Hi!
Well, it's been a long time since I've written anything, let
alone posted something to the FFML. Life has been insanely -- and
rather nastily, at times -- busy as of late. End result is that, in the
last two months, I've done absolutely no writing.
Tonight, I guess, I decided that I had had enough. I didn't go
back to my other projects -- like Choices -- of course; oh, no, of
course I had to start another insanely long project. In any case, here
you have the prologue (prelude?) to To Let the Curtain Fall, an 'epic'
Ranma story.
This thing is probably pretty rough; I wrote it in one sitting,
in a matter of a couple of hours. Of course, the ideas have been
jumping around in my head for a while, now, and not having to write
out that one fight scene with Ranma saved some time...
Anyway, hope you enjoy it. Feedback really, really desired.
It'd be nice to know before I get 100+ pages into this thing whether
anyone still wants to even read this kind of thing anymore (I've been
off the FFML for a bit, so I'm not sure if Ranma fics are still the
thing at all...). Of course, I haven't really given a reader much to
comment on, but, still... C&C/flame away!
-Mike Noakes
***
Let the Curtain Fall
Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored;
Light dies before thine uncreating word:
Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall;
And universal darkness buries all.
-The Dunciad
Prologue:
Deep, mellifluous voice, only the slightest hint of mockery
marring its smoothness:
"The sun goes down, and over all
These barren reaches by the tide
Such elusive glories fall,
I almost dream they yet will bide
Until the coming of the tide."
The sun touched the horizon ere the final word died, tinting
the hissing ocean blood-red. Night descended quickly, softly, an
inky velvet curtain falling over the hungry waves, jagged cliffs,
piercing rain. The winds, momentarily calm, resumed their earlier
voracity. Through the dark and the lashing weather stepped two
figures. Neither seemed particularly perturbed by the hostile
climate.
"Nice poem," commented the taller of the two.
"It felt. . . appropriate," answered the second. His voice, so
rich in timber and sonorous in poetry, was strangely flat in normal
conversation.
No further words were exchanged as the two picked their
way along the precarious craggy cliff-edge. A pale, wavering light
fell across them, washing the broken path in a flat whiteness. A
break in the clouds above offered a brief glimpse of the moon.
The same resounding voice cut through the howling winds
once more:
"The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits --"
"Not quite as appropriate, I'd say," interrupted the taller
one. He smirked.
A brief pause. "Really? I disagree. I would say it is all too
appropriate. . ."
A moment later the winds died, the rain reduced to a mere
drizzle, and even the ocean lost much of its furor. The man glanced
at his poetic companion in some surprise, opened his mouth, closed
it without a word.
"Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! You hear the grating roar. . ."
He continued to speak, drawing each word out slowly,
savoring the roll, the flavor of each vowel, consonant, diphthong,
sound as it crossed his tongue; he did this even as they approached a
strange protuberance jutting out at the very edge of the cliff, an
oddly rounded stone piercing through a finger of stone extended
treacherously over the thrashing waters far below. The sounds of
crashing waves, ferocious erosion, tearing winds howled up and
around the seemingly tiny perch in a cacophony of Nature's fury, an
odd pocket of angry noise in the suddenly silent surroundings.
". . .Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin. . ."
He interrupted his own recital to turn to face the man
following. He pointed to where the rocky crag first stretched away
from the rock face. "There," he said, voice once again flat. "Wait
there." With that he turned away and carefully worked his way
towards the rounded stone.
His tall companion stepped over to the indicated position.
He quickly surveyed the immediate surroundings, tested the ground
(its slickness, toughness, texture) with a few scuffling kicks, then
shrugged off his jacket and threw it aside. The heavy air
immediately drenched his shirt. The thin material clung to his
frame, outlining a smooth, muscular torso: he was young, and strong,
with a fighter's body, an athlete's build. "They'll be coming soon?"
he asked, stretching slightly, working shoulders, waist, knees.
"Yes. As soon as I start."
The man nodded. "They'll be worth my time?"
An irritated glance, and a note of displeasure in the answer.
"You know what I expect; you know their reputation. What do you
think?"
The fighter hesitated before answering, then, with a
contented smile, said: "I'm thinking I'm finally in for a good fight."
But the other man was no longer listening, for he stood
before the stone, his back turned to the awesome stretch of grey-
black churning water below and behind, to the wind-dragged clouds
backlit by the hidden full moon, to the precipice mere feet from his
heel. His hands moves quickly, easily across the stone, fingers
splayed and lightly touching, nearly caressing the smooth surface.
The stone -- at least, the part of it that projected above the rocky
crag, since it was obvious that at least half of it remained buried --
was shaped in a manner reminiscent of an egg facing downward; the
lightly curving top rose to the man's chest. Bland greyness fell
aside as a wayward shaft of moonlight skimmed across the stone:
beneath the pale illumination, that stone shimmered slightly, as if
riddled with a million minuscule flecks of gold; veins of deeper
color, at times purplish, at times reddish, crawled across and
through the strange rock.
