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overlooked2009-08-15 10:06 pm
ellnyx) wrote in overlooked2009-08-15 10:06 pm
Entry tags:
It Would Have Brought You To Your Knees [History of the Runestaff; Hawkmoon, D'Averc; PG]
Fandom: The History of the Runestaff (Michael Moorcock)
Claim & Characters: Dorian Hawkmoon and Huillam D'Averc
Theme set & Theme number: Set I, #1, Beginnings.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1400
Content: Minor spoilers (Book 4), D'Averc's backstory, friendship.
Summary: Hawkmoon pauses in his quest for long enough to provoke D'Averc to talk about his architectural past.
.
Hawkmoon sometimes thought of Köln, but not often; he was no longer of Köln. His current incarnation had been born through the ungentle undulation organ of that living machine, which had left its progenitor's kiss black upon his brow, a birthmark most unkind. But if Hawkmoon had been wrenched back into this world, D'Averc's rebirth as a man of Granbretan had been entirely different, and voluntary. It occurred to Hawkmoon that his companion said nothing of his origin, nor even, of that choice that had set him to Granbretan's cause. Did Hawkmoon care?
He suspected he did, at moments such as this, for Hawkmoon had caught sly, wry D'Averc gazing with a wistful expression upon the latest architectural complexity to grace their quest. Whatever the customary languor that D'Averc wore (the expression did suit his taste in clothes, said the Frenchman, with complete immodesty), Hawkmoon had only previously seen such a confused softness on his friend in the wake of their encounter with the Countess Flana.
'I should like to see what Jehamia so admired,' Hawkmoon said.
D'Averc was quick of thought, and soon caught up to Hawkmoon's wandering path. He looked away from the spire that dared the southern sky. 'Why, Hawkmoon, and I had thought you uninterested in the pursuits of the refined man.'
Hawkmoon pointed at the spire. 'Is that one of yours or not, Huillam?'
'It is,' said D'Averc, warily. He made no move to offer more of himself.
'Then I should like to see it.'
'I should rather not.'
Hawkmoon stopped in the street, exasperated. He had accustomed himself to countless cities through this quest, and all of them had a certain similarity, as if stamped from a mould, and perhaps they all were; human minds had created them all. He could navigate this one without D'Averc as their current guide.
Hawkmoon was provoked, and grinning; D'Averc was not often blunt. Hawkmoon readied himself to run.
'Will you stop me?'
D'Averc gave a fine, despairing cry, 'No, Hawkmoon, don't--' before Hawkmoon let his pace take him out of earshot.
The town swallowed him beautifully; it was noon, and the shadows were scant, the sun huge and warm. The run was pleasant enough, for entertainment and indulgence, as his quest so rarely allowed. Hawkmoon wondered if D'Averc could bother himself to keep the pace without dire necessity at his heels. The spire was visible from all street corners, creating a perfect navigational axis through the entire warren of twisting streets. Hawkmoon came to a terminus at the wide paved plaza that lay before the grand creation.
Hawkmoon was impressed, and said as much when D'Averc drew level with him. The Frenchman was neither panting nor sweating, though he coughed into his handkerchief as though he suffered for breath and indicated such sudden sprints would well be the death of him.
'What is it for?' Hawkmoon would have thought a cathedral, but the only deity a Granbretanian would worship was one that demanded rubble, no buildings challenging the sky.
'Nothing.' D'Averc was unexpectedly grim. 'It was the last building I saw completed, just after I had joined the Order of the Boar. It is nothing, for nothing, and does nothing. It is a Granbretanian's building, Hawkmoon. The ones that Jehamia spoke of were created by a Frenchman. I joined the Order of the Boar and the foundations were already laid, the spine arching to the sky; I should have torn it down, as is the nature of a boar,' D'Averc coughed, 'but alas, I thought otherwise.'
Hawkmoon considered his friend unusually dire. 'You told Jehamia you lost the knack of it. This does not look so bad.'
