Shades of Grey (Nita, Gen, PG-13)
Jul. 5th, 2011 09:18 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
shadowsinfire.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
dai_stihoTitle: Shades of Grey
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shadowsinfire
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,200
Summary and prompt: Nita - shades of grey. A nightmare prompts Nita to wonder how a wizard should deal with the lives they've taken
Notes: Thanks to the moderators for arranging this contest &dawnduskdancer for looking over the story. This story came in part from my realisation that Nita probably has the highest body count of all our protagonists.
In her dream Nita walked through an enormous, empty space. The light was faint and elusive, like an afterimage on the inside of her eyelids. It seemed to come from some point ahead of her: it grew clearer as she approached it, and when she could almost make out the details someone walked out of the darkness and picked up its source. The object was reddish-purple and though it glowed from within it only gave off enough light to glint on the edges of the person’s hands.
Child’s hands. They were small and rough, with dirt under the nails. And the nails dug into the skin of the thing that was maybe an apple and maybe a heart and pulled it open and it bled. “Here,” said the child, passing her a handful of seeds. “Eat them. They’re good.”
The white flesh of the pomegranate was stained pink with juice. Nita ate the flesh but spat
out the seeds onto her palm. They were dark and damp and somehow lifeless. “They won’t grow, will they?” she said.
“Not here,” the child replied. “Nothing grows here.”
Then she was standing inside Grand Central. But the floor of the main Concourse was missing: there were flights of giant’s steps, and galleries, and far, far below, beneath where the trains should run, there was an arena.
A man was standing beside her. “You’re going to have to fight,” he said.
She frowned. “Why?”
“You’ve fought before.” His voice was amused. “Look.” She looked. A small figure was lying sprawled on the arena floor, blood spreading red around him.
She took the stairs two at a time, stumbling through the switchbacks. The stairs got larger as she went down, and she had to take them one by one; then she had to jump. The last flight was almost as tall as she was, and she had to lower herself over each one, scraping her fingers bloody. She wasn’t going to get there in time.
Somehow she did. The boy lay on packed sand, turned brown with the blood that still pumped sluggishly from his chest. His pulse was thin but steady. She pulled off her jacket to staunch the blood and pressed her own bloody fingertips to his forehead, searching for a healing spell, for any spell; but none came. She wasn’t wearing her charm bracelet. She screamed for the peridexis, but got no reply; yelled for help, any help, but her words were drowned out by the roar of the crowds in the galleries. She looked back at the boy’s chest and saw that instead of a bandage, she was holding a knife’s handle, and she knew the point was lodged in the boy’s lung.
“You’ve fought before,” the stranger said. He was standing in front of her, tall and beautiful under torchlight. “You’ve killed before.”
Her eyes were blurry, her hands covered in blood. “Never by accident,” she hissed. But she didn’t know if it made a difference anymore.
---
The sun wasn't quite up yet, but the air was already warm. Nita walked through the dining room to the kitchen, still nervy and rattled after her dream. Dairine was already in the kitchen, holding a cup of water and staring at the closed fridge door.
“You’re up early,” Nita said, pulling open a cupboard and rummaging for tea.
“Slept badly,” Dairine said, retreating to the doorway as Nita searched for a mug and turned on the kettle.
“Me too,” Nita said. She rubbed her eyes. “Bad dreams.”
Dairine finished her water. “I kept waking up,” she said. “It felt like someone was talking in the next room. Or dreaming in the next room, I guess.” She walked away and put her empty glass down on the dining table. “Dreams are supposed to be your field, not mine,” she complained, sitting at the table. “If I’m overhearing you somehow, you need to stop dreaming so loudly. I do not need more complications in my life right now.”
“If I was,” Nita muttered, “You can be sure I’ll do my best to stop it.” The kettle was whistling. She poured hot water into her cup, thinking. Am I going to have to put up a barrier of some kind every time I sleep? How frustrating... She fished out the teabag. Still... that dream...
---
Tom opened the door bare moments after she knocked. “Nita, hi, what’s up?” he said, standing aside so she could come in.
Nita stepped into the cool house, glad to be out of the sun. It was just past midday and the air was still and humid outside. “I’ve got a question, if you have time.”
“It’s no trouble.” Tom said. “Do want something to drink?”
“A glass of water?” Nita sat at the table while he got it from the kitchen. The table cloth had been pulled back halfway so that what seemed an inordinate number of zucchinis spread across the wood did not dirty it.
Tom returned with two glasses. He gave one to her and drank from the other. “What can I help you with?” he said.
Nita picked up her glass and took a sip, frowning. “You said that the Lone Power likes to work through people,” she said. “You said that sometimes when we think we’re doing the right thing, we can aid it by mistake. I want to know how you tell what those mistakes are.”
