View Full Version : The Flowers They Wither (Solo)
The Flowers They Wither (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3QC2av7-_Ik)
I fall, I falter, I wither and die,
These are the sorrows I see with my eye.
I hate, I embrace, I cry and relate,
These are the musings of me and my fate.
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1874
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I walk, I tumble, I run and canter,
These are the tales of love and of skies.
I fall, I falter, I wither and die,
These are the sorrows I cause with my lies.
When I was a little girl, I vaguely remember a small village, buried away in obscurity and hidden from the world. It was a place nestled between high cliffs and behest at the head of a great river, which flowed all the way from the icy peaks of the northern rim, to the southern sea of the distant horizon.
Whenever I was angry, bored, confused, or bridled with the awakening glory of first love, I would cross the river and climb the far rise. For hours I would think to myself what wonders the world held, what discoveries still remained ahead of me, and climb. The winding path beat out of the forest canopy just before it reached the top and curved in on itself. From that snaking incline I witnessed the entire world I knew, not seeing beyond the red rock and martyr-like guardians who kept us away from the horrors my grandparents spoke of only in their dreams, or to hurry the children inside after dark.
The crystalline river and the far-reaching cry of the eagles overhead were majestic. I would bait my breath every time I began my climb, slowly reaching fever pitch as I broke out into daylight, a bundle of thorns, torn stitches and pig-tails; a princess skipping to survey her kingdom in all its radiance. Only at that point would the guilt would catch up, and I would succumb to the realisation that I had scorned my way of life for the selfish indulgences I craved. As the sun curved in the sky and began its descent, I would catch a glimpse of the red valley’s far wall ablaze with the evening light. Then I would scamper down like a gazelle to return home innocently in time for the warding bell to ring, and for the grownups to round in their flock for evening meals.
It has taken me too long to remember where home was, what home was; if it is a notion, a place, bricks and mortar or senses and smells. Twenty years is a long time to forget your origins, and I am still saddened now to think of that smiling little girl, and to compare her to the empty shell of a woman she has become today. How can I have been humbled so much by the simplest of things then, if I am craven and hallowed and forever found wanting for riches and desires now? When did I, Ruby La Roux, Miss Delacroix and Lady of Scara Brae, abandon my dreams and my morals? When did I barter my soul for gold and for flowers?
Home is a curious creature, one which is difficult to hunt and trap if ever it eludes you once. Slowly but surely I have remembered, remembered smells, faces, names...I fear I will never return to the valley, nor will I ever stand on the edge of the cliff and look across the earth-scar with more experienced eyes. We are given one chance in life, and the decision we make at that critical moment will stick to us like the destitution of a slum, or the aching agony of a love lost to the forlorn flow of life. How I long to return to that simplicity, that homely hearth, that bloom-laden meadow.
Home is where the heart is, or so they say. If that is the case, then I wonder sometimes why I bothered trying to recall my birthplace. It all got washed away so quickly when I was whisked away to the city, all my life was cast aside, I was to be ‘born again’ as a citizen of the Scara Brae family La Roux. My mother no doubt sold me, under the guise and promise of giving me a better chance than she or any of the other villagers had. Maybe that was the case, but I feel short changed and bereft of the opportunity to have made that decision on my own.
Our farmstead was at the bottom of the slope, the village being on one side of the valley, rising up from the fields and farmlands at its base, to the village market and church at the top. The tall spire of the worship hall cast its needle down across the houses, and acted as a sundial to tell the time to all; the sun was eternally shining in the valley.
Standing at the gate to the garden, I can recall the rose privet hedges and the gravel path which wound up through the herb garden and small lawns to the front door. The wood was painted green, and it had a simple brass knocker, shaped like a bird, perhaps an eagle. Lavender wafted through the morning air, and jasmine scent and geraniums settled on the lung in the chilly evening calm, forever cascading guests and kin alike with a torrent of flowers. The thatch on our roof was long perished, and each year we would all help to put on a new layer, beating it down at first, and then latching on whatever remnants of the autumn harvest remained.
