[fic] Confessional
Sep. 12th, 2006 04:32 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
misura.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hunters_forestRating: PG
Characters: Tarrant, Karril
Warnings: slightly OOC (Tarrant, at the very least), somewhat speculative, flash-fic
The story behind the story: Just before the weekend, I posted the Five Things-meme (it's here in case you've managed to miss it).![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alice_montrose suggested five things that Gerald Tarrant will never confess to have done in his youth, and somehow, because I'm a wooly-head, I remembered it wrong and wrote the ficlet below. It does contain five things Tarrant might have done in his youth, but ... naw. I'll try again next weekend, I guess.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of C. S. Friedman. The artist/author is in no way associated with C. S. Friedman and no copyright infringement is intended. This work is an amateur fan effort and no profit is being made. My spelling of Karril's name is at present correct only thanks toalighiera. Oops?
In the light of Erna's two moons, in a night on a world that didn't exist, the man once known as Gerald Tarrant turned to his companion and asked, in a tone that was considerably less than friendly:
"Who died and made you my confessor?"
His companion took a few moments to ponder the question, and then replied:
"Reverend Damien Kilcannon Vryce, I'd have to say."
Tarrant's expression didn't change. "That idiot priest."
Karril winced. "Sorry."
"What for?" Tarrant offered him a wry smile. "You brought up his name; you suffered the consequences. All very straigtforward and neat, wouldn't you say?"
Karril considered pointing out that the pain, the grief he'd felt had belonged to Tarrant, not to himself. In the end, he refrained, mostly because there seemed to be little point in it. Tarrant knew as well as Karril did that Karril's nature didn't allow him to feel loss and sadness, the way a human would.
"I suppose I'm simply curious," he said instead, in an attempt to change the subject.
"How very ... human of you." Tarrant looked vaguely amused.
"Well, you know nearly everything there is to know about my kind, and how I came to be what I am today." Karril shrugged. "Seems only fair that I get to find out some things about you, too."
xxx
"Just you wait 'till I get my hands on you, you little sneak!"
For a ten-year-old, it's hard to run up the stairs with any kind of speed. Running down without breaking his neck will be even harder, he knows, but that hardly seems to matter.
"You think you can escape? How?"
His brother is sixteen, and able to take the stairs two steps at a time. That he doesn't do so at present is merely part of the game. It'd be no 'fun' if he'd get caught right away, after all.
"You think you can fly?" His brother laughs, and is still laughing by the time his prey has reached the top of the stairs and turns around, staring. "What are you looking at?"
He doesn't think he can fly. That's not why he's run up here, to the top of a tower where he'll be hopelessly trapped if his big brother manages to stay between him and the stairs.
He's run up here, because he's spent three hours to try and convince the fae that the stones of the second step from the top are loose. It's a fair chance, really. Any of his brothers might have followed him, and all of them could have taken the stairs two steps at a time, thus avoidding the trap.
x
On a cold winter's day, shivering in his bed, he discovers that he is immortal. It's a strange but not altogether unpleasant discovery - in less than ten years from now, he'll look back on this day and grimace, but for the moment, he's fourteen and immortal.
Merentha has never been too prosperous, too much of a center of trade. His father likes it that way, muttering about how strangers can't be trusted the one moment, and complaining about low revenues the next. If anyone else has noticed the obvious connection between the two complaints, they have been as smart as he has been, and kept their mouths shut about it.
Still, if you have got the right kind of money, and the ability to dodge the wrong kind of people, you can get nearly anything. Half an hour of forgetfulness isn't cheap, but it can be had.
The winter rules outside, but inside, in the privacy of his bedroom, a boy dreams of harnessing all the powers of Erna, and using them to accomplish something that will bring him greatness.
x
At the age of fifteen, he kills his first man, and wishes it was his sixth or seventh. He doesn't feel any particular emotion, neither regret nor joy. They've told him that killing another human being ought to be different from killing a demon, one of the fae-born, so he pretends a little bit of shock, awe and fear.
Two nights later, he gets his first kiss, and wishes it was his last. If he gets himself drunk enough, he imagines he might find something appealing about the pale blonde woman, but whenever he looks at her with his special kind of vision, she makes him want to gag.
He manages to avoid both her and his brothers who have been talking about turning him into a proper man all evening, and finds himself in a deserted corner of the camp, where he can peacefully watch the moons and the stars, and be alone with them and his dreams.
The woman, it turns out, is suffering from some sort of illness, and dies three days later.
His brothers act scared for the next few weeks, but no matter how much he wishes they, too, would fall ill and die, their good health remains, and the incident is forgotten about quickly. In an army, plenty of people die every day, and there are many more women.
x
He discovers boys when he is sixteen, although 'discovering' is, in this case, possibly the wrong word. He's always known boys existed, after all; he simply never considered them the way he's been raised to consider girls. It's all a little strange, but he takes an almost childish delight in the knowledge that he's doing something his father and his brothers would disapprove of.