It was along these multitudinous veins that the man ran his
tremulously chasing fingers, as he faintly resumed chanting, voice
soft -- almost choking, it seemed at times, with barely suppressed
emotion: awe, glee, fear -- yet somehow still carrying through the
rising winds and noise.
". . .With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in."
A long, shrill cry, a pitiful, piercing wailing, broke free,
shudderingly growing in strength: it was a sound a broken man
bemoaning the horrid injustice of a slaughtered family might give,
emerging in jerky, disrupted sobs; or, perhaps, like that of a
whining, whimpering babe, youthful discordant scream strangely
warped, pitched beyond the capacity of a human throat, animalistic
and alien in intonation; it was the sound of a natural order crying out
against a corrupt and horrible rape of its very being. The cry
emerged from the stone the man lovingly caressed. A smile played
lightly across his lips; an ugly fire lit his eyes.
His mouth moved with verse unheard over the horrible
moaning of the stone. After what felt an eternity to the
unconsciously shivering fighter -- still rooted in his position -- the
cry hit a peak and quickly fell in intensity. And as the sound
dropped in volume, the man's voice was once again heard:
". . .now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world."
The stone let go of its plaintive crying, a single mourning
note echoing down through the jagged crannies of the cliff and dying,
dying. . . gone. Silence, unearthly in the aftermath of such painful
noise, settled over them both.
"Is that. . . it?" asked the young man, eyes scanning the
surrounding dark, only momentarily glancing towards the older man
next to the stone.
"Of course not!" was the snappish response. There was the
sound of a deep breath being taken. "What did I tell you about
interrupting me when I started?"
The fighter nodded. "It's just that I. . ."
And then, before he could complete his sentence, the stone
erupted in scintillating, blinding light. The two men felt a physical
blow slam into their bodies, a concussion of released power from
the now-glowing stone tearing through and past them. The younger
man braced himself for the impact; the older man, closer to the
source, arms already thrown protectively across his eyes, stumbled
backwards. Eyes opened wide in surprise and in disbelief as he
stepped back over the edge of the cliff and found nothing there but
empty space and hungry gravity. His mouth worked soundlessly -- a
cry of 'No!', but inaudible and unheard -- and, arms flailing, he lost
balance and fell sideways.
A sudden snap. Flash of argent rising light and pale moon
off of glistening chain. Tightening of sinew and pulling back against
the pull of the Earth. For a moment the older man hung suspended
over the edge of the cliff, one foot still touching rock, the other
impossibly swinging above nothing, the waves and wind crashing
and howling with increased fervor as if in anger at being denied
their victim. The chain wrapped around his torso ran back to the
young man's hand; with an expert tug on the Kusari-Gama, he pulled
his companion back to safety.
Before any words could be exchanged, there was a second
release of power; better prepared this time, neither fell before the
renewed pulse. This time they could observe the great gout of
primordial energy as it shot from the earth, rising in a shimmering
column towards the sky. And when it reached its apex, behind the
obscuring ceiling of clouds, there was a responding rumble and
shuddering across the entire firmament. Winds rose and rain lashed
horribly against the humans standing firm on the high cliffs. The
man, still tangled in the chain of the fighter's weapon, fell against
the glowing stone, clutching it against the pulling winds.
"It is your turn now!" he yelled, voice somehow carrying
through the howling winds.
The young man nodded once. He tossed the sickle weapon
in his hand aside.
And waited.
From the sky above there was another bone-rattling boom; a
crackling, sparking ball coalesced high above, awful and terrifying
to behold. And then, as if growing multiple jagged arms, it reached
out and touched the ground.
The young man jumped lightly back as electric rain
showered about him, converging and striking six spots in a semi-
circle about him. He realized that, if a semi-circle, then the still-
glowing stone, veins more prominent than ever like some earthly
beating heart, would be its center; he heard his companion return to
his verse, words heard but barely registering as adrenalin coursed
through his body; felt the stinging rain, tugging wind, slight slickness
of the rock and gravel and grass beneath his feet, and adjusted
accordingly; and saw. . .
Saw, as the earth rumbled and ruptured and peeled back
where each heavenly bolt had struck; saw as five faintly glowing
figures rose from earth and set solid foot upon solid earth. Ancient
armor untainted by the rust and decay of ages glistened under the
falling rain; heraldry not seen for nearly two millennia was exposed
to human sight; dark, hard eyes peered with hostility from bearded,
weathered faces. With nary a word swords were drawn and the
five moved forward into aggressive postures.
There was a strange moment of silence as the six combatants
seemed to size each other up, a moment in which even the weather
seemed subdued. A voice sang to them from the stone:
"And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggles and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night."
