Man's Fallibility & Immortality

Man's Fallibility & Immortality

I found a practically perfect song, by my interpretation, to add to my Rise to Fall playlist. (I haven't cleaned up/updated the playlist fully, so I'm not posting the whole thing yet, but I think this particular song warrants its own post.)

First, listen to the song: Nothing's New - Rio Romeo

Then, what follows below is something of a tragedy-analysis, abstract, meta-thing/omniscient prose narration experiment. I don't know what it is—an outpouring of thoughts. It may strike a similar chord as my narration at the end of Simony and its epilogue.

(Simony was a prediction fic I wrote before the publication of Fall. An extremely erroneous one though. I still think it could work, but oh, how wrong I was.

The direction Soman took the plot in, just, it was unpredictable, even if I did enjoy the book. I still like Rise better than Fall though, of the duology. If Rise had just ended at the point of: Vulcan is dead, Rafal tortures his students, and the brothers gradually learn to trust each other again, that would've been nice and comforting, honestly. But no, substitutes, substitutes, substitutes! On both sides. Drives me insane. Ack! But, I have four, short fics planned that have alternate endings to Rise and to Fall, to make up for it. Well, one of them is so far a little longer, three chapters long.)

If anyone wants me to analyze the actual lyrics more closely, I'm willing to do that too!

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The tales.

They are all the same.

Good winning, Evil winning.

What difference does it make after centuries, really?

Everything probably feels numb and empty after a certain point.

Like nothing matters anymore.

Undiluted apathy after that certain point.

When? I've lost track.

When losses and victories all ring hollow, and all sound the same.

The End.

That's all It wrote.

The sum of lives distilled down to ink and illustrations.

Nothing beyond that. No life, no spark.

What more is there? When nothing will ever satisfy the restless souls, not even an Ending all to themselves.

Just pages that will yellow with time even if the stories themselves are timeless because nothing changes.

Nothing ever changes.

There's no evolution.

Every tale is the same.

It becomes nothing after nothing, not victory after victory, when you're ageless like we are.

And how, if that's how it is?

Why bother?

Why bother at all?

It's a cycle that continues, with or without the brothers.

Ceaseless.

So, why should it matter?

It's the same with or without them.

Their position was always ceremonial.

After a while, anyone becomes tiring. Anyone.

And one person just isn't enough, when you have no one else.

No one else to shield you.

It gets old. The love just... fades, and wears out.

Perhaps, human love can only span for so long, and that's why humans are mortal.

Made mortal, and no one should traverse beyond that.

It always leads to hubris, and then, a fall.

An unnatural fear of death trained into them, when limits were never set, when power was never checked, when they expected to have all the time in the world.

Nothing is built to last. At least, not by the Storian.

It does whatever it pleases.

You can't extend a life past its time.

It will always end in ruin. Isn't that the lesson the storybooks teach?

A cautionary tale.

Again and again, the cycle continues.

Every failed holy-grail of immortality, every spilled cup drawn from the fountain of youth, every cursed head of lettuce, every white snake, every chalice of sleeping draught that led to execution after execution, every baptism that succumbed to primordial wickedness, every impoverished fisherman's hovel?

Why not a tale about two brothers?

One where two are felled.

To caution against mortal greed that even immortality can't peel away.

To caution against always wanting more until you're left with nothing.

Nothing at all.

Just like how you can't truly resurrect anyone as who they once were, you can't revive the soul that a person once was.

And you can't play at being God because it defies the rules of nature.

And all that we know about transience and permanence and how ephemeral everything else is.

Everything but Man, who vies to leave a legacy wherever he goes, at any price, even at the cost of his soul, not life.

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Now, I do wonder if I made anyone emotional? I certainly tried this time around, to be a provocateur like Soman is. Tell me what you think, if you want.

@cursed-daydreamer I love this! Very accurate.

As soon as I can revive him from the dead the wedding is BACK ON !!!!

Facts about The One True School Master of Vault 41

Tedros and Japeth-related things would entail too many major spoilers, so this is probably all you’re getting for now:

Rafal confesses to Sophie that he breathed part of his soul into her toward the end of the second Great War.

Rafal reads his own obituary. And also sees the multitude of vandalism that accompanies it.

Rafal attends a rather depressing, actually, positively dismal Ever tea party. Agatha insults him, despite the fact that he has better table manners than her. They mock each other. And he chokes on his finger sandwich. (But, I suppose genocide weighs more on the morality scale, in terms of minor infractions and major transgressions that will send Pollux rolling in his grave like a roast pig on a spit over subjects which mustn’t be discussed at tea parties.)