As soon as you stepped through the door you were greeting by a large open plan first floor, going off to the left and right like a rectangle. The kitchen, little more than a collection of cupboards and worktops around a large oaken table was on a raised end of the house to the left, which curved slightly and came out over the incline of the hill. Before the door were a large rug and a collection of chairs around a simple fire place large enough to stand in. To the right was the under croft, our few meagre books and cushions and toys – a place for the children to lock themselves away in an imaginary world in the cold winter nights.
The wooden stairs arced left and right up from the circular central entrance, and gave birth to two overhead platforms, casting their beams down into the ground floor’s stone base. To the right, curtained off to allow for parental privacy, was my mother and father’s quarters. The left stairs, above the kitchen and with its own balcony and great dome in the roof, the children slept and huddled on a collection of rickety beds and chests. It was a large house, by any standards, but sparsely decorated and very much a working home. Hoes, rakes, spades and all manner of gardening equipment was hanging from every available wall space, nestled in between the occasional faded picture of a false landscape, or a family portrait of a relative anyone could scarcely remember.
It was sometimes a sad place for children, but in between the chores, the farming, the winter balls and the barn dances, we endeavoured to carve our own little niche into the Scara Brae wilderness, endeavoured in all our hard work to ensure our future. What we had was very little, but all the same, I miss it so.
The farm house was called Croft Dale, its moss covered walls and web-enshrouded shed was for us, a little piece of heaven at the edge of nowhere. The gardens teetered off into wilderness either side, and the gate gave way to two large meadows which were for our small-holding’s livestock to graze upon. Crossing these grass and pollinated landscapes, a small and curious mind would find oneself on the bank of the great river, and be struck in awe by its mighty and eternally white rapids. No matter how curious and brave I was, to go off up to the cliff tops all by myself, I never dared venture beyond the edge of the shore. I would find my toes scrunching the first dry rocks and pebbles with furtive impatience every time I drew near, as if an invisible force blocked my path.
Leaving the house from the small door in the kitchen, and waltzing through the tree covered yard where we cut fire wood and kept our plough, you’d break out onto another large band of earth. It curved around the back of the farm, and was the last part of our fiefdom before the tall hedges of dense evergreen foliage gave way to the open road and the first row of houses.
The Village was called Able-on, in the local variation of common, Albion perhaps to those who live in the cities. It was named after an ancient fable heard long ago by a Wiseman, and passed down through the generations of our forefathers until it reached my ears. I guess in some weird way, the village did indeed resemble a small island of united, but very much different peoples. There were trades, scattered in between the houses on carts, stalls and some, who were more fortunate, inside their own shop fronts and workshops.
Pastor Jameson used to walk the streets and lanes between the village and the outer farms preaching his ways, welcoming visitors whenever they happened upon us, and giving advice and gifts to the children as they played. Jenny, the Milk Maid, always passed me at sundown as I came back from my adventures, two buckets of milk slung over each shoulder in time to be delivered to the Church for the evening churn. Peter the Butcher would always be whistling in his shop, a pitch that could be heard along the dusty line and in the surrounding houses.
Red brick mirrored the red walls of the valley, as if the village had sprung up from an earthquake’s rubble long ago. Thatch was common, but every now and then there would be a newer house, one with a wooden roof with slate clad over the gaps to allow the rain, when it came in its horrid own season, to slip and slide down out of harm’s way.
In many ways it resembled a small glimpse of Scara Brae herself; a small mirror scaled down to harmonise with nature. Each night I dream of skipping and laughing with the other children, dancing through the streets frolicking and guffawing. But these memories are fleeting, and it has taken me a long time to piece together even this much. I have begun to question them, test their strengths. Do I long to have a home, to have had a family – so much so that I create an illusion in my mind?
Does The Aria answer my dreams with a figment of another world or a story given life, tantalising me with what was once or what could be? All I know is that when I hear Duffy’s voice, or smell cinnamon in the air, the simple rural life of Albion comes flooding back, as if I were there yesterday, as if I were a little girl again.