“Um.” Tom said. “Did you have any particular thing in mind?”
Nita put the glass down and traced a drop of water on its side. “I’ve been having bad dreams,” she said. “Not prophetic. At least, I don’t think they are.” She drank another gulp of water. “I never used to be able to fight. I was bullied, you know, and Mom and Dad got judo lessons for Dairine and me. I didn’t fight back, though, even when I got beaten up.” She smiled, a small, ironic expression, and looked down. “They worried about that.
“I’ve fought now, though: In Ireland, in the Song of Twelve, and at the Crossings back when the Pullulus was around. I’ve killed people,” she said. “And I recently created a spell which will help other wizards kill more people. And I don’t think I feel guilty about it.”
Tom started to speak, then paused. Slowly, as if checking every word before it came out, he said “That is a common survival strategy, you know. No-one could function if they carried with them the consequences of their every act.” His gaze was abstracted. “It is true that sometimes in the course of Errantry we are forced to take actions that are dubiously moral.”
Nita winced. “I know,” she said.
“For a while – after one of my more spectacular mistakes - I used to think that the word ‘Errantry’ was suspiciously similar to the word ‘error’, but they aren’t related. The Lone Power does try to manipulate wizards into killing. We do our best not to oblige it, but sometimes it’s inescapable.”
“So what happens when we do?” Nita said.
“We acknowledge it.” Tom said. “We acknowledge our responsibility and try to make it all equal out in the end. It’s not the same as feeling guilty. Can you see the difference?”
Nita thought about it. “I guess so...”
“As for your spell - given the talent you've shown recently for adapting and creating spells, I doubt that Callahan's Unfavourable Instigation will be the last you add to the manual.”
“You of all people should know that death can serve Life.” Nita jumped. Carl was leaning on the doorframe: she hadn't heard him arrive. “As long as that equation isn't reversed, we figure we're doing ok.”
Author:
shadowsinfirePairing: None
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1,200
Summary and prompt: Nita - shades of grey. A nightmare prompts Nita to wonder how a wizard should deal with the lives they've taken
Notes: Thanks to the moderators for arranging this contest &
dawnduskdancer for looking over the story. This story came in part from my realisation that Nita probably has the highest body count of all our protagonists.In her dream Nita walked through an enormous, empty space. The light was faint and elusive, like an afterimage on the inside of her eyelids. It seemed to come from some point ahead of her: it grew clearer as she approached it, and when she could almost make out the details someone walked out of the darkness and picked up its source. The object was reddish-purple and though it glowed from within it only gave off enough light to glint on the edges of the person’s hands.
Child’s hands. They were small and rough, with dirt under the nails. And the nails dug into the skin of the thing that was maybe an apple and maybe a heart and pulled it open and it bled. “Here,” said the child, passing her a handful of seeds. “Eat them. They’re good.”
The white flesh of the pomegranate was stained pink with juice. Nita ate the flesh but spat
out the seeds onto her palm. They were dark and damp and somehow lifeless. “They won’t grow, will they?” she said.
“Not here,” the child replied. “Nothing grows here.”
Then she was standing inside Grand Central. But the floor of the main Concourse was missing: there were flights of giant’s steps, and galleries, and far, far below, beneath where the trains should run, there was an arena.
A man was standing beside her. “You’re going to have to fight,” he said.
She frowned. “Why?”
“You’ve fought before.” His voice was amused. “Look.” She looked. A small figure was lying sprawled on the arena floor, blood spreading red around him.
She took the stairs two at a time, stumbling through the switchbacks. The stairs got larger as she went down, and she had to take them one by one; then she had to jump. The last flight was almost as tall as she was, and she had to lower herself over each one, scraping her fingers bloody. She wasn’t going to get there in time.
Somehow she did. The boy lay on packed sand, turned brown with the blood that still pumped sluggishly from his chest. His pulse was thin but steady. She pulled off her jacket to staunch the blood and pressed her own bloody fingertips to his forehead, searching for a healing spell, for any spell; but none came. She wasn’t wearing her charm bracelet. She screamed for the peridexis, but got no reply; yelled for help, any help, but her words were drowned out by the roar of the crowds in the galleries. She looked back at the boy’s chest and saw that instead of a bandage, she was holding a knife’s handle, and she knew the point was lodged in the boy’s lung.
“You’ve fought before,” the stranger said. He was standing in front of her, tall and beautiful under torchlight. “You’ve killed before.”
Her eyes were blurry, her hands covered in blood. “Never by accident,” she hissed. But she didn’t know if it made a difference anymore.
