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memento-morianon · 1 month ago

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"chapter 12" scenes, Memento Mori: Blood.

[this is another area of the story where i have no idea what's going on. there's time between the festival and k'arik's big ritual. revisions are gonna be rough. this chapter will just be another pile of unconnected scenes.

masterpost of excerpts over here.

scene 1: meditation

Evarin and Morian hiked up the hill overlooking the lake and into one of the meadows. It wouldn't be long before the place was bursting with flowers, but until then it was all grass and leaves and moss covered stones that jutted out from the landscape. K'arik was sitting on one of the stony outcrops, and he waved when he saw them coming up the hill. Sitla scurried ahead to paw at his leg, tilting her head expectantly and craning her neck to sniff at the pouch on his belt. He shooed her back, though he looked amused.

"He doesn't keep treats for you," Morianon chastised, stepping in to make Sitla lie down a few paces away. Evarin gave a short huff of a laugh in response.

“Are your meditations going well?” she asked K’arik. He nodded and patted the stone beside him, inviting them both to sit.

“I feel ready for [the ritual], though it is still some time away. I know my ancestors are proud of me and I trust in their guidance to protect my soul from harm. You will both come as witnesses, of course?” He titled his head, and Evarin rested a hand on his knee.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.” she replied. Morianon hummed hesitantly.

“I’m nervous to watch, but I want to be there for you.”

“Your presence will bring me comfort,” K’arik assured him. Morianon nodded and settled in place as K’arik and Evarin both began the calming breath exercise to prepare themselves for a meditative session. Evarin kept her eyes open, watching her husband. He mimicked their postures, matched their breathing style, and entered the meditation with them while Sitla crawled forward to sit at his feet. Satisfied, Evarin allowed herself to enter the depths of her own soul.

She withdrew her senses one by one, focusing only on the immediate sensations of her breath, and the feeling of the stone beneath her. She focused her mind on the touch of the pendant hanging around her neck, letting it become her anchor. Gradually, like the edge of a wave seeping into the sand, she stretched out from her soul and tried to feel the living energy around her. There were the moss and lichens on the stone, small and simple, drawing life through their fractal structures. There, the grass, there the dormant flowers holding their energy and waiting to bloom. Insect life all around and beneath; other life so tiny and odd Evarin could scarcely understand it, all filling the cold void with their own fervent colors and warmth. And beside her, K’arik, his soul like a bonfire in comparison, burning with power and experience.

She drew back from his brilliance and sought out Morianon, reaching for the familiar strangeness of his soul. Whether it was the lingering scars of trauma, or the way his whole self had become divided, she could never tell. His soul gleamed like a faceted gem and trembled like a candle flame in a cold breeze. Part of it almost seemed to trail away like smoke, obscured from Evarin’s senses. Below him, Sitla was stranger still. Evarin pointedly ignored it, but the dog’s cold presence made her stand out amongst all the other warm life in the field. Morianon was more important. Evarin could feel the way he strained to meditate. His hesitation, his fear. His soul pulsed like a heartbeat, reaching tentatively outward but never quite connecting with anything else around him. Evarin could feel K’arik reaching for her, feel the warmth of his soul strengthening her own, but Morianon’s soul remained distant, like a flinching hand avoiding the burn of a comforting fire.

Reaching further into her husband’s presence, Evarin tried to lift him, to strengthen him. The edge of her soul found his, and a cold darkness slipped between them, pushing her away. She drew in a deep breath and blinked back to the outer world, dizziness striking her as her senses returned. Morianon was still sitting in meditation, his brow furrowed in frustrated concentration. Evarin sighed, regret prodding her heart. It was not her place to try and pull his soul to her level, to step in and lift him where he was not prepared to go. She could heal his wounds and soothe his pain whenever he asked for it, but her songs could not heal his soul.

All her senses settled again, and she prepared to enter a second meditation. Before she could venture far, she felt Sitla’s cold presence and glanced up to see those blank white eyes staring her down. There was no malice, no anger in that steady gaze. But Evarin shivered and turned away, shaking her head. She pushed away the outside world and entered the warm pools of magic within herself, leaving her companions to their own meditation.

[and uh idk, once I have actual context to insert this scene into, I’ll have a better idea of where it should go. How long they meditate, what they do afterwards. Etc.]

Post meditation:

K’arik looked refreshed, and Evarin felt the same. The flow of energy through her soul was as soothing as a warm bath after a long day. “Thank you for letting us join you,” she signed to K’arik. He inclined his head, returning the gratitude.

“We might be able to join you again, before your ritual,” Morianon interjected, “it’s always nice to be with you, especially on such a lovely day.”