My father always used to tell me that I would never amount to nothing. He used to explicitly state that I would be ‘as useless as my mother.’ I cannot blame him for holding the same bigoted views as the rest of society, but it took a great deal of time and courage for me to attempt to bond with him. He was a distant soul, a bearded patriarch of the family homestead, who constantly smelt of hay and mud and the other world bearing scents of a working farm. He was well known in the village, and well respected as a contributor to the Albion community. As he ambled along on worn shoes and fraying trouser hems, nods and the removal of hats would follow in his wake, and even the Pastor would bow and give curtsy almost to the ancient oak that waddled by.
Even though he was always very distant and cold to me, I remember one summer he brightened up. For some reason, with his other sons gone to war or whilst they were out in the harvest fields, he took it upon himself to direct his love at me. He asked me where I would like to go, and without thinking, I bounded down the meadow to the river, and we walked along the crystalline beach towards the winding path that ascended the cliff face. We talked for hours as we climbed through the sun kissed pine slants and the long winding meadows that separated the eagle heights from the village, about dreams and hopes and mother and son.
I do not think that I ever got to speak or see father in such a light again. It was a once in a lifetime glimpse of the unthinkable, and I regret not taking the time to remember it more amidst all the drudgery I seem to have recalled. When we stepped out onto those cliff faces, and the wind carried away our voices to distant lands, it was as if the heavens had spoken and father and daughter connected on an unseen level. He spoke of his own youth, how he had climbed the same path with his own siblings and they had spent hours and days play fighting and exploring this unseen kingdom. It was their private little Radasanth, a big city without the smell and the noise. He was king and they his disciples.
It was this last moment together that my father no doubt remembers to this day. The summer after, on the cusp of winter, I was sold to the noble houses of distant Scara Brae to allow the family’s ailing finances time to recover. I would be debuted in their society as the daughter and acquaintance of the Gregory household, and I would forget all my past years in the ‘rural squalor,’ as the rude gentleman in the ivory suit had commanded. I will never forget the look on my mother’s face as my father took the sack of coin from the lawyer, and I was marched away in the dead of the night, the cold rain plastering my hair on my face and dredging my pinafore with cold and foreboding ill. Betrayal is best served from within, but I look out across the village now, my father’s beard and stomach protruding into my vision with a familiar and comforting memory.
We all have to do what we have to do to protect our families…even if it means making sacrifices.
My memories of my mother are sparser still than those of my father. I recall three distinct facts that help me form a picture of her in my mind to keep the fire alive and the spirit of her progenitor strong. I wish one-day to be able to form it fully, and bring her to life in my mind to remind me of where I'm from.
I remember her hair, which was more crimson than mine and glowed in the sun and the winter alike. She kept it immaculate, brushed it daily if not hourly and often had it tied back in a cloth or ribbon. I don't, however, remember if she too had feathers in her hair, of if my own curious trait is born of my bond to The Aria. If I were ever to see her again, it would be my first question - "Are you a spell-singer too mummy?" Someone to validate my insecurities beyond rambling at Lillith would bring the world to life, bring the walls down, bring the fire home...
I remember her smile, an infectious thing indeed. Whenever I was sad, with bruised knees or a broken heart, she would look at me, stroke my hair, smile, and suddenly the whole world seemed okay again. She would gull me into a false sense of security, and then send me off to bring in the fire wood or to fetch a pale of water from the well at the centre of the village.
I remember her voice, which is a curious thing to recall so clearly, when the rest of the village took so long to reform. Albion is on Scara Brae, so it's drawl is a yokel dialect of our very own city's twang. It's almost indistinguishable, and you'd be hard pushed to tell the difference between someone from Albion and someone say, from the Numarr Slums. It rings out in my dreams, even if her face is obscured or eternally changing, I know in my heart that she is a kind, caring person, with a soothing voice and a soothing aura to calm knock kneed daughters and wayward sons into obedience and love.
There is a fire in my heart, burning for love and passion.
I never sought it, it did not come to find me, and it simply burst into life without question or permission.
Sometimes I think I was always meant to feel this way, yet others make me regret embracing the flames with such wanton, reckless abandon. Who am I to throw a life’s work to the winds in search of a moment’s fleeting and dispossessed glory?
