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A-winnowing we will go
I've decided to do a fairly major downsizing in my LJ, both communities and individuals. My fandom interests have changed somewhat in recent years, and I'm going to go ahead and cut my ties with several entities. If you're an individual on my flist and I cut you and a) you notice b) you care and want to stick around, please just send me a PM and I'll be glad to add you back.
I'm also going to start up a new filter about my original fic. After a few days of mulling things over, I began simply writing on Sunday and as of this morning, basically the whole outline of characters/scenario/plot/limited worldbuilding/religious doctrine (it's integral to the story) has come to me. I'm going to post what I've started out with and feel free to let me know whether or not you'd like to be added to that particular filter. It will be m/m, occasionally explicitly adult, not set in our current world but perhaps in a post-atomic one, and hopefully is original-ish in concept.
For people here for fic, my fanfic will always be unlocked, so please stop by whenever you'd like! I'm probably not writing much of any HP anymore, minimal Tolkien, and some Wraeththu. I'm working on a Hector/Lord John Grey for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
lgbtfest but y'know, as of now I'm really going to put my energies toward this. I'm pretty damn excited, actually. It's nothing like anything I'd been thinking about in my vaguest vague ideas of what to write. *g*
Ilthanon listened to the tolling bells with a heavy heart. He'd been sitting under the shelter of trees, avoiding the rain and wind. There was nothing for it, though; the sheep had to go back.
"Hei! Hei!" he called to them, wrapping his habit closer around him in a futile attempt at warmth. Doggedly he ran around, chastening and encouraging the small flock with his staff, shaking his head like a dog to get the dripping hair out of his eyes. Sheep weren't clever, but neither were they cruel, and he'd grown to appreciate their company.
Brother Milcun appeared on the path, spry and quick despite his years. He took up the herding call and together the two monks guided the animals to their pen without a word spoken to one another. His task complete, Ilthanon ensured the latch on the gate was firmly shut and made his way to the sanctuary. Chants for the [early evening service] had already started, and he slid into his usual place on the floor next to Brother Tsoi. The other monk took no notice of him, which was fine by Ilthanon. He added his reedy voice to the assembly, a song of lamentation.
Ilthanon's mind wandered as it tended to do, and not toward the One, as it should. As the abbott rose and read aloud a poem from one of the mystics, Ilthanon felt the hairs on his skin rise, a sensation that had nothing to do with the breeze that swept the room when a monk later than himself entered the chapel. The mystic wrote of the Beloved as a creature of purifying fire, his hair scarlet, his eyes filled with piteous tears of blood for his shunned flock. For once Ilthanon listened, rapt, sitting ramrod straight on his mat, wanting to memorize every word, the ecstasy of the mystic's vision. Who had written this exquisite rapture? He'd lived at the monastery the entirety of his life, not quite seventeen years. With the certainty of the blood pulsing in his veins, Ilthanon knew he'd never heard the words of such a poet.
You idiot! he berated himself. The one time you should have listened to the abbott, and you were musing about what cheese you hoped would be on the table.
As the assembly walked to their meal, all having made the symbol of redemption on chest and heart, he vowed that he would do what it took to get a copy of that reading, to see with his own eyes the symbols and words that had caused him to shiver as he'd sat, legs crossed underneath him. For the past several nights, he'd dreamed that very vision. They were variations on one theme: the Beloved, or at least a man with hair like fire, and such tender, wounded eyes…
"Ow!"
He was knocked rudely from his reverie as he took a corner too closely and slammed his shoulder against a pillar. Scowling, he rubbed at the spot, his gaze flickering up at the words printed above the archway to the dining hall.
A warm hand rested on his shoulder for a moment, and Ilthanon smiled to himself. All meals were taken in silence, so thanking whichever brother had noticed his awkwardness was a moot point. He held the gesture close for a moment, then let his focus return to other immediate things, like food.
Supper consisted of a hearty, savory fish and rice stew. Ilthanon had to struggle not to gobble it down like an oaf, forcing himself to create a pattern of one spoonful, then a piece of roll, than a sip of wine. After his initial wave of hunger had passed, he let his gaze drift up to the two rows of monks in front of him, all diligently eating in contemplation, and then up to the image of the Beloved on the wall. He was so much an element to this room, to the chapel, even a small representation in his cell above his bed, that Ilthanon had quit noticing. The reading at [evening service] caused him to see Yazdyar with new eyes.
He was ravishing, a terrible beauty. In their dining hall he graced their presence in traditional symbolic pose, hands cradling the chalice that held wine he'd known was poisoned, figurative wings unfurling behind him in resplendent copper. The ground was several inches below his feet; he was too enlightened of spirit for their troubled world and he could not be kept on earth. In his nakedness, he was erotic and companionable love, all in one man.
Self-consciously Ilthanon hunched forward, reminded again of his deformity and how he could never hope to live up to the high — but never punishing — standards set by the One. Calloused fingers tapped the back of his hand, and startled, he snapped his head to the left.
Sorry, the monk signed. There is more soup, if you're still hungry.
Thank you, Ilthanon signed in reply.
As he stood up from the table, he gestured toward the thoughtful brother's bowl. He nodded, bowing his head slightly in gratitude as he handed his bowl to Ilthanon.
And bread too, please.
Ilthanon grinned, and the other monk's face dimpled as he smiled back. Ilthanon was ladling the steaming stew into Brother Lorakos' bowl when he heard a hubbub coming from the interior courtyard. For a moment he was paralyzed with fear, his mind racing to thoughts of his bow, of the poisons and healing tinctures to be protected. No alarm had sounded, however: they weren't under attack. His curiosity burned as he hurriedly ate his second bowl of stew. It took all of his self-control not to sign to Brother Lorakos about whether or not he'd heard the scuffling and raised voices.