Agatha unnecessarily feeds her savior complex and plays chaperone.

Sophie is fashionable and traumatized. Business as usual.

Agatha commits a burglary.

Rafal trains the Nevers in classical dance. (I promise it’s vaguely plot-relevant.)

Agatha trains the Evers for war.

Sophie performs an archival search and reads Fala and His Brother.

The fic is still largely unwritten, so things may be subject to change later on.

This scene will probably always live rent free in my mind. It exemplifies their dynamic. Their banter and narrative parallels were my favorite.

I still mourn Fall's "retcon." [sigh]

One True King Tagging Announcement & TOTSMOV41 Excerpts

I finally figured out how to fix the visibility on one of my posts that didn't appear in the main tags, and thought this information could be useful to anyone that posts about SGE, particularly The Camelot Years.

Originally, I tagged this post, excerpts from my WIP longfic, titled The One True School Master of Vault 41, using the relevant tag "otk." The fic itself is an alternate continuity of One True King, involving Rafal, Sophie, Agatha, the Wizard Tree, and Dovey's crystal ball. However, I just discovered that all posts tagged under "otk" have been hidden because for some, unknown reason, certain posts under the tag violate Tumblr's Community Guidelines. So, whenever you reference One True King, I'd advise tagging your posts with the full title "one true king," to avoid any issues with visibility.

Furthermore, if anyone reads my excerpts, I'd love to receive any kind of feedback/concrit, or to hear your thoughts and reactions! And, I might be willing to answer any questions you have around the fic, assuming I can avoid discussing major spoilers from my plot.

Excerpts from The One True School Master of Vault 41

These are two excerpts from my draft that I think I can share without disclosing major spoilers.

Warning: Contains blood and injury.

@discjude I should probably also mention, when I said "humorous," it's really just a couple lines. The whole thing probably seems a bit dismal. So, the first excerpt is the "humorous" one, and the second is the serious one. Also, there's a reason why the Wizard Tree is burnt, if you think it contradicts its canon descriptions in OTK.

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A hideous, sickening CRACK from without interrupted them.

Sophie glanced worriedly at the charred, blackened husk of a tree around her, a single, unspoken question in her eyes.

“Broken bone,” Rafal determined, casually conclusive without a hint of emotion or morbidity.

“How in the world do you know that, pray tell?”

Rafal rolled his shoulders back, straightening. “Practice,” he answered. “I’ve heard it often enough.” He did not elaborate.

Typical Rafal, really. Nothing to stir up a fuss about, Sophie dismissed. She watched as he found a serviceable foothold in the wood, so he could scale the trunk-length, and reach the opening at the top where she’d first fallen through from the boughs high above. Only the faintest shafts of faltering daylight cut through the dark that subsumed them now.

He had to conserve his magic until he needed it more urgently as his immortality seemed compromised. His breath ran a bit ragged, and his strength had waned since the last time she’d seen him, as he died. They probably wouldn’t have the chance to rest until she reunited with Agatha and Tedros, and not even then. They had to reach the Schools, so they could redouble their efforts against Japeth. The outcome barely boded well though. It wasn’t heartening in the least. Even with her half-alive sorcerer, their pitiful forces were paltry compared to Japeth’s.

She began to make her way out, to climb up and out of the Wizard Tree after him. Her heels kept slipping, sinking into hollows and gouging the brittle, burnt inner walls of wood, now riddled with puncture marks and splinters that scraped her hands raw until pinpricks of blood appeared. Tears sprang to her eyes as she took a breath, attempting to calm herself.

Rafal offered her a hand.

She took it.

Hers was just as cold as his, he noted, pinning his gaze on her one, red-soaked, rusted, white sleeve.

The two of them emerged from the hollow inside of the tree, and Sophie attempted to brush off her concern, flush against the rough, dead bark, while straddling a branch that bowed slightly under her weight. Could it be the dragging, heavy, silken layers of her gown weighing her down? She just had to lower herself down to the ground, branch by branch.

She didn’t move, fixed in place by fear, gripping her branch until her knuckles turned as white as her dress had once been.

Even if everything was dwarfed by the great height of their vantage point, quite a battle persisted far below, a lot of figures scrabbling in the dust, others picking their way up the formidable tree, the dull clang of metal on metal ringing out, the shouts of men resounding. And, on the far side of the brawl, one lone, dark figure sprawled in the dirt, coated in blue pollen, choking and hacking, clawing at his—or her—throat?