I am nobody.
Yet, each morning, when I awake and arrive at the same teary eyed conclusion, I spend the day rediscovering just how beautiful love can be. Even if such love is the blazon and reckless and dangerous kind it is worthwhile and full of wonderment. The sort which corrupts and taints the star crossed lovers in a cliché befitting a mediocre tragedy.
I guess now, with the winds changing direction and life coming full-circle to face the troupe against its greatest enemy, I will never get to speak my mind nor act on my fancies.
Sometimes I think I am in love with nothing more than my own shadow, the idea of solitude and longing and wanting.
That is Lucian’s greatest victory over all of us.
My name is Ruby La…
My name is Delilah Burton. I was born five centuries ago to a tyrant of shadow and an angel of song, torn apart from their nightmare by a realisation and a strong willed woman. There are few people in the world who know her name, fewer still that would recognise it today.
Her name was Celia Burton, protean of Marwick Rheilhand and descendant of the Magnarion Household. I detail these names to gather evidence in my mind against Wainwright Jones, hoping to outline the various ways in which he has hurt us to chronicle the fall of his nightmare over Scara Brae.
Truth be told, I am almost certain that my mother and Wainwright leaved one another once. Together they upheld the same dichotomy and talent I and Duffy do now, but jealousy grew in his heart whenever another man looked at her. This was a deadly state of affairs for a leading lady to find herself in.
One night, bereft of any choice my mother fled.
Many years later, in tears and rage, Wainwright discovered a letter behind a portrait in the Prima Vista and mistook my mother’s letter to me, for a goodbye letter or suicide note from her to him.
That mistake started the circumstances leading to our conclusion.
Dearest Ruby,
I have tried to find the answers, to these many, many questions. But each step I take to coming closer to the truth, I cannot help but find myself taking two steps back. I am faced, or should I say that I believe I am faced, with an inhospitable incompatibility with the world in which I have found myself alive. I am grateful for this gift, yes; do not allow yourself to mistake this seeming apathy with nihilistic glee. I want to feel, I want to discover, but the society in which we live hinders those who deem themselves fit to explore the wider environ.
Never leave the village, even if your father makes you.
I think that I should take the steps upon the ladder of life, ensure my place, take hold of my lot and contemplate which rung I wish to settle upon. I am faced with as many choices as you, your neighbor, your friend, but where I seem to differentiate between the two, is the order of events and the way in which, so far, they have unfolded.
I wish to coagulate this seeping, aching wound. I wish to bathe and dress it so that I can move on, and the way in which I can accomplish this, I have to yet to discover. So I guess, in seeking the truth of life, I have discovered that the truth itself is not where I am at a loss, but the truth in myself. If I can discover this, then I will, or so I hope, and hope beyond all measure, find myself again.
Look at my life, and you will see no difference, except perhaps momentary weakness bound in the passing of a short lived, over-matured youth. I do not think so highly of myself to think that I am more mature in my outlook than those I have befriended, but, I see myself as more mature than I should be, giving account to that which has happened, and that which I have been witness to thus far.
I guess, in some small way, I am trying to give myself a goal in life to which I can dedicate myself. It is something we all should possess, not dreams, dreams are for fools, but a goal; a driving force beyond the mundane orientation that is the day to day. Mine, in reflection of the above, is to discover. To discover the true extent of the world, to discover science, to discover the absence of a need of religion, to discover the principles of light, love, learning and loathing.
I will see you again someday in Scara Brae...
It may seem like I simply wish to live, but that and what I wish for are two separate directions. I want to learn why, not when, and I wish to know what, instead of whom. I wish to learn the greater meanings behind the words I speak, to learn why humanity reacts to its own invention with such absconded passion. How, and how alone, can one soul create such an influential footprint, as to leave mutterings of their existence for hundreds, if not thousands of years within the hallowed halls of human existence?
Legacy. That is the word. I wish to leave a legacy, but, in light of my current tradition and moral dilemma, I wish not for a legacy of flesh, but a legacy of intellect. Somehow, somewhere and place on this Earth I wish to be remembered. Be that legacy a book, or a paper, or a conditional cure, I do not know or care, I wish for it simply to be, and to that end I will dedicate myself with such devotion, that faith can have and will not have hold over me.
