Nanowrimo, day one:
1 November 2008 21:26![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cog_nomenI'm not terribly pleased with it so far, but it is indeed a start.
2,056/50,000
I write all out of order, so my whole wordcount probably won't be included in every post.
As with most things, Rothschild was the first to know of the king’s death. The Immortal woke him in the dead of night, his confused expression and sad demeanor almost enough for the spymaster to guess at what was wrong. Rothschild sat straight up from his sheets without a word having to be said, his eyes meeting the unnaturally colored ones of the Immortal.
“The king,” He started, and his odd triangular animal-ears drooped in clear distress. He reached out to touch the spymaster’s hand for comfort, and Rothschild moved away from the contact. The Immortal shifted his eyes up again to meet Rothschild’s, continuing.
“The king has passed away.”
The news was not entirely surprising – the king had fallen ill some months prior, and while his physician had done his best to preserve the monarch’s dignity and quality of life, he had never lied that the cough which had taken the King wouldn’t be terminal.
Rothschild threw back his sheets, causing the Immortal to retreat a few steps. He was a strange creature, the favored ‘pet’ of the royal family from a time unknown. He had long served as a faithful guard, sleeping in their bedchambers or in the hearth-room adjacent and ever wary for danger. He had served countless generations of the family, so long now that no one remembered how he had come into servitude save him, and he was fairly withdrawn and secretive around anyone who was not of royal blood.
The Immortal had an animal’s eyes and triangular almost wolfish ears set high on his head, in addition to a long serpentine tail covered in a soft, downy fur and tipped with a silken tuft of longer length. Had Rothschild encountered him anywhere else, he would have been considered magic-touched, cursed by the Silver Winds, and likely put to the sword. However, the Immortal was really some sort of ancient creature in the guise of humanity, and he was protected from common superstition by his loyalty to the house royal within the Kingdom of Thorns.
It was chilly in his room, despite the fire. The Immortal turned, wordless and miserable, to coax the embers in the hearth with an iron poker while Rothschild dressed. He hurried into his robe, ignoring the wet tinge to the Immortal’s breathing while the creature sat crouched. Let him cry if he must, better that he do it here and not where the Princess would have to see.
Rothschild passed back through the hallway, and the sleepy guard at the entrance to the royal chambers seemed more than a little surprised to see him. The Immortal knew all of the secret passages in the castle and how to pass soundlessly through them whenever it was needed. The Spymaster forwent them, because it would be improper for him to emerge suddenly from the King’s bedchamber with news that His Majesty was dead when none had seen him pass into the chambers in the first place.
He didn’t say a word, simply admitted himself. The guard peered after him, and he didn’t close the door behind him to block the man’s view. He moved straight through the chambers, and the lack of coughing tearing the silence confirmed for him what news the Immortal had brought. The blankets on one side of the bed were hurriedly turned and dislodged, and on the other side lay the King, clutching one hand deep into the plush covers he had taken comfort in these long months.
The open, staring eyes told Rothschild – who knew much of death – that the man had passed beyond this world and into the whims of the Silver Wind. He reached out to be sure, his hand over the King’s cold wrist and detecting no pulse beneath the pads of his index and pointer fingers.
It was a great loss for the kingdom, but Rothschild did not betray emotion – if he felt any at all. He turned to the guard, the young man still craning his neck around the corner, and shook his head solemnly. The guard blanched, lifted a hand to his mouth in shock – and Rothschild here suspected the man was considering how much blame could be laid on him for not noticing that his charge had passed beyond.
“The princess,” Rothschild said, and his voice was deep and disused from sleep. “Fetch her.”
The guard disappeared to do his bidding, and Rothschild dragged a chair around to the side of the bed, before he smoothed the blankets to erase the Immortal’s presence, and he gently worked the King’s fingers free of the blanket. He had managed to lay the arms straight at the King’s side under the covers, and drawn those up to his shoulders when the Princess arrived in a great rush of emotion, running to be there sooner and deny the news before she must be forced to accept it by reality.
She gave the spymaster a hateful glare and he gave ground, backed away from the bed when she threw herself at it, her hands touching her father’s face. It was like this that he left them, though with a stern order to the guard at the door to keep an eye on her. There were a thousand preparations to be made, but none of them could go forward until the Princess was ready for them.
He retired back to his quarters, and found the Immortal had disappeared to be alone with his grief. The fire had been tended to roaring, lending the inside of his chambers a comfortable temperature in which to change. He supposed, indeed, that change there would be.
In the weeks leading up to this, with the physician ever more certain that the time was coming, the King had begun to groom his daughter – hardly ideal, but there was no son, indeed no other siblings at all. She had not reacted well when the King had revealed to her that Rothschild was more than an advisor – he was a master of spies, an assassin, the shadowy hand that the King could extend when he must not seem to be extending a hand at all.
She was protected and naïve, and had at first been quite outraged to find that such a thing was necessary and hidden. The Princess had then insisted she would need no such thing, and had begged her father to dismiss him immediately. Her heart was too kind, and it was well known through the kingdom that she took pity on strays and the unwanted.
Rothschild tightened his sword belt at his waist, and smoothed his hands over his chest to be sure the greatcoat hung straight. He must, at least, appear composed. He was always composed – he had long ago learned to dampen any external reaction to tragedy. If there were no strong faces at all in imperial court at a time of tragedy, it made the whole thing seem weak, fragile. Vulnerable.