“I welcome it,” K’arik replied. [anyway they say goodbye and move along, going separate ways.]

“I wish I could handle it the way you do,” Morianon muttered, tucking his wings close to his body. “You and K’arik. This sort of thing comes so naturally for you, and here I am. Most people my age can at least use meditation to relax, and it only stresses me out,” he huffed, looking up at the clouds. Evarin took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Someday, I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable with it. But you don’t have to try and keep up with me and K’arik, really. We’ve been studying and practicing with magic techniques for years, we don’t meditate the same way other people do.”

“And I can’t,” Morianon grumbled. He tensed, and his expression shifted. His mouth fumbled silently, like he was searching for something to say. Evarin waited, but her husband only shook his head and swallowed his unspoken words. “You’re right though. I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it.” His other hand reached into the open air and Sitla immediately jogged forward to shove her snout into his palm.

scene 2: weaving

Her father’s craft room always felt the same. The warm smell of wool and cedar brought her back to her childhood, to that little boy sitting in the corner with a ball of scraps, looping yarn over a hook and listening to the steady clacking noise of her father’s loom. Stepping through the memory, she glanced around and admired the stacks of yarn on the shelves. Her father collected it from every spinner he could contact, and some of it was even imported.

“Oh, I almost didn’t notice you!” Izune paused his work, leaving a row half woven on the loom. “Come in, here, I’ve got the hooks all set out, I’ve got my pattern books–” he scooted a basket of scraps aside with his foot and waved Evarin over.

“I haven’t figured out yet what colors to use,” she mused, sitting in the old armchair where she used to learn weaving on her father’s lap. He carried an old stool over and sat himself beside her.

“No matter, you can practice with any color you like until that inspiration hits. Here, thicker yarns are easier to work with, and this is some very soft wool.” He held up a ball of fuzzy yarn dyed a soft green and unrolled it a little to show her the texture. “Combination of mountain goat kid and [backpack dog]. Has a bit of a smell when it’s damp, but it’s gentle on the skin.” He passed it over and Evarin ran her hands over it, admiring the fluffy fibers. It felt almost like the downy feathers close to Morianon’s skin.

“Do we have anything less fuzzy to practice with? I worry I’ll lose track of my stitches with this.” she laughed. Izune nodded and pulled over a different basket of yarn, much more compact and densely twined.

“Standard mountain goat wool, much longer fibers than the kid wool so it’s less inclined to fray. It does get a little itchy though.” He passed her a ball of it dyed in mottled blues and light reds. “Won’t take much more than a few balls to make a baby sized blanket, I think. The pattern I used for your first blanket is over here.” Izune picked up a book from his stack and opened it up to a well-worn page, showing old handwritten instructions marked up with notes in a different hand and hasty sketches of row patterns along the margins. “It’s easier than it looks,” he assured her. She hummed, pressing the ball of wool to her nose and basking in the comforting smell. It had been so long since she last picked up a hook to weave, but she found her nerves settling in the nostalgia of soft yarn between her fingers.

“I hardly remember how to begin,” she lamented, “can you show me?”

“That’s why I invited you over, Evy,” Izune said, eyes crinkling in amusement. He retrieved a pair of hooks from his collection and exchanged Evarin’s sample yarns for two balls of solid colored wool, one grey and one pale yellow. “Now, I usually hold my hook like this,” he demonstrated, taking the handle of a hook like he was picking up a table knife, “but you could hold it this way if that’s more comfortable,” he showed her an alternate grip, as if the hook was a pen. Evarin took the second hook and practiced both grips, settling for the knife hold as it felt more stable.

She at least remembered how to tie a slip knot and poked the hook through the loop. Watching Izune’s expert hands, she mimicked his actions and created a chain about the length of her forearm, catching and tugging the yarn through the loop on her hook over and over. It snagged a couple of times, and her chain looked uneven, some of the braided links sitting quite loose while others were tight and small. “There, you’re remembering it all just fine.” Izune ran his hand down her awkward chain. “You’ll have your old skills back in no time.” “It’s a mess.”

“Ah, the base chain only needs to be long enough for your project, it’s not really important to make it look pretty.” He waved a hand dismissively, though of course his own chain looked perfect to Evarin’s eyes. “Next step is just relearning the basic stitches, and then you’re set to follow any pattern, really.”

“Maybe just the easy patterns,” Evarin replied with a wry smile. “All patterns are easy if you know what you’re doing.” Izune scooted his stool closer to her and leaned on the armchair to show her how to make the first stitch, sliding his hook through the yarn and bringing it back with a new loop. She followed his steps, drawing the yarn through itself again and again. The hook caught several times, but she persisted. Her hands remembered the motion, but it was like looking at the world through a dusty window. She turned the work and began a new row, wiping the dust away layer by layer, stitch by stitch, row by row.

