip his neck. The moon falls behind him, and the sun bursts into the sky, flying overhead and setting, the moon chasing after through the fresh dark.
Forn grips her, a wildfire alive and burning in his arms. All his being is desire for her. They feel the waves of each other’s lust as strong as they felt each other’s pain, and they kiss fiercely until kissing is not enough.
They tear at each other’s clothes until in a rush of heat he is inside her and they love, standing in the ashes of his burned village as the great lights of the sky chase each other in swift arcs overhead.
But still it is not enough. They feel each other’s sensations screaming in their own heads, they crush themselves together, but it is never close enough or pure enough.
Finally, as pleasure climbs to its inevitable peak, and they cry out like newborn gods in the throes of creation, the veil of flesh that separates their spirits is torn, and for brief moments they swim within each other.
Scattered glimpses of memory flash before them, faces and voices in the dark, feelings of warmth and security, vivid smells long forgotten.
Elwynn and Forn watch through the eyes of his memory. He is a boy of eight, standing stoic in the shadows of his family’s hovel. His father stands over him in leather armor, and looks hard at him before kneeling to embrace him. Forn is crushed in comfortable heat, and the sharp smell of his father mingles with the strange stink of the leather. He feels the bristle of a cheek and his father’s breath for the last time as the old man speaks. “Watch bravely, lad. Do not flinch. If I fall, ye will be the man, and ye must never flinch. Ye must look after my Bonny, and my baby-girl. Do whatever ye judge best.”
The boy makes to answer, but the father silences him with a look. And then he stands, takes his pig-hunting spear from the wall, and walks out to join the pathetic band of armed villagers that are to stand against the coming Invaders.
Elwynn and Forn watch from the hardening eyes of an eight-year-old.
On a deep green field, under the half-light of a low drizzle, a gang of thirty armored raiders from across the seas, howling and laughing and singing, makes war on a band of fifty farmers. Two Warriors of the People decked in brightly colored cloaks, ride in and fight in glory among the peasants, dealing death to the Invaders. The farmers rally around them, and men fall screaming on both sides. Forn watches his father reach the front of the battle, spear one Invader through the throat, then another in the gut below a great round shield. He spears a third in the helmet, but his spear sticks and will not pull free.
A sword flashes in the cloud-muted light, and Forn sees his father’s head burst like a ripe fruit and fall in two directions.
His world falls to a darkness of tears, and the memory collapses, but Elwynn pulls them away, away to the woods where he had gone that evening, but they are in her memory now, and through her eyes, the woods are a wilderness dark and rich and strange to him.
She flies through a woodland world where all the colors bleed, where she feels every tree she passes thinking its own slow thoughts. She sees their emotions through the vivid light of their spirits, the dull red and brown struggles as roots strive against one another for water.
She seems to flex, and cool rain filters through the fluttering canopy. The dull reds and browns fade to rejoicing greens and blues as the trees drink to contentment and cool winds caress their aching limbs.
She spreads this joy ever as she passes through her wood, for she it is that calls the winds and rains and warmth, each in its measure, for she feels the need for each as mortal man feels hunger for food and thirst for drink. She is the heart of the forest, the mind at its center, and it is her body.
She comes across a deer, and feels each tiny nip as it plucks leaves from her forest. She pauses from all her labor to run with it awhile, and Forn is lost within the memory of sheer physical pleasure. Beside the deer she feels its every sensation. Every pump of muscle, every lungful of air, every mouthful of foliage swallowed and every slurp from the cool brook dazzles nerves, surpassed all human imaginings of pleasure.
They awaken slowly from her memory, their bodies alight, and press themselves together. They are lying down now, locked together, watching the world turn around them.
Clouds ripple and trickle across the sky like the surface of a lake in the wind. Shadow and light sweep over, golden then silver in the darkness, driving shafts of light the storm-clouds. They relish the sweet rain on their bodies as rays of sun and moon cut flashing through and vanish.
The lights blend into one arc, sliding down a steady gloaming sky. All around them spring creeps up from the ruins of the village and the wintered trees. Grasses sprout thick and green from the black earth beneath them, the trees bud full and lush, all at once bursting in the vibrant colors of full blossom.
Submitted by MythWind at 12:32 AM
2 Comments:
Heyyyy... that's dirty.
This was really interesting. I have to say, the concept of floating the background of these characters into the narrative this way is extremely clever and engaging. I'm a little peeved that, after saying my tense changes threw you a little bit you go and do the same damn thing, but maybe it's because it's at a chapter break that it doesn't seem to affect the reading that much.
Anyway. Neat!
In my opinion, your description of the time lapse thing came out *really* effectively--I can see exactly what you're trying to get at.
I can understand your class's critiques about working on the love scene a bit more, but for me that was the most minor part of this chapter. I love the mystical silence it opens with, and the way it progresses with the awakening of both characters.
And my favoritest part is the flashback to Forn and his father, which I wasn't expecting, but which you rendered very movingly (in a creaky leathery man-smell sort of way, of course.)
And, for entirely different reasons, the phrase "burst like a ripe fruit."
Elwynn and Forn now have a very obvious chemistry and a good relationship to work from. I know you were talking about difficulties in working the perspective changes the way you wanted them to be, but so far you're off to a fine start.
Good work, bro. Keep at it.
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