Let me know if you want to be on that filter, and no hurt feelings either way. And, of course, initial responses are also welcome!
I'm also going to start up a new filter about my original fic. After a few days of mulling things over, I began simply writing on Sunday and as of this morning, basically the whole outline of characters/scenario/plot/limited worldbuilding/religious doctrine (it's integral to the story) has come to me. I'm going to post what I've started out with and feel free to let me know whether or not you'd like to be added to that particular filter. It will be m/m, occasionally explicitly adult, not set in our current world but perhaps in a post-atomic one, and hopefully is original-ish in concept.
For people here for fic, my fanfic will always be unlocked, so please stop by whenever you'd like! I'm probably not writing much of any HP anymore, minimal Tolkien, and some Wraeththu. I'm working on a Hector/Lord John Grey for
lgbtfest but y'know, as of now I'm really going to put my energies toward this. I'm pretty damn excited, actually. It's nothing like anything I'd been thinking about in my vaguest vague ideas of what to write. *g*Ilthanon listened to the tolling bells with a heavy heart. He'd been sitting under the shelter of trees, avoiding the rain and wind. There was nothing for it, though; the sheep had to go back.
"Hei! Hei!" he called to them, wrapping his habit closer around him in a futile attempt at warmth. Doggedly he ran around, chastening and encouraging the small flock with his staff, shaking his head like a dog to get the dripping hair out of his eyes. Sheep weren't clever, but neither were they cruel, and he'd grown to appreciate their company.
Brother Milcun appeared on the path, spry and quick despite his years. He took up the herding call and together the two monks guided the animals to their pen without a word spoken to one another. His task complete, Ilthanon ensured the latch on the gate was firmly shut and made his way to the sanctuary. Chants for the [early evening service] had already started, and he slid into his usual place on the floor next to Brother Tsoi. The other monk took no notice of him, which was fine by Ilthanon. He added his reedy voice to the assembly, a song of lamentation.
Ilthanon's mind wandered as it tended to do, and not toward the One, as it should. As the abbott rose and read aloud a poem from one of the mystics, Ilthanon felt the hairs on his skin rise, a sensation that had nothing to do with the breeze that swept the room when a monk later than himself entered the chapel. The mystic wrote of the Beloved as a creature of purifying fire, his hair scarlet, his eyes filled with piteous tears of blood for his shunned flock. For once Ilthanon listened, rapt, sitting ramrod straight on his mat, wanting to memorize every word, the ecstasy of the mystic's vision. Who had written this exquisite rapture? He'd lived at the monastery the entirety of his life, not quite seventeen years. With the certainty of the blood pulsing in his veins, Ilthanon knew he'd never heard the words of such a poet.
You idiot! he berated himself. The one time you should have listened to the abbott, and you were musing about what cheese you hoped would be on the table.
As the assembly walked to their meal, all having made the symbol of redemption on chest and heart, he vowed that he would do what it took to get a copy of that reading, to see with his own eyes the symbols and words that had caused him to shiver as he'd sat, legs crossed underneath him. For the past several nights, he'd dreamed that very vision. They were variations on one theme: the Beloved, or at least a man with hair like fire, and such tender, wounded eyes…
"Ow!"
He was knocked rudely from his reverie as he took a corner too closely and slammed his shoulder against a pillar. Scowling, he rubbed at the spot, his gaze flickering up at the words printed above the archway to the dining hall.
- Do not hunger and thirst— feast on me, feathers of my wings.
A warm hand rested on his shoulder for a moment, and Ilthanon smiled to himself. All meals were taken in silence, so thanking whichever brother had noticed his awkwardness was a moot point. He held the gesture close for a moment, then let his focus return to other immediate things, like food.
Supper consisted of a hearty, savory fish and rice stew. Ilthanon had to struggle not to gobble it down like an oaf, forcing himself to create a pattern of one spoonful, then a piece of roll, than a sip of wine. After his initial wave of hunger had passed, he let his gaze drift up to the two rows of monks in front of him, all diligently eating in contemplation, and then up to the image of the Beloved on the wall. He was so much an element to this room, to the chapel, even a small representation in his cell above his bed, that Ilthanon had quit noticing. The reading at [evening service] caused him to see Yazdyar with new eyes.
He was ravishing, a terrible beauty. In their dining hall he graced their presence in traditional symbolic pose, hands cradling the chalice that held wine he'd known was poisoned, figurative wings unfurling behind him in resplendent copper. The ground was several inches below his feet; he was too enlightened of spirit for their troubled world and he could not be kept on earth. In his nakedness, he was erotic and companionable love, all in one man.
Self-consciously Ilthanon hunched forward, reminded again of his deformity and how he could never hope to live up to the high — but never punishing — standards set by the One. Calloused fingers tapped the back of his hand, and startled, he snapped his head to the left.
Sorry, the monk signed. There is more soup, if you're still hungry.
Thank you, Ilthanon signed in reply.
As he stood up from the table, he gestured toward the thoughtful brother's bowl. He nodded, bowing his head slightly in gratitude as he handed his bowl to Ilthanon.
And bread too, please.
Ilthanon grinned, and the other monk's face dimpled as he smiled back. Ilthanon was ladling the steaming stew into Brother Lorakos' bowl when he heard a hubbub coming from the interior courtyard. For a moment he was paralyzed with fear, his mind racing to thoughts of his bow, of the poisons and healing tinctures to be protected. No alarm had sounded, however: they weren't under attack. His curiosity burned as he hurriedly ate his second bowl of stew. It took all of his self-control not to sign to Brother Lorakos about whether or not he'd heard the scuffling and raised voices.
Let me know if you want to be on that filter, and no hurt feelings either way. And, of course, initial responses are also welcome!