2,056/50,000
I write all out of order, so my whole wordcount probably won't be included in every post.
As with most things, Rothschild was the first to know of the king’s death. The Immortal woke him in the dead of night, his confused expression and sad demeanor almost enough for the spymaster to guess at what was wrong. Rothschild sat straight up from his sheets without a word having to be said, his eyes meeting the unnaturally colored ones of the Immortal.
“The king,” He started, and his odd triangular animal-ears drooped in clear distress. He reached out to touch the spymaster’s hand for comfort, and Rothschild moved away from the contact. The Immortal shifted his eyes up again to meet Rothschild’s, continuing.
“The king has passed away.”
The news was not entirely surprising – the king had fallen ill some months prior, and while his physician had done his best to preserve the monarch’s dignity and quality of life, he had never lied that the cough which had taken the King wouldn’t be terminal.
Rothschild threw back his sheets, causing the Immortal to retreat a few steps. He was a strange creature, the favored ‘pet’ of the royal family from a time unknown. He had long served as a faithful guard, sleeping in their bedchambers or in the hearth-room adjacent and ever wary for danger. He had served countless generations of the family, so long now that no one remembered how he had come into servitude save him, and he was fairly withdrawn and secretive around anyone who was not of royal blood.
The Immortal had an animal’s eyes and triangular almost wolfish ears set high on his head, in addition to a long serpentine tail covered in a soft, downy fur and tipped with a silken tuft of longer length. Had Rothschild encountered him anywhere else, he would have been considered magic-touched, cursed by the Silver Winds, and likely put to the sword. However, the Immortal was really some sort of ancient creature in the guise of humanity, and he was protected from common superstition by his loyalty to the house royal within the Kingdom of Thorns.
It was chilly in his room, despite the fire. The Immortal turned, wordless and miserable, to coax the embers in the hearth with an iron poker while Rothschild dressed. He hurried into his robe, ignoring the wet tinge to the Immortal’s breathing while the creature sat crouched. Let him cry if he must, better that he do it here and not where the Princess would have to see.
Rothschild passed back through the hallway, and the sleepy guard at the entrance to the royal chambers seemed more than a little surprised to see him. The Immortal knew all of the secret passages in the castle and how to pass soundlessly through them whenever it was needed. The Spymaster forwent them, because it would be improper for him to emerge suddenly from the King’s bedchamber with news that His Majesty was dead when none had seen him pass into the chambers in the first place.
He didn’t say a word, simply admitted himself. The guard peered after him, and he didn’t close the door behind him to block the man’s view. He moved straight through the chambers, and the lack of coughing tearing the silence confirmed for him what news the Immortal had brought. The blankets on one side of the bed were hurriedly turned and dislodged, and on the other side lay the King, clutching one hand deep into the plush covers he had taken comfort in these long months.
The open, staring eyes told Rothschild – who knew much of death – that the man had passed beyond this world and into the whims of the Silver Wind. He reached out to be sure, his hand over the King’s cold wrist and detecting no pulse beneath the pads of his index and pointer fingers.
It was a great loss for the kingdom, but Rothschild did not betray emotion – if he felt any at all. He turned to the guard, the young man still craning his neck around the corner, and shook his head solemnly. The guard blanched, lifted a hand to his mouth in shock – and Rothschild here suspected the man was considering how much blame could be laid on him for not noticing that his charge had passed beyond.
“The princess,” Rothschild said, and his voice was deep and disused from sleep. “Fetch her.”
The guard disappeared to do his bidding, and Rothschild dragged a chair around to the side of the bed, before he smoothed the blankets to erase the Immortal’s presence, and he gently worked the King’s fingers free of the blanket. He had managed to lay the arms straight at the King’s side under the covers, and drawn those up to his shoulders when the Princess arrived in a great rush of emotion, running to be there sooner and deny the news before she must be forced to accept it by reality.
She gave the spymaster a hateful glare and he gave ground, backed away from the bed when she threw herself at it, her hands touching her father’s face. It was like this that he left them, though with a stern order to the guard at the door to keep an eye on her. There were a thousand preparations to be made, but none of them could go forward until the Princess was ready for them.
He retired back to his quarters, and found the Immortal had disappeared to be alone with his grief. The fire had been tended to roaring, lending the inside of his chambers a comfortable temperature in which to change. He supposed, indeed, that change there would be.
In the weeks leading up to this, with the physician ever more certain that the time was coming, the King had begun to groom his daughter – hardly ideal, but there was no son, indeed no other siblings at all. She had not reacted well when the King had revealed to her that Rothschild was more than an advisor – he was a master of spies, an assassin, the shadowy hand that the King could extend when he must not seem to be extending a hand at all.
She was protected and naïve, and had at first been quite outraged to find that such a thing was necessary and hidden. The Princess had then insisted she would need no such thing, and had begged her father to dismiss him immediately. Her heart was too kind, and it was well known through the kingdom that she took pity on strays and the unwanted.
Rothschild tightened his sword belt at his waist, and smoothed his hands over his chest to be sure the greatcoat hung straight. He must, at least, appear composed. He was always composed – he had long ago learned to dampen any external reaction to tragedy. If there were no strong faces at all in imperial court at a time of tragedy, it made the whole thing seem weak, fragile. Vulnerable.