It's a relief to discover that his body can find release with another boy as easily as it can do so with a woman, too. He's not intending to remain celibate; he knows enough to realize that his control over the fae will not improve by keeping himself 'pure'.
Purity is a vague, hazy concept anyway; every priest who speaks to him seems to define it differently. To be sure, their faith is far from 'pure'. Instead, it's a mix of what they personally believe to be right, and what their friends believe, and what their parents believe - in other words, a mess. A joke.
Religion may be powerful, but before it's actually useful, it will have to change. At the moment, it's like ore, waiting for someone to turn it into iron and make it into a sword.
xxx
Tarrant opened his eyes and stared at Karill, who sat nearby watching him.
"You know," he said at last, "jealousy, too, is a very human emotion."
"I do know," Karril replied, with a hint of annoyance. "And I'm not human. So, Hunter, why don't you use those amazing brains of yours to figure out what I *am* feeling? Before I go and do something stupid like letting the only person who can stop Calesta die, just because he's been getting chummier with you in barely six months than I could manage to get in over six centuries?"
Tarrant glowered at him. "I would hardly say that he and I have gotten 'chummy' with each other."
"Well, no, but that's just because you're so hung up on your image as a bad guy. The desire is there, don't bother denying it. You're the expert when it comes to demons; I'm the expert when it comes to people wanting to get chummy with each other." Karril shrugged. "I'd better get going now, then. Thanks for the memories."
"And what's this about Vryce being the only one able to stop Calesta? Are you saying I can't do anything on my own?" Tarrant demanded of the empty air where Karril had been moments ago.
~the end~
Characters: Tarrant, Karril
Warnings: slightly OOC (Tarrant, at the very least), somewhat speculative, flash-fic
The story behind the story: Just before the weekend, I posted the Five Things-meme (it's here in case you've managed to miss it).
alice_montrose suggested five things that Gerald Tarrant will never confess to have done in his youth, and somehow, because I'm a wooly-head, I remembered it wrong and wrote the ficlet below. It does contain five things Tarrant might have done in his youth, but ... naw. I'll try again next weekend, I guess.Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of C. S. Friedman. The artist/author is in no way associated with C. S. Friedman and no copyright infringement is intended. This work is an amateur fan effort and no profit is being made. My spelling of Karril's name is at present correct only thanks to
alighiera. Oops?In the light of Erna's two moons, in a night on a world that didn't exist, the man once known as Gerald Tarrant turned to his companion and asked, in a tone that was considerably less than friendly:
"Who died and made you my confessor?"
His companion took a few moments to ponder the question, and then replied:
"Reverend Damien Kilcannon Vryce, I'd have to say."
Tarrant's expression didn't change. "That idiot priest."
Karril winced. "Sorry."
"What for?" Tarrant offered him a wry smile. "You brought up his name; you suffered the consequences. All very straigtforward and neat, wouldn't you say?"
Karril considered pointing out that the pain, the grief he'd felt had belonged to Tarrant, not to himself. In the end, he refrained, mostly because there seemed to be little point in it. Tarrant knew as well as Karril did that Karril's nature didn't allow him to feel loss and sadness, the way a human would.
"I suppose I'm simply curious," he said instead, in an attempt to change the subject.
"How very ... human of you." Tarrant looked vaguely amused.
"Well, you know nearly everything there is to know about my kind, and how I came to be what I am today." Karril shrugged. "Seems only fair that I get to find out some things about you, too."
xxx
"Just you wait 'till I get my hands on you, you little sneak!"
For a ten-year-old, it's hard to run up the stairs with any kind of speed. Running down without breaking his neck will be even harder, he knows, but that hardly seems to matter.
"You think you can escape? How?"
His brother is sixteen, and able to take the stairs two steps at a time. That he doesn't do so at present is merely part of the game. It'd be no 'fun' if he'd get caught right away, after all.
"You think you can fly?" His brother laughs, and is still laughing by the time his prey has reached the top of the stairs and turns around, staring. "What are you looking at?"
He doesn't think he can fly. That's not why he's run up here, to the top of a tower where he'll be hopelessly trapped if his big brother manages to stay between him and the stairs.
He's run up here, because he's spent three hours to try and convince the fae that the stones of the second step from the top are loose. It's a fair chance, really. Any of his brothers might have followed him, and all of them could have taken the stairs two steps at a time, thus avoidding the trap.
x
On a cold winter's day, shivering in his bed, he discovers that he is immortal. It's a strange but not altogether unpleasant discovery - in less than ten years from now, he'll look back on this day and grimace, but for the moment, he's fourteen and immortal.