I read back over this, and I well with embarrassment. Not for the pomposity or for the emotions such angered dwellings instil in this fake, shattered weakness. But, and I shy at the thought, because I don’t feel that there is another soul I know, another one I can communicate so openly with, that will understand what it is that I am trying to say and in the way that I am saying it. Perhaps it is a self inflicted exile?
All my life I have confounded my expression into a method of ‘numbing-down,’ and I am sick of it. I am sick of expressing myself and finding my expressions questioned, not for their semantic coil, but for their simplistic, linguistic nature. Of course, humanity is such a thing that communication is conducted on so many disparaging levels that it can only be a case of time before one level must adapt to another. But in the same why that I would not wish my friends to adapt to my morality, my methods, I should not have to bear witness to their own lack of vocabulary.
I love you, my daughter.
Another turn in this tale, is that I should not see myself dead with such people; that is what you were thinking, is it not? I would agree with you, if it were not for the part where friends are not chosen, they are given, and time solders such a relationship until betrayal shatters those concrete bonds. I wish that I could, and I mean no disrespect to those people I know, and on some unknown level love, just leave. Find a way, and a way that is permanent, to simply go. To make a life for myself from the ruins of my own damnation. I cannot without severing all ties, immobilising contact with my family, and severing country loyalties. This is my ultimate dream, the purest shaping of fear within the Fear that conquers all.
I will go, everything I am working towards now, or should I say, I cannot not go, or my goal cannot ever truly be fulfilled. I will one day, pack my bags, say my muted goodbyes, and run. I will find myself on the farthest sure, with no notion or deceit in my eyes. There I will be made, or be unravelled, and the truest test of all, for me, will begin.
That test, is to resist making the return journey prematurely. A test of will, against emotion, to erase what I have created, to not fall for the same old sordid ploys of cons and fluttering, to damn them all to hell, and make my legacy. Selfish? Yes. Puerile? Yes. But then you and I must ask ourselves, when I am ready to return, not through weakness but through revelation, will I have changed and become that which I am truly meant to, and will you all be stuck in this same corrupted lifestyle? Will you have allowed your own failings to bind, consume and utterly destroy you? Will I have evolved too much to be able to become part of this Old World once more?
Then, look in the mirror, and ask yourself, is it I who is too philosophical, open, spiritual and lust laden? Or is it you who is too grounded in the blandness of your reality…? Should I condemn myself for wanting more, in a world of plenty? Should I ignore these thoughts, only to die in obscurity? Only time will tell, and now I must buy my ticket, so see you on the dock beyond the mists of the ocean.
Yours eternal,
Celia.
I realise now, that in the secretly hiding the letter behind the portrait in the Prima Vista, I planted a seed of coincidence in Lucian's mind. A doubt that is the key principle factor in his anger, in his personal vendetta against the Troupe, as opposed to a simple settling of ego with Tantalus...
I strive now to fight, to correct my wrong doings, to prove to the villagers of the landscape in my mind that I believe in them, that I believe in the idea of freedom and glory and honesty.
Ruby sighed and set the quill back into it's ink well. She had been writing her memoirs for most of the afternoon, and her arms had gone through tiredness, hell and back again in the process. She glanced out of the window of her town house and admired the sun's halcyon corona as it threatened to snub itself out behind the zig zag line of the cityscape's horizon. She guessed from that alone that dinner would soon need to be prepared, and that her efforts to put her memories to paper before they dissipated once more would have to wait, at least until the morning.
"No rest for the wicked," she smiled. The sound of her chair scraping along her chamber's wooden floorboards broke the silence she had worked in for many an hour, and she ascended daintily to her feet. With a delicate motion she closed the leather bound tome, closed the clasp and pocketed the small silver key between her bosoms for safe keeping.