---
The sun wasn't quite up yet, but the air was already warm. Nita walked through the dining room to the kitchen, still nervy and rattled after her dream. Dairine was already in the kitchen, holding a cup of water and staring at the closed fridge door.
“You’re up early,” Nita said, pulling open a cupboard and rummaging for tea.
“Slept badly,” Dairine said, retreating to the doorway as Nita searched for a mug and turned on the kettle.
“Me too,” Nita said. She rubbed her eyes. “Bad dreams.”
Dairine finished her water. “I kept waking up,” she said. “It felt like someone was talking in the next room. Or dreaming in the next room, I guess.” She walked away and put her empty glass down on the dining table. “Dreams are supposed to be your field, not mine,” she complained, sitting at the table. “If I’m overhearing you somehow, you need to stop dreaming so loudly. I do not need more complications in my life right now.”
“If I was,” Nita muttered, “You can be sure I’ll do my best to stop it.” The kettle was whistling. She poured hot water into her cup, thinking. Am I going to have to put up a barrier of some kind every time I sleep? How frustrating... She fished out the teabag. Still... that dream...
---
Tom opened the door bare moments after she knocked. “Nita, hi, what’s up?” he said, standing aside so she could come in.
Nita stepped into the cool house, glad to be out of the sun. It was just past midday and the air was still and humid outside. “I’ve got a question, if you have time.”
“It’s no trouble.” Tom said. “Do want something to drink?”
“A glass of water?” Nita sat at the table while he got it from the kitchen. The table cloth had been pulled back halfway so that what seemed an inordinate number of zucchinis spread across the wood did not dirty it.
Tom returned with two glasses. He gave one to her and drank from the other. “What can I help you with?” he said.
Nita picked up her glass and took a sip, frowning. “You said that the Lone Power likes to work through people,” she said. “You said that sometimes when we think we’re doing the right thing, we can aid it by mistake. I want to know how you tell what those mistakes are.”
“Um.” Tom said. “Did you have any particular thing in mind?”
Nita put the glass down and traced a drop of water on its side. “I’ve been having bad dreams,” she said. “Not prophetic. At least, I don’t think they are.” She drank another gulp of water. “I never used to be able to fight. I was bullied, you know, and Mom and Dad got judo lessons for Dairine and me. I didn’t fight back, though, even when I got beaten up.” She smiled, a small, ironic expression, and looked down. “They worried about that.
“I’ve fought now, though: In Ireland, in the Song of Twelve, and at the Crossings back when the Pullulus was around. I’ve killed people,” she said. “And I recently created a spell which will help other wizards kill more people. And I don’t think I feel guilty about it.”
Tom started to speak, then paused. Slowly, as if checking every word before it came out, he said “That is a common survival strategy, you know. No-one could function if they carried with them the consequences of their every act.” His gaze was abstracted. “It is true that sometimes in the course of Errantry we are forced to take actions that are dubiously moral.”
Nita winced. “I know,” she said.
“For a while – after one of my more spectacular mistakes - I used to think that the word ‘Errantry’ was suspiciously similar to the word ‘error’, but they aren’t related. The Lone Power does try to manipulate wizards into killing. We do our best not to oblige it, but sometimes it’s inescapable.”
“So what happens when we do?” Nita said.
“We acknowledge it.” Tom said. “We acknowledge our responsibility and try to make it all equal out in the end. It’s not the same as feeling guilty. Can you see the difference?”
Nita thought about it. “I guess so...”
“As for your spell - given the talent you've shown recently for adapting and creating spells, I doubt that Callahan's Unfavourable Instigation will be the last you add to the manual.”
“You of all people should know that death can serve Life.” Nita jumped. Carl was leaning on the doorframe: she hadn't heard him arrive. “As long as that equation isn't reversed, we figure we're doing ok.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-07-05 07:03 pm (UTC)I especially loved the way you wrote the dream-scene; the prose really mimicked the feel of a dream, to me, especially this line: "And the nails dug into the skin of the thing that was maybe an apple and maybe a heart and pulled it open and it bled." (It was also just a great image, period!) Thanks for contributing to this challenge!
no subject
Date: 2011-07-05 10:25 pm (UTC)Nita's dream was gorgeously done as well, and I always always love conversations between Nita and Dairine (sisstterrsss~)so this was absolutely wonderful to read. Thought-provoking and a little chilling, but wonderful all the same.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-06 12:20 am (UTC)I've never thought how Nita never used to fight, and now she does, to the point where she has to kill. And yet, she's doing it for Life. Which is why what Carl says is perfect.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-07 12:33 am (UTC)This is a lovely line! And a lovely meditation on a very big issue.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-08 05:08 am (UTC)