Merentha has never been too prosperous, too much of a center of trade. His father likes it that way, muttering about how strangers can't be trusted the one moment, and complaining about low revenues the next. If anyone else has noticed the obvious connection between the two complaints, they have been as smart as he has been, and kept their mouths shut about it.
Still, if you have got the right kind of money, and the ability to dodge the wrong kind of people, you can get nearly anything. Half an hour of forgetfulness isn't cheap, but it can be had.
The winter rules outside, but inside, in the privacy of his bedroom, a boy dreams of harnessing all the powers of Erna, and using them to accomplish something that will bring him greatness.
x
At the age of fifteen, he kills his first man, and wishes it was his sixth or seventh. He doesn't feel any particular emotion, neither regret nor joy. They've told him that killing another human being ought to be different from killing a demon, one of the fae-born, so he pretends a little bit of shock, awe and fear.
Two nights later, he gets his first kiss, and wishes it was his last. If he gets himself drunk enough, he imagines he might find something appealing about the pale blonde woman, but whenever he looks at her with his special kind of vision, she makes him want to gag.
He manages to avoid both her and his brothers who have been talking about turning him into a proper man all evening, and finds himself in a deserted corner of the camp, where he can peacefully watch the moons and the stars, and be alone with them and his dreams.
The woman, it turns out, is suffering from some sort of illness, and dies three days later.
His brothers act scared for the next few weeks, but no matter how much he wishes they, too, would fall ill and die, their good health remains, and the incident is forgotten about quickly. In an army, plenty of people die every day, and there are many more women.
x
He discovers boys when he is sixteen, although 'discovering' is, in this case, possibly the wrong word. He's always known boys existed, after all; he simply never considered them the way he's been raised to consider girls. It's all a little strange, but he takes an almost childish delight in the knowledge that he's doing something his father and his brothers would disapprove of.
It's a relief to discover that his body can find release with another boy as easily as it can do so with a woman, too. He's not intending to remain celibate; he knows enough to realize that his control over the fae will not improve by keeping himself 'pure'.
Purity is a vague, hazy concept anyway; every priest who speaks to him seems to define it differently. To be sure, their faith is far from 'pure'. Instead, it's a mix of what they personally believe to be right, and what their friends believe, and what their parents believe - in other words, a mess. A joke.
Religion may be powerful, but before it's actually useful, it will have to change. At the moment, it's like ore, waiting for someone to turn it into iron and make it into a sword.
xxx
Tarrant opened his eyes and stared at Karill, who sat nearby watching him.
"You know," he said at last, "jealousy, too, is a very human emotion."
"I do know," Karril replied, with a hint of annoyance. "And I'm not human. So, Hunter, why don't you use those amazing brains of yours to figure out what I *am* feeling? Before I go and do something stupid like letting the only person who can stop Calesta die, just because he's been getting chummier with you in barely six months than I could manage to get in over six centuries?"
Tarrant glowered at him. "I would hardly say that he and I have gotten 'chummy' with each other."
"Well, no, but that's just because you're so hung up on your image as a bad guy. The desire is there, don't bother denying it. You're the expert when it comes to demons; I'm the expert when it comes to people wanting to get chummy with each other." Karril shrugged. "I'd better get going now, then. Thanks for the memories."
"And what's this about Vryce being the only one able to stop Calesta? Are you saying I can't do anything on my own?" Tarrant demanded of the empty air where Karril had been moments ago.
~the end~
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-09-12 09:26 pm (UTC)Thank you!
Date: 2006-09-13 06:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-13 06:09 am (UTC)I love those little snippets and the way he grows in each of them. They fit together so well, and there is a lot of interesting foreshadowing. Nicely done!
Psst... Karril, not Karill :-)
Thanks!
Date: 2006-09-13 06:49 am (UTC)I actually don't even know if Tarrant's family did hold Merentha before his birth, or if he himself received the Neocountship for some great deed or another.
And, apparently, I can't spell. Ack. Thanks for pointing it out to me!
Re: Thanks!
Date: 2006-09-13 11:36 am (UTC)I don't think we have specific info on the Neocountship - I usually assume that he earned it, but it's a matter of author's preference.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-13 09:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-13 02:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-13 02:06 pm (UTC)@_@
Date: 2006-09-13 02:06 pm (UTC)I feel the urge to tell him...
"If Vryce hadn't been there to get you moving (by pestering you until you DID), you wouldn't even have gotten off your ass to try."
...but then, I never WAS a nice kid. :D
Re: @_@
Date: 2006-09-13 02:30 pm (UTC)Then again, I guess it's easy to become a bit of a home-lurker when you've lived for several hundreds of years *and* are alergic to sunlight - at least when you want to go and live another several hundreds of years.