'It does not,' D'Averc agreed, and said with his customary humility, 'but if I had not lost the knack, you would now be on your knees in awe.'
Hawkmoon smiled. And yet, some strange tone in his friend's voice had Hawkmoon wonder if D'Averc was, for once, speaking a truth entirely unembellished.
That unembellished truth wrought on Hawkmoon's usually uncaring curiosity a magic, for later reclining at their beds, once more well absent of D'Averc's much loved civilisation and staring at the vault of stars, Hawkmoon said:
'You can't leave such a statement hanging.'
D'Averc was very quick of thought, or perhaps he had been brooding on the same point all day, and indeed, he had been quieter than his custom. He said on the instant, 'Hawkmoon, you resisted Granbretan, though they would crush you; I laid no resistance nor built no bulwarks against them. Grand Londra! – what did I do but dream of that city as a boy, crazed science and vainglorious history wed through the hands of mortal man. And as a man that desire never left me, ah, if I could explain the love of a city to you –'
'I have known the love of a land,' Hawkmoon said, quietly; he thought of Köln, and black smoke on the horizon, the deathbringing ornithopters trailing their oil like blood.
'Land,' D'Averc coughed, dismissive, 'but the land would endure even if every man alive died of his own despair, the land cares nothing for us nor I for it. It is cities that we create, and cities that create us. Londra, the centre of all chaos, did she make her men mad, or was she made mad because her men were likewise? I hungered for that chaos, Hawkmoon; chaos, the one thing no architect can ever encompass for that our very nature would impose order on the world, to make a logic out of it, a use out of the void of space and all through the bubble of encapsulating walls – oh! I think I was a little mad, and in love with my own hands, yet I could not create what I saw here, behind my mind's eye. And so I went to Londra. To study.'
'The creator became a destroyer.'
'No,' D'Averc said, 'I was never a creator. An interpreter, to turn life's logic into a form that would support, uphold with internal consistency, perpetuate our ways of living. I am the same man that I once was, but Londra's language is not one of order, nor of perpetuation.' A light, foppish laugh, and D'Averc said: 'Oh Hawkmoon, why should I bent my efforts to building, to beauty, when I knew this for the truth: that the hordes of Granbretan sought nothing more than to destroy, without purpose, no conquest nor change as their driving motivation: just destruction. A horizon, end to end and all a circle, and nothing alive inside it or out. Why, why would I try for anything that would last, that would give meaning or purpose to a man's life, when I knew that Granbretan would not fail in their aims? I had seen Londra, and I knew: I would live to see the end. I became a Boar, and I would recreate myself through destruction of what once was.'
Hawkmoon was silent, pondering. He had been remiss, perhaps, to not ask his friend of himself the sooner. He had mistrusted D'Averc to begin with, wondering why the Frenchman had cast aside his high role in Granbretan's army to hold his sword at Hawkmoon's side.
'You joined me because you think I will win,' Hawkmoon said.
D'Averc suffered a momentary coughing fit. When he finished, a spasm shook his shoulders, and something seemed to leave him; when he lifted his head it was as though he wore his Boar mask again, shadows cast from their tiny fire in shades of blackened steel. A bland smile lingered.
'Dearest Dorian,' D'Averc said, affectionately, 'win what? A war? Against Granbretan? Ah, perhaps; I have seen many miracles at your side. Amarekh, even, and to Yel and back! But all you seek to win is Yisselda and a home, and peace for you both—'
'And to do that, I will destroy the destroyers.' Hawkmoon said it calmly; he had the Runestaff, the Amulet, the Sword of the Dawn; and more, he had good reason to succeed where Granbretan did not. 'And when it is done, Huillam, you may interpret the future as you will. For there will be a future to interpret.'
D'Averc spoke with great irony, 'Aye, for you and Yisselda, and I shall create for you a grand house that will hold you both secure, and paint a glorious portrait of your heroism to be hung in the main hall.'
