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sga_flashfic2007-01-31 09:48 pm
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Entry tags:
How the Wraith stole their second life, by riva_today (Folklore challenge)
Title: How the Wraith stole their second life
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
riva_today
Rating: G
Pairing: none
Length: ~900 words
Summary: Every culture has their stories of how things came to be.
How the Wraith stole their second life
Among the Ancestors were many wise men and women, and their ways were beyond ours. But, as even you know, child, the noonday sun with all its radiance still casts a shadow. For some among them were not content to strive for wisdom and yearn for knowledge (as we all should, and mind you heed your lessons, child), and those proud ones reveled in their secret darkness, even as they sang the hymns of serenity among their fellows. Now, you have heard before of the great city of the Ancestors, their shining city of Atalantë, and how she had fallen. That is the end of this story, and I shall not be telling it today; today I tell the beginning, of how the Wraith stole their second life.
Second? Yes, second. Even the Wraith owned their own first life, it was the second that was stolen, and every one since. Now, in that time before fear, there were Ancestors who held themselves above their sisters, and scorned their brothers. They were not the wisest of their people, but they knew enough to not show their hatred freely. As the tseen gather in the dank places under rocks, these dark-hearted Ancestors came together on a planet far from Atalantë. It is said that even the Ring, instead of gathering the blue of the sky and clean water, filled with blood on that far-away world because of its shame at having borne them there.
They bent that world to their will quickly, but one day a lowly stone turned under the foot of one of the exiles. She fell, and cried out to those walking with her, for her leg was broken. Each one she she reached to turned away because she was no longer perfect as they were. This was the evil of those Ancestors, who are not of my family, or yours, or any you will know: They turned away from her and denied her their gift. Ah yes, their gift. As I said, their ways are not ours. The Ancestors were blessed with the gift of healing. With the touch of a hand, they could mend grave wounds, and some say even drive away death. But not here; the woman died.
So it continued. The exiles withheld their gift from each other. Another, and another, were left neglected, spurned by those they had called their friends and lovers. Such death had never before been seen among the Ancestors, until one day a man stepped forward and asked how the others could tolerate such a waste of life. A crowd gathered, and as he implored them to listen, they all scoffed. They are worth nothing! the crowd cried. Then give them to me! the man replied. And so, all the dying, all the sick, all the unwell, were left on his doorstep. The man was soon overwhelmed. He was not a kind man--he had chosen exile just as the others had, child--, but he was practical. He chose those he called most valuable and worked and worked. He was only one man, however, and there were many. His labors were futile. All those who had been left to him died.
And now little one, listen, because it grows late, and the fire dim. One day a sickly child was left at his door. He himself was beginning to waste away, for the others had spurned him, and he had no company but the dying. He picked up the child, intending to leave it with the others that had been discarded. The man paused as he felt the child's heart flutter under his hand. He was a practical man, and he knew he was dying. He spread his hand wide on the small chest and thought. Perhaps a young one would be easier, and the child was not so sick.
His hand spread wide, the Ancestor reached out with the gift all others had denied, his gift of healing. He was dying, and so thin, and so hungry, and the child was so warm. He reached out and, instead of granting life, he began to take it.
He appeared the next day in the center of the town, and a crowd gathered. They gasped to see so vibrant a man they thought surely dead. And then he spoke. He spoke to them of pain, and suffering, and all that he had seen. He bid them draw near. He told them of the gift they had denied, and said he would share with them. He chose nine of the exiles, and taught them all he knew, save one thing. The day that followed, the town was empty save those ten, glowing, full of life. They left that world as the Ring wept blood. All life, child, knows the fear from that first theft. Thus did the Wraith first steal their second life.
Oh?
The one thing? It is nothing.
You still wish to know?
That man lives still, they say, full of all the lives he has stolen. And one day, they say, one day a child, much like the first, will be born, and will grow, and will capture the thief and take back that second life, and live it to its full. And when the child, now grown, breathes last, so will the Wraith.
Perhaps it will be you, child. Perhaps it will be you.
Now go to sleep.
Author:
riva_todayRating: G
Pairing: none
Length: ~900 words
Summary: Every culture has their stories of how things came to be.
How the Wraith stole their second life
Among the Ancestors were many wise men and women, and their ways were beyond ours. But, as even you know, child, the noonday sun with all its radiance still casts a shadow. For some among them were not content to strive for wisdom and yearn for knowledge (as we all should, and mind you heed your lessons, child), and those proud ones reveled in their secret darkness, even as they sang the hymns of serenity among their fellows. Now, you have heard before of the great city of the Ancestors, their shining city of Atalantë, and how she had fallen. That is the end of this story, and I shall not be telling it today; today I tell the beginning, of how the Wraith stole their second life.
Second? Yes, second. Even the Wraith owned their own first life, it was the second that was stolen, and every one since. Now, in that time before fear, there were Ancestors who held themselves above their sisters, and scorned their brothers. They were not the wisest of their people, but they knew enough to not show their hatred freely. As the tseen gather in the dank places under rocks, these dark-hearted Ancestors came together on a planet far from Atalantë. It is said that even the Ring, instead of gathering the blue of the sky and clean water, filled with blood on that far-away world because of its shame at having borne them there.
They bent that world to their will quickly, but one day a lowly stone turned under the foot of one of the exiles. She fell, and cried out to those walking with her, for her leg was broken. Each one she she reached to turned away because she was no longer perfect as they were. This was the evil of those Ancestors, who are not of my family, or yours, or any you will know: They turned away from her and denied her their gift. Ah yes, their gift. As I said, their ways are not ours. The Ancestors were blessed with the gift of healing. With the touch of a hand, they could mend grave wounds, and some say even drive away death. But not here; the woman died.
So it continued. The exiles withheld their gift from each other. Another, and another, were left neglected, spurned by those they had called their friends and lovers. Such death had never before been seen among the Ancestors, until one day a man stepped forward and asked how the others could tolerate such a waste of life. A crowd gathered, and as he implored them to listen, they all scoffed. They are worth nothing! the crowd cried. Then give them to me! the man replied. And so, all the dying, all the sick, all the unwell, were left on his doorstep. The man was soon overwhelmed. He was not a kind man--he had chosen exile just as the others had, child--, but he was practical. He chose those he called most valuable and worked and worked. He was only one man, however, and there were many. His labors were futile. All those who had been left to him died.
And now little one, listen, because it grows late, and the fire dim. One day a sickly child was left at his door. He himself was beginning to waste away, for the others had spurned him, and he had no company but the dying. He picked up the child, intending to leave it with the others that had been discarded. The man paused as he felt the child's heart flutter under his hand. He was a practical man, and he knew he was dying. He spread his hand wide on the small chest and thought. Perhaps a young one would be easier, and the child was not so sick.
His hand spread wide, the Ancestor reached out with the gift all others had denied, his gift of healing. He was dying, and so thin, and so hungry, and the child was so warm. He reached out and, instead of granting life, he began to take it.
He appeared the next day in the center of the town, and a crowd gathered. They gasped to see so vibrant a man they thought surely dead. And then he spoke. He spoke to them of pain, and suffering, and all that he had seen. He bid them draw near. He told them of the gift they had denied, and said he would share with them. He chose nine of the exiles, and taught them all he knew, save one thing. The day that followed, the town was empty save those ten, glowing, full of life. They left that world as the Ring wept blood. All life, child, knows the fear from that first theft. Thus did the Wraith first steal their second life.
Oh?
The one thing? It is nothing.
You still wish to know?
That man lives still, they say, full of all the lives he has stolen. And one day, they say, one day a child, much like the first, will be born, and will grow, and will capture the thief and take back that second life, and live it to its full. And when the child, now grown, breathes last, so will the Wraith.
Perhaps it will be you, child. Perhaps it will be you.
Now go to sleep.