Fic: A Battle of Seers (Gen, PG)
Jul. 6th, 2011 01:43 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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dai_stihoTitle: A Battle of Seers
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
animus_wyrmis
Rating: PG
Word count: 1100
Prompt: This statement from shitmystudentswrite.tumblr.com as an AU, thanks to the Lone Power's interference in the timeline: "Rome went on to conquer other territories and planets."
Summary: Aeneas and the Cumaean Sybil journey into the Underworld. Things go a little differently.
Notes: With apologies to Vergil, and thanks to Robert Fagles. Large swathes of this have been lifted liberally from the Fagles' translation of Aeneid VI. Thanks also to my beta, and apologizes for being a bit late on this--I had some last-minute trouble with the ending.
“Who is that, Father?” Aeneas asked. “Matching Marcellus stride for stride? A son, or one of his son’s descendants born of noble stock? What acclaim from his comrades! What fine bearing, the man himself! True, but around his head a mournful shadow flutters, blacker than night.”
“Bursting even the decrees of fate, he too will be Marcellus,” Anchises replied. “No enemy could ever go against him in arms and leave unscathed, whether he fought on foot or rode on horseback, digging spurs in his charger’s lathered flanks. And in the midst of his triumph in Britain, he will find the winged chariots of the gods, a gift of Hades himself, and in them he will fly to the very stars in search of his deified ancestors. And through him, Rome will stretch through the skies to the stars, to other worlds, to Olympus itself and yet farther.”
The god stirred within the Sybil, and she lifted her head. Coming through the dark mists and swamps and down the stairs into That One’s domain had been difficult enough, although she knew her duty to passing heroes, but it had weakened her wizardry, and there was still the return journey to make. Yet even in this mind-dampening place she could feel the