She turned her back on her work and clinked across to the door, a mass of bangles, straps and hard worn cloth. With Lucian gone, the months had simply flown by and she had settled back into the old ways of the troupe with relative ease. Her husband, after much protestation had taken her back; that was a mercy she was most pleased to be dealt. She had turned him away to fight a war he could not understand, and he had taken her back into his life without even flinching. What lay ahead for the troupe, she could not possibly guess, but Duffy no doubt had a plan for them even now.
Acting, without a doubt, writing, most likely...arguing? Well, she was the red-headed and fiery tempered matriarch of the troupe in appearance and demeanour. Fun times, lots of gin drinking, and of course, plenty of cucumber sandwiches. For a brief moment, the secret she had kept from Duffy for three years surfaced. It pushed against the lock that kept it hidden away in the ageing pages, and reminded Ruby that she had been as much to blame for he troupe's losses to Lucian as Duffy, or Lysander, or any one of their past lives.
Though she had forgiven Duffy for his underhand dealings, she knew Duffy would never forgive her if he knew it was her selfish act that concealed the truth of the letter she kept in her diary from him. Perhaps with time, she thought to herself, leaving her chamber and pulling the door to with a gentle click. She could hear the servants busying to and fro between the porcelain room and the kitchen below, faint taps of heels on cold stone and hushed hurried commands barked to and fro.
For now, as she ventured down into domestic bliss, she reminded herself that no matter how beautiful the garden of the mind...the flowers will always wither. Secrets always surface like weeds, and people suffer the sight of illness and lies. "I will face those troubles like I have all the others," she declared, sliding down the long staircase in a wave of airs and graces. "I will keep the memories of Albion alive in my mind, where they can sing and dance and laugh with all the other worlds that threaten to spring into life..."
Spoils:
The Second Note: The second part of a new song has formed in Ruby's mind. From the kindling of the shield to defend her life against Lucian, to the sanctuary and solace the shield creates to hide her away from the lies she has created to live her life, it is forming on the tip of her tongue and requires one more moment of emotion to be formed as a whole and usable ability. It will therefore require one more spoil, to gain the Crescendo, before being utilised outside of solos.
The Hubris Of Truth: Ruby now knows that her mother, through some inexplicable and unexplainable magic born of The Aria, is non other than Celia Burton, the spell-singer and heroine of the civil war. She knows now that she and Duffy are somehow tied together more strongly in mutual fates than she could ever have imagined, and she is beginning to understand that she and Duffy are to somehow mimic their former selves through the echoes of history, to defeat their foe together. As such, she has developed a profound resilience against terror, fear, and death. She has below average feign persona/attitude when faced with this emotions and the creatures that possess them; she knows with a secret smile that some things can never interfere with Destiny, and that they will not end her life until her task on this world is complete.
The International
05-14-11, 02:17 AM
First things first. I have been following your writing for some time now and it’s nice to be able to comment on it today. PM me if you have any specific questions or comments about what I’ve scored.
Plot Construction 18/30
First off I can see why you decided to request a condensed rubric. A story like this doesn’t need the full scores especially since something like Strategy isn’t really relevant. You did well to create a rising/falling action, and the climax was there. The setting was artistic and vivid. I just think the order of Ruby’s recollection could have been a) rearranged to fit a certain order or b) clarified by giving a reader at least a broad sense of how long ago these things happened.
Characterisation 20 /30
I felt like a psychiatrist listening to patient… in a good way! This patient was slowly but surely discovering her emotional core and a critical part of her identity right before my eyes and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Continuity wise, there were was one time I had to go back to some previous stories of yours to find out what was going on. Someone new to the site may have had a hard time getting what happened before this journal entry of Ruby’s.
Writing Style 19 /30
Good vocabulary, good fundamental use of literary devices. One or two misses in your spelling and grammar, but not enough to really bring the hammer down. However, clarity could be improved by what I stated above in your Plot Construction.
Wildcard: 7/10
The emotional escalation made this an enjoyable thread for me to read. It didn't need the traditional hack and slash of most Althanas threads and I applaud you for that. I just think you had a little more room than you think you had to keep the reader informed.
Total: 64 / 100
Ruby La Roux receives 768 exp.
All spoils granted.
Silence Sei
05-28-11, 12:20 AM
GP-EXP Added.
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