Rafal reached out and steadied Sophie with a hand to her shoulder as he leaned over from where he was seated astride his own swaying branch.

Yet, something still nagged her, and her thoughts darted away from the potential fall she had before her. Just whose bones could it have been? What if it was someone she knew?

Well, Agatha had the answer to that.

[Timeskip to a different scene. A lot happens between points A to B on the run from the Snake, but that will be in the final draft.]

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[After the timeskip and a harrowing chase. There are scenes missing between here that will be in the final draft.]

Kiko quaked on the polished balcony of Merlin’s Menagerie, peeping at a tangled, three-headed mass, silhouetted by the red, sinking sun, and flying in the sky above the Schools on the horizon! No, toward the Schools!

In the dying light, the three figures in flight rapidly descended, narrowly clearing the sharp spires of the School gates. Were they heading toward the clearing that fronted Good, the great lawn spangled with flowers? No, the mass landed on the man-made, cement island in Halfway Bay, near where the Schools’ dark and clear waters met, the way oil repels water, colliding but never melding due to the magical barrier in place. The waves crashed onto shore, below the former School Master’s silver tower, now Dean Sophie’s residence, and the bay beneath the bridge shone, refracting broken garnet and silver hues.

The mass promptly separated into three people. Two girls and a tall boy. The boy, who appeared to have jarred his feet, collapsed in exhaustion. One of the girls in a billowing, red-and-white gown knelt down to examine him, and the second girl prodded him with her clump-clad foot, but lost her balance and fell, arms flagging and windmilling. The first girl rushed over to her instead. The boy rose by himself, and he and the first girl led the second, fallen girl to the entrance of the School for Good, crossing the bridge without issue.

Kiko rushed down the slick, glass staircases to the entrance, almost tripping over herself. She had to get down in a hurry, to greet, or to possibly fend off these new arrivals—and find out who they were!

Kiko gasped, and just about dropped dead from shock, gaping in horror at the procession which filed into Good’s glass foyer.

Sophie entered first. She looked vaguely disoriented and disheveled, like an ill-treated porcelain doll as she stumbled forward gracelessly. Her complexion was bloodless, drained, as if the blood coursing through her veins as been siphoned away and sprayed all across the front of her prim, lacey, white wedding gown, its hem that was intended to skim the floor, draping in folds, torn to threadbare tatters. Flecks and smatters and streaky smudges of blood adorned her gown. It wasn’t all fresh blood, but she was still pale and staggered as if she were suffering from some sort of invisible blood loss. Kiko suspected the one aggravated arm, with a once-white sleeve that was soaked through. It was particularly rusty near her wrist and all along her forearm.

Agatha groaned in pain.

“Don’t ask,” Sophie snipped. “It’s a long story. Longer than we have time for.”

Agatha hobbled in second on what seemed to be a broken leg. Her arm was looped through Sophie’s, and she was barely able to shuffle forward as she had a significant limp. One entire side of her body was covered by a medley of unsightly purple, black, and blue bruises. And, thin cuts and scratches and shallow lacerations all over her bloodied, exposed limbs, injuries sustained from her fall from the Wizard Tree though Kiko couldn’t begin to guess their source. The wind had whipped the snarled branches around, lashing Agatha. She was paler than ever.

And, she was coated in dust, dirt, soot, and—was that blue pollen? She wore a soiled, raggedy black sack of a dress, like she’d reverted to her Graveyard Girl self, and worse still, had ceded to a dust bath. Kiko also detected an odd lump, a canvas bag slung over Agatha’s narrow frame.

Then, the School Master?

The School Master supported Agatha’s other side in his grasp. He met Kiko’s gaze, and she shuddered reflexively, thoughts of wicked geese and mogrification cycling around her mind, even if at this moment he looked too spent to pose much of a threat.

He stood in the doorway, grey and haggard, dour shadows under his eyes, exhausted beyond belief. A deep, dark shade of garnet permeated his clothes, the same black, double-breasted, dictator jacket, slacks, and tall boots Kiko remembered from the Great War, yet his clothes were rumpled and sooty, and the smears of coagulated blood had nearly oxidized to black. At least half of his scalp was crusted with thick, clotted blood, already dried and matted in his snow-white hair, plastering it, stained red, to the side of his face. It was as if he’d been cleaved through the skull with a rather wide blade.

“Well?” Sophie demanded harshly to poor Kiko who was stunned speechless. “Aren’t we going to bring her to the infirmary?”