And then. . .
the battle was joined. . .
and. . .
*** *** *** *** ***
*** *** *** *** ***
. . . Ranma recovered quickly from the teeth-jarring blow to
the back of his head. The howling cyclonic winds on which he
hovered quickly tore the boulder away. He could not afford to
acknowledge the pounding pain in his head, the burning of his skin
as speeding sand and stone tore and flailed him raw; he could not
blink, flinch, turn away: too much was at stake.
With smooth, sure twists and steps he wove his way nearer
his opponent, dodging and ducking wayward stones still caught in
the maelstrom of his own making. The boulders proved more help
than hindrance: as he moved in closer, riding the chunk of rock and
ice he was firmly attached to by his weapon, they provided
extremely good cover. Necessary, too: with a cry of "[onore]", his
foe unleashed two massive blasts of energy, incinerating any and
every rock threatening to the bastard's hide, and coming near to
scorching Ranma's own.
[Ranma says/thinks something of his own.]
[Ranma swoops in, yells out an attack name, whack Saffron
upside the head.]
[He watched as his enemy falls into the centre of the
cyclone.]
"[zamaamiya ga. . .]," exclaimed Ranma, feeling a savage,
bitter pleasure as Saffron disappeared among the violent turbulence
that swirled at the root of the Hiryu Shoten Ha. And then. . .
Ranma eyes widened in disbelief -- and fear -- as unnatural
and terrifying power swelled and ballooned outward from the center
of the tornado. It hungrily consumed the rock and debris still caught
in the winds; and then, after a moment, with a burst and surge of
flame, it collapsed in on itself. Ranma felt himself being drawn in;
a savage blast of flame erupted towards him; only by placing his
crystalline boulder between him and the attack did he manage to
survive. Even then, the heat was painful and raised blisters on his
exposed flesh.
[Saffron, like a phoenix reborn, rises from the flames and the
center of the cyclone.]
[Words are exchanged.]
[Saffron yells out another of those silly mega-attack names.]
The impossible ball of fire loomed before him. He was
frozen. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do
against this kind of power. What was he, who was _he_, to presume
against such raw, primal, elemental power such as _that_?
There was a brief, epiphanic, eternal moment, suspended
between full realization, awareness, and oblivion -- a moment in
which all suddenly became clear, in which, finally, he understood -
- and then. . .
Fire. . .
Burning . . .
Screaming?
With a strangled, startled yelp, Ranma bolted upright in his
bed. The sheets stuck tenaciously to his sweat soaked body; his
heart pounded in his chest, breathing came in rapid gulps of air.
What the hell, he thought, drawing one hand across a clammy brow,
that dream again, that damn, stupid dream.
Only. . . it had never been that vivid before, never that clear,
real, terrifying. That was what was so bad about it: the emotions --
the accuracy. No one knew, he had never admitted to anyone the
fear, the mind-numbing terror he had felt while fighting Saffron. But
-- why the nightmares? Why did it always end at the same place?
Ranma knew what came next, of course. He won. It was
that simple.
And that was six months ago (six months? Already?)! So
why the nightmares, now?
He fell back onto his futon, releasing a sigh. What did it
matter. The vivid feelings of the dream were already fading,
leaving nothing but lingering saltiness on skin, a slight sense of
unease, and an unpleasant taste in his mouth. Hell, it's even time to
get up, he noted, seeing the sun beaming in brightly through the
window. I'm surprised Mom or Pop even let me sleep in this long. . .
Although, he realized, why shouldn't they? Why should he
bother getting up early? Today promised to be an entirely
uneventful day. . .
He sighed.
. . . just like every other day.
*** *** *** *** ***
*** *** *** *** ***
The stone lay a shattered, broken ruin.
Five ancient corpses slowly disintegrated, insatiable time
taking what was properly its own.
Two men walked away from cliff.
The rising sun touched the horizon. Bathed in the light's angry red
hue, the sky seemed streaked with blood, and the ocean filled with its
violent excess.
Continued in:
Let the Curtain Fall, Part One
***
Well. Since I said most of it up top, just a few comments:
The poems the unidentified man recited were:
-Low Tide at Grand Pre, by Bliss Carmen (a Canadian!)
-Dover Beach, by Matthew Arnold
I couldn't dream of writing verse that skilled, so I figure I
better give credit where credit due.
Anyway, again, comments appreciated. I can't say when
Part One itself will actually come out... considering I'm just starting
essay period, probably not for a short bit. But here's hoping it
leaves you at least a bit curious...
(Oh, and does anyone know where I can find a good translation of
that end bit in Volume 38? My Hiragana and Katakana sucks, and I don't
know Japanese beyond a minimalist vocabulary. . .)
Later!
-Mike
***
Homepage and Fanfiction at:
http://aix2.uottawa.ca/~s669330/
E-Mail at:
s669330@aix2.uottawa.ca
***