'You can if you like,' Hawkmoon said, with great certainty, and with such seriousness that D'Averc fell quite silent but for a small cough, pressed into the back of his hand.
.
Claim & Characters: Dorian Hawkmoon and Huillam D'Averc
Theme set & Theme number: Set I, #1, Beginnings.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1400
Content: Minor spoilers (Book 4), D'Averc's backstory, friendship.
Summary: Hawkmoon pauses in his quest for long enough to provoke D'Averc to talk about his architectural past.
.
Hawkmoon sometimes thought of Köln, but not often; he was no longer of Köln. His current incarnation had been born through the ungentle undulation organ of that living machine, which had left its progenitor's kiss black upon his brow, a birthmark most unkind. But if Hawkmoon had been wrenched back into this world, D'Averc's rebirth as a man of Granbretan had been entirely different, and voluntary. It occurred to Hawkmoon that his companion said nothing of his origin, nor even, of that choice that had set him to Granbretan's cause. Did Hawkmoon care?
He suspected he did, at moments such as this, for Hawkmoon had caught sly, wry D'Averc gazing with a wistful expression upon the latest architectural complexity to grace their quest. Whatever the customary languor that D'Averc wore (the expression did suit his taste in clothes, said the Frenchman, with complete immodesty), Hawkmoon had only previously seen such a confused softness on his friend in the wake of their encounter with the Countess Flana.
'I should like to see what Jehamia so admired,' Hawkmoon said.
D'Averc was quick of thought, and soon caught up to Hawkmoon's wandering path. He looked away from the spire that dared the southern sky. 'Why, Hawkmoon, and I had thought you uninterested in the pursuits of the refined man.'
Hawkmoon pointed at the spire. 'Is that one of yours or not, Huillam?'
'It is,' said D'Averc, warily. He made no move to offer more of himself.
'Then I should like to see it.'
'I should rather not.'
Hawkmoon stopped in the street, exasperated. He had accustomed himself to countless cities through this quest, and all of them had a certain similarity, as if stamped from a mould, and perhaps they all were; human minds had created them all. He could navigate this one without D'Averc as their current guide.
Hawkmoon was provoked, and grinning; D'Averc was not often blunt. Hawkmoon readied himself to run.
'Will you stop me?'
D'Averc gave a fine, despairing cry, 'No, Hawkmoon, don't--' before Hawkmoon let his pace take him out of earshot.
The town swallowed him beautifully; it was noon, and the shadows were scant, the sun huge and warm. The run was pleasant enough, for entertainment and indulgence, as his quest so rarely allowed. Hawkmoon wondered if D'Averc could bother himself to keep the pace without dire necessity at his heels. The spire was visible from all street corners, creating a perfect navigational axis through the entire warren of twisting streets. Hawkmoon came to a terminus at the wide paved plaza that lay before the grand creation.
Hawkmoon was impressed, and said as much when D'Averc drew level with him. The Frenchman was neither panting nor sweating, though he coughed into his handkerchief as though he suffered for breath and indicated such sudden sprints would well be the death of him.
'What is it for?' Hawkmoon would have thought a cathedral, but the only deity a Granbretanian would worship was one that demanded rubble, no buildings challenging the sky.
'Nothing.' D'Averc was unexpectedly grim. 'It was the last building I saw completed, just after I had joined the Order of the Boar. It is nothing, for nothing, and does nothing. It is a Granbretanian's building, Hawkmoon. The ones that Jehamia spoke of were created by a Frenchman. I joined the Order of the Boar and the foundations were already laid, the spine arching to the sky; I should have torn it down, as is the nature of a boar,' D'Averc coughed, 'but alas, I thought otherwise.'
Hawkmoon considered his friend unusually dire. 'You told Jehamia you lost the knack of it. This does not look so bad.'
'It does not,' D'Averc agreed, and said with his customary humility, 'but if I had not lost the knack, you would now be on your knees in awe.'
