Anyhow, I've started writing a new story, and I'm going to post excerpts from it now and then in here, as part of the manifold forms of motivation I'm trying to get to keep me working on it. For the next couple of days I'm still on a 'write as much as I possibly can' thing, then after that I'll be trying to work to a daily minimum. I'll post an excerpt from a new part at least once a week (there's that motivation thing again).
If I miss a week, badger me about it, please.
Here's the opening, which I posted in the other thread:
Sunlight slanted from above, glinting off a thousand empty suits of armour. Dust floated in the air, gathered on cuirass and pauldrons, shield and vambrace. A thousand helmets hung from wooden stands, a thousand shields stood propped against empty greaves. The ghosts of a thousand warriors hung there, enshrined in steel; each suit a life lost, each shield a memorial.
The dust, hung suspended, now stirred as ripples and eddies swirled outward, the serene quiet shattered by the the thud of boots. The last of them strode into the stillness, between the ranks of his forebears. From the oldest of them, torn and battle-scarred under their grimy shroud, he passed forward through history. Their aspect changed as the years pass by; marks of battle gave way to signs of decadence, to gilt and polish, epaulets and engravings. The hall's central rows were filled with ceremonial attire.
The survivor paid no heed to the past that surrounded him; he moved on, head high, face forward, toward the present. Around him, the gilt faded; the engravings became less elaborate; ceremony set aside as the twilight years approach. Grey streaked his temples, like the last clinging fragment of a youth long past—the rest of his hair was white as fresh snow.
And from the second day's work:
“This kingdom is dead, Lucan, and though we may soon join it, for now we remain. What kind of life is this, to moulder in dust until death claims us?” A spark of passion lit in her eyes as she spoke. “No, I will not die here. Let us leave this place for the ghosts.” Her eyes rose once more, and this time she looked beyond the shining ranks of the dead, beyond her nation's history to the great doors through which the knight had entered. There, hung above the frame, stood her family's crest: a ship riding high upon the waves, above it the paired image of shield and crown. “My ancestors were not from this land. They came here long ago, from across the sea. They did not belong here, but they made this place their own. Now that time is passed.” Her gaze fell, and in that moment Lucan saw a weariness in her that he had never known she possessed. For the first time, he saw the truth of her. “We are all that remains. Lucan--” her eyes bored into his own, seemed to plead with him though she knew he could refuse her nothing “--I want to go home.”
The revelation—her weakness—it was too much. Tears welled in the old knight's eyes. He could not offer her comfort, so, lowering himself to his knees once more, he gave her the only thing that he could.
“I am yours to command, my Queen.”
Count: 859 words