“My edges are horrible,” she groaned, holding up the short rectangle and frowning at the way one side sloped and curled while the other side was oddly uniform. Her father’s rectangle was larger and straighter. He took the practice work from her hands and looked it over with the astuteness of a jeweler appraising a gem.

“Tension problem,” he explained, pointing out how much tighter the top rows were compared to the bottom rows. “But you’re already getting better.” He handed the piece back with a proud fatherly smile. “Now, let’s practice a couple other stitches, and then if you have time, we can look over the pattern?”

“I think I’ll have to look at the pattern tomorrow, I’m not confident with this work yet.” Evarin rolled the yarn between her fingers. “Show me the other stitches, and I’ll try to practice them at home tonight.”

“They’re easy, don’t worry,” Izune chuckled, “they’re actually easier to work with than the first stitch, in my opinion. Taller, for one thing. Though for this stitch, it looks cleaner if you start the row with a few chains and then skip over the first stitch of the previous row.” He showed her the method, looping yarn over his hook before he created each stitch. Evarin copied him, but quickly grew annoyed as the yarn slipped off her hook a few times. Izune slowed down and showed her how to turn her wrist to keep the yarn in place.

Short stitches, tall stitches, stitches that slipped across the row and barely added any height. By the time Evarin felt she could remember the steps well enough to practice on her own, her wrist was sore in a way she had forgotten it could be. The rectangle of woven wool in her hands was uneven, curling up, and sloped on the side. But it was getting better. The top most rows were more aligned, the stitches a little more uniform.

“It’s a start, I suppose.”

“A very good start,” Izune rolled up his ball of yarn and set it in the basket alongside his sample work. “Don’t be afraid to unravel it and start over, though. You’ll get a better feel for it that way."

“What is the pattern you wanted to show me?” Evarin folded up her work and shoved it into her bag. Izune’s ears perked up and he walked to a cabinet, pulling out a bundle of weaving.

“You might find it easier than that rectangle, honestly,” he laughed, “you see, this blanket is the same pattern, it’s very very simple.” He unfolded it and sat back down, shaking it out over his lap. It was made from a deep green yarn, much thinner than the yarn they’d been practicing with. Evarin pulled a corner of the blanket into her lap and found that it was made with clusters of stitches that slotted into small gaps in each previous row, all spreading outward from the center of the work.

“Oh, I do know this pattern! You made me a blanket like this when I left for university. I keep it on the couch now.”

“It’s such a common pattern. I’ve made my own variations on it as well, of course, as you can see in my notes on that page,” Izune mused, “but you work it from the middle and put the stitches in these chain spaces, so you don’t even have to worry about going into each stitch or missing any edges. It’s still good for you to learn how to make something from the bottom up, of course.” He folded the blanket back up and set it aside. Evarin reached out and laid her hand on his.

“Thank you, adda. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that I’ll be able to make a blanket for my own child.”

“I already know how it feels, Evy.” Her father lifted her hand and kissed it, pulling her to her feet and over into his arms. “And I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you want to learn all this again. Maybe I sound a bit silly for this, but I do miss having you in here, playing with my scraps.”

“Give it a few years and you might have a grandbaby playing with them instead.”

“I really hope I do,” Izune chuckled and let his daughter go. “Alright, alright, you have things to do, I have things to do. Go on home, and I’ll see you again tomorrow.”

“See you, adda.” Evarin picked up her bag and stepped carefully over the baskets on the floor, leaving her father to his work and smiling at the sound of the loom’s treadle clacking against the frame.

scene 3: mori alone during a storm

Every part of Morianon was itchy. His wings, his back, his head. Pin feathers poked through his skin everywhere the old feathers had already fallen out. He scratched at them, removing the flaky keratin to free the soft new feathers as they grew in. But only the shortest feathers, the ones on his torso and the upper parts his wings, were losing their sheaths. All the longer feathers would remain covered for a while.

Outside the study, the rain was pounding and the wind howled; a perfect spring storm. Between the noise and the itching, he found his eyes skimming words without reading any of them. Centaurs, he was trying to study centaur history. He tapped his pen on the blank notepad and frowned at the book in front of him. Some chapter on the wars that broke out when the centaurs decided to take revenge against the orcs.

Waves of rain slammed into his window, making his feathers stand on end and sending a shiver through his memories. Sitla, curled at his feet, whuffed quietly and sat up to paw at his knees.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he hissed, standing and kicking his chair back. His mind felt like it was in two places at once; the warm study and the cold ruins of a small house torn by the wind. Shaking his head and pulling his ragged wings tight against his body, Morianon left his desk and moved to the center of the house, stumbling through the hall until he found the door he needed. A tiny room, hardly more than a closet, full of pillows. He curled up with Sitla and slammed the door shut, panting heavily in the darkness. Thick walls silenced the raging storm outside, though they couldn’t quiet the one that haunted his memories.

“No! No, you leave me alone!” he growled at the clutching shadows that pulled his thoughts deeper, “I have so much going on, you cannot do this to me right now!” Desperately, he tried to close the gate on the new visions threatening to flood his mind, tried to wrest control back from the panic that had taken over him. It was joined by grief and the sound of gasping final breaths, faint images of the dead flickering through his thoughts.

Sitla whined and pushed her nose into his face in an effort to calm him. He held her tight. Before the horrible visions grew worse, a more powerful shadow at last pulled the gate closed on the haunting images, and left behind a feeling of guilt.

“You don't get to apologize,” he hissed, glaring at nothing in the dark little room. “Just leave me alone.” The shadows did not retreat. They couldn't. Morianon sighed and focused on slowing his breath. The itching sensation of every pin feather agitated him but it was real. Real itching feathers, real trembling breaths. Sitla, real; the walls and his pile of pillows were all real. He clenched his toes around a very textured pillow, feeling the embroidery and beaded shapes.

“One. Two. Three,” he counted under his breath, “four. Five.” He left the memory of the storm in his mind and reached for the door. As his hand landed feebly in the middle of it, too low to reach the handle, he heard a muffled voice and a gentle knock.

“Mori? You in there?” It was Kaen. The door opened just a crack, letting in a sliver of light. Morianon blinked and squinted, frowning at the nickname. It didn’t feel right. It wasn’t his name. He got to his feet carefully, letting the wings on his back settle in their neutral position. Everything itched.

“I’m here,” he mumbled, leaving the little room. Kaen sighed and stepped back to let him out. The sight of him briefly startled Morianon, as he was only wearing a few strands of bone beads and a fur wrapped around his waist. Every decorative scar on his body was fully exposed, including a few bandages over the newest ones, and what looked like a shallow but fresh cut on his thigh. His curly red hair was still in its tidy hunter’s knot, held together with a thornbeast quill.

“I came upstairs and heard the storm, went to find you and saw the trail of dandruff.” Kaen gestured at the flaky keratin mess all over the floor. “Sounds like the storm’s calmed down a bit, but if you want, you can keep studying down in the basement, with me.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Morianon replied. The wind was still howling outside, but it was softer than it had been. Or perhaps he was just more tolerant of it for the moment. He hummed, glancing around and reorienting himself. Kaen watched him, long ears twitching, tail flicking around his knees. Morianon hummed and glanced down the hall, back towards the study. “The storm isn’t really over yet. I think I will move.” He made his way to the study, keeping Sitla right behind him. Kaen got ahead of him and started gathering things from his desk.

“I know the basement isn’t as cozy, but at least you can work in peace.” Kaen paused and hummed thoughtfully. “Well. Peace from the storm. I’ll try to keep my work quiet.”

“Thank you.” Morianon picked up his notebook and followed Kaen out and down. Every time they passed by a window, his body shivered at the sound of the rain and wind.

“Don’t mind the mess,” Kaen apologized as they entered the basement, “I promise it is organized, I have a system. Nothing outright dangerous is laying around, you’re perfectly safe down here.”

“If anyone else said that to me, I might be more worried,” Morianon replied sarcastically. Kaen chuckled, leading him to a desk that barely had space between piles of notebooks and fur pelts. He set his things down while Kaen removed a few of the piles.

“Just ignore anything you might hear from the other side of the room,” Kaen chuckled, “I’m fine. I can even get you a pair of earmuffs if you think it might help.”

“That won’t be necessary. But thank you.” Morianon sat down, awkwardly repositioning his feathered appendages over the back of the chair. He absently reached through the fluff by his cheeks and found the ridges of his ears, frowning at how small they felt. “I’ll be alright over here,” he assured both himself and Kaen.

“Call if you need anything.” Kaen stepped back, nodded, and walked through the heavy hide curtain that divided the basement. True to his word, he did try to keep his work quiet. Morianon smiled at the hushed sound of his brother-in-law’s guttural voice, chanting in some ancient tongue. It was strange and sent a tremble up his spine, but even Kaen’s odd rituals were more comforting than the storm.

Morianon studied, taking notes here and there. He had more important things to focus on than the darkness that plagued his mind; things to prepare for, things all of him had been looking forward to for months and months. Everything else would just have to wait.

#writeblr #mm excerpts #mm 1 #original writing

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