Hawkmoon smiled. And yet, some strange tone in his friend's voice had Hawkmoon wonder if D'Averc was, for once, speaking a truth entirely unembellished.
That unembellished truth wrought on Hawkmoon's usually uncaring curiosity a magic, for later reclining at their beds, once more well absent of D'Averc's much loved civilisation and staring at the vault of stars, Hawkmoon said:
'You can't leave such a statement hanging.'
D'Averc was very quick of thought, or perhaps he had been brooding on the same point all day, and indeed, he had been quieter than his custom. He said on the instant, 'Hawkmoon, you resisted Granbretan, though they would crush you; I laid no resistance nor built no bulwarks against them. Grand Londra! – what did I do but dream of that city as a boy, crazed science and vainglorious history wed through the hands of mortal man. And as a man that desire never left me, ah, if I could explain the love of a city to you –'
'I have known the love of a land,' Hawkmoon said, quietly; he thought of Köln, and black smoke on the horizon, the deathbringing ornithopters trailing their oil like blood.
'Land,' D'Averc coughed, dismissive, 'but the land would endure even if every man alive died of his own despair, the land cares nothing for us nor I for it. It is cities that we create, and cities that create us. Londra, the centre of all chaos, did she make her men mad, or was she made mad because her men were likewise? I hungered for that chaos, Hawkmoon; chaos, the one thing no architect can ever encompass for that our very nature would impose order on the world, to make a logic out of it, a use out of the void of space and all through the bubble of encapsulating walls – oh! I think I was a little mad, and in love with my own hands, yet I could not create what I saw here, behind my mind's eye. And so I went to Londra. To study.'
'The creator became a destroyer.'
'No,' D'Averc said, 'I was never a creator. An interpreter, to turn life's logic into a form that would support, uphold with internal consistency, perpetuate our ways of living. I am the same man that I once was, but Londra's language is not one of order, nor of perpetuation.' A light, foppish laugh, and D'Averc said: 'Oh Hawkmoon, why should I bent my efforts to building, to beauty, when I knew this for the truth: that the hordes of Granbretan sought nothing more than to destroy, without purpose, no conquest nor change as their driving motivation: just destruction. A horizon, end to end and all a circle, and nothing alive inside it or out. Why, why would I try for anything that would last, that would give meaning or purpose to a man's life, when I knew that Granbretan would not fail in their aims? I had seen Londra, and I knew: I would live to see the end. I became a Boar, and I would recreate myself through destruction of what once was.'
Hawkmoon was silent, pondering. He had been remiss, perhaps, to not ask his friend of himself the sooner. He had mistrusted D'Averc to begin with, wondering why the Frenchman had cast aside his high role in Granbretan's army to hold his sword at Hawkmoon's side.
'You joined me because you think I will win,' Hawkmoon said.
D'Averc suffered a momentary coughing fit. When he finished, a spasm shook his shoulders, and something seemed to leave him; when he lifted his head it was as though he wore his Boar mask again, shadows cast from their tiny fire in shades of blackened steel. A bland smile lingered.
'Dearest Dorian,' D'Averc said, affectionately, 'win what? A war? Against Granbretan? Ah, perhaps; I have seen many miracles at your side. Amarekh, even, and to Yel and back! But all you seek to win is Yisselda and a home, and peace for you both—'
'And to do that, I will destroy the destroyers.' Hawkmoon said it calmly; he had the Runestaff, the Amulet, the Sword of the Dawn; and more, he had good reason to succeed where Granbretan did not. 'And when it is done, Huillam, you may interpret the future as you will. For there will be a future to interpret.'
D'Averc spoke with great irony, 'Aye, for you and Yisselda, and I shall create for you a grand house that will hold you both secure, and paint a glorious portrait of your heroism to be hung in the main hall.'
'You can if you like,' Hawkmoon said, with great certainty, and with such seriousness that D'Averc fell quite silent but for a small cough, pressed into the back of his hand.
.