September 7, 2015 at 9:21 am (Amanda Kear, Aruna, Bewitchments, Cobweb, Death, Galhea, Short, Terzian, Varr)
By Amanda Kear
Characters: Mengk/Terzian, Cobweb
Word Count: 3127
Spoilers: The Bewitchments of Love and Hate
Summary/Author’s Note: I was intrigued as to who Mengk was and how he ended up looking after Terzian.
Disclaimer: The world of Wraeththu belongs to Storm Constantine.
Lord Terzian was dead.
Mengk sat on the bare, scorched earth where the pyre had been. The smell of charcoal was in the air, and nothing but that remained of his Lord. The fire had been encouraged to burn fiercely – hotter than any wood fire had a right to burn – and no fragments remained. No hunks of charred wood, no cremated bone, not even the metal of a ring or belt buckle. There had been ash of course; the flaking residue of flesh and bone indistinguishable from that of timber or clothing. Yet that was now gone as well. Cobweb had taken the scant handfuls left from the fire’s hunger, powdered them in his hands and had thrown them one by one into the wind. All that was Terzian erased from existence by the breeze.
His Lord’s family had ordered the huge pyre to be constructed in the farmland out beyond Galhea. Mengk had thought at first that choice of location might be to permit all the hara of the town to attend the funeral, but that was not the case. The mourners were few: Terzian’s blood relatives, his consort, a few house hara and some high-ranking soldiers who had remained with the garrison at Galhea. Of course, there was that one Gelaming there too – he might call himself Seel har Griselming, but he was of the Gelaming mould and mindset. So a Gelaming was permitted to be present, yet of the ordinary hara that Terzian had ruled, and the rank and file of the army that he had commanded, there were none.
No, the location of the pyre had not been chosen to celebrate Terzian’s life, but because the place was isolated and undistinguished. There was to be no memorial to his lord. No gravestone, no statue, no plaque. Terzian was to be quietly forgotten. The Gelaming had no doubt insisted upon it. That seemed to be their style; to edit the universe and the hara in it until they conformed to the Gelaming ideal of perfection. Terzian’s name would undoubtedly be erased from history as smoothly as those of the myriad human rulers and warriors that Wraeththu had already forgotten.
Mengk would never forget. His grief was raw and sharp and burned as hot as the flames of the pyre. Every day he would remember Terzian’s name.
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April 12, 2011 at 8:46 am (Abrimel, Abuse, Aleeme, Bewitchments, Enchantments, Fulfilments, Gelaming, Ghosts, Immanion, Long, Pell, Ponclast, Shades, Varr, Wraiths, youcantseeus)
Title: Sharpened Silk
Author: youcantseeus (firstname.lastname@example.org)
Characters: Ponclast, Aleeme, Abrimel, Pellaz
Summary: Thirty years after the horrors that Aleeme experienced at Fulminir, he seeks out Ponclast. Ponclast POV. (Ponclast/Aleeme, Abrimel/Aleeme).
Spoilers: Books 1-6. Also, possibly Paragenesis.
Word Count: 9000
Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of Wraeththu or any of the characters in this fic.
Warnings: Not a piece of rape fiction by any means, but there is a lot of discussion of pelki/rape. Self-mutilation. Ponclast POV.
Author’s Note: I’ve been working on this piece for a little while — it won’t leave my brain. Darker than some of my other stuff, but with an introspective bent that makes me fairly satisfied with the outcome. Reviews of all types are loved.
Most days, I possess something resembling happiness.
I have so little and what I do own is granted by the grace of the Tigron. Several years ago, he deemed me fit to occupy the earthly realm. This does not mean that I was given my freedom – there are guards at my gates and watchers scouring my every thought for the slightest signs rebellion. But the Tigron gave me a cottage in the woods, far away from other hara, where I could meditate on my wrongs and spend time with my chesnari. I think that Pellaz did it more for Abrimel than for me.
This afternoon is like most and I go to my attic study to work on my memoirs. Writing memoirs preoccupies most first generation hara of importance. I am no longer important, but I was once and the ability to write about my life has not been stripped from me. On days when I feel rage, I find writing easy and my scribblings are full of angry recriminations and bitter regrets. However, my time in another realm imparted some level of calm to my being and on days when this is my dominate mood, I mostly stare out the small attic window. Our cottage sets on top of a hill and I should be able to see the surrounding forest, but the window is positioned so that I only see blue-gray sky unless I climb onto a chair.
I am still in prison.
I am staring out the window at that blue sky when there is a knock at the door. “Enter,” I say.
Abrimel comes in. This surprises me because my chesnari usually spends his afternoons in study. In many ways, the lonely, academic lifestyle suits him more than it does me. I enjoy gaining knowledge, but only as precursor to action. Abrimel loves reading, learning things about different tribes – so different from the typical Gelaming aristocrat who doesn’t want to learn about any tribe but his own.
“Somehar is here,” he says.
I give him a wan smile and he walks behind me to put his arms around my shoulders, a comfortably intimate gesture. There is a rumor going around Immanion that the Tigron comes to me for advice. For this reason, Gelaming aristocrats occasionally pay off my guards so they can get some advice of their own – normally about their inane love lives. The truly depressing fact about all this is that I am glad for the distraction.
“Did you tell him I wasn’t a seer?” I ask. Lately, they’ve gotten it into their heads that I can predict their futures. I am not a seer, though I can occasionally predict what might happen through common sense and a realistic view of harish nature.
“I told him,” Abrimel says. “He’s still there.”
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August 21, 2009 at 11:58 pm (Aruna, Bewitchments, Cobweb, Enchantments, Forever, Ithiel, Kakkahaar, Lianvis, Megalithica, Short, Sulh, Thevina, Varr)
Desert’s Fierce Kiss
by Thevina (email@example.com)
Summary: Potentially set canonically at some point not quite a decade post-Bewitchments, Lianvis visits Forever (in search of Ulaume) and spends some memorable time with Cobweb.
Author’s Notes: Written for Gingerspark (former Niennaainur), who requested this pairing.
“So. How long before the scorpions arrive?” Cobweb asked, picking up a cup of tea with steady hands.
Ithiel raised a tawny eyebrow. “A few days yet. Our scouts intercepted them on the very southern borders. Their leader is with them.”
Cobweb shuddered, gooseflesh washing along his forearms despite being covered by layers of silk. “Him,” he muttered, looking into the cup all at once to see if there were messages to be read, but the leaves were silent. “Why did he come?”
“He didn’t say much to the patrol.” Ithiel gave Cobweb a sympathetic look. “Lianvis, much like you, is a force unto himself. We are allies, as you know.”
“We’re overrun,” Cobweb snapped. “I’ll be courteous. I always am, even when— after all that… Gelaming,” he finally concluded with a venomous hiss.
“I believe he’s coming because he’s looking for someone. A har that used to be close to him but vanished a few years ago. He hadn’t been told about Terzian’s death, so now he wishes to give his condolences in person on top of his true purpose.”
Cobweb fixed his old friend with a brittle stare. “I can’t imagine that desert sorcerer could miss anything going on in his tribe, much less an actual har.”
Ithiel took a deep breath and let it out again, his gaze flitting around until it alighted on a bottle of sheh. “I’m only telling you what’s been told to me.” With an agile hand he poured himself a drink and helped himself to two green olives from a plate sitting between them.
“Thank you for that,” Cobweb said gloomily. “At least Swift and Azriel aren’t here.”
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January 27, 2009 at 10:11 pm (Aruna, Cal, Enchantments, Forever, Galhea, Megalithica, Short, Terzian, Thevina, Varr)
Terzian readies himself for the hunt.
This is just a tiny ficlette exploring the idea of Terzian seeing himself in his more soume role, given a fair amount of sheh before he goes to seduce Cal in Enchantments. A few pages before this scene, Cal somewhat disgustedly tells Pell: “All those female bits lurking inside you, where you can’t see them, where you can forget them: but they’re there!” When Terzian appears at that fateful dinner, Pell notes he’s been drinking and that’s chilling because it means he’s no longer in control of himself. I interpreted that to mean Terzian had accidentally let his more soume parts loose now that he’s not in control.
Rose petals. Proud, seductive flesh that shivers with power. They surround a tantalysing core; satiny soldiers defending its treasure. Vulnerabilities, and guerdons, these must never be unguarded, any leader or general knows that.
Terzian’s imagination is a lambent feast— he drinks more sheh as his fingers drift along the crimson sentries of the flowers on his dressing table. He’s had one of the house-hara come by to oil and brush his hair until it gleams like the pelt of a lioness. He’d had his eyes lined with indigo kohl, so subtle as to be almost unnoticeable — Terzian is no progenitor — but it highlights the cerulean of his eyes. Hara quake under his unrelenting gaze: in fear; in thrall; in adoration. There is one tonight whom he plans to ensnare with his eyes, an arrogant buck Terzian will wile into his bed, and keep him there…
He licks his lips and lifts his chalice, its delicate silver scrollwork pleasing to him. The sheh warms him. It unbinds the lurking yannic coils wound tightly far within the lush caverns of his being. Terzian is not currently restricted by his role of commandant, nor is he coarsened, out in the wilds of Galhea. He can luxuriate in curvaceous calfskin, adorn himself with onyx rings that shine dully as he strokes the hard planes of his chest. A low purr of pleasure escapes his lips when he tugs on the silver adornment which pierces a bared and hardened nipple. He laughs, a low sound of yearning in his throat. He’s not unleashed this power in an eternity; its source the serpenmolten throb pulsing from the cosmos deep between his legs. Terzian’s long stalk, encased in clinging leather, grows at the thought. With a growl, he drops his boots to the floor and stands, taking a last look at himself in the mirror before going to the dining room.
Sleek and strong, a sedutrix. It is the privilege of Wraeththu, though he almost never surrenders to it. Only that One could draw it out; his silent challenge through cavalier daring, his pouts, the exquisite fuck yous behind the batting of violet eyes.
Terzian smiles ferally at himself and rakes his fingers through his hair. He turns to toss back the last of his sheh and strides, a pantherine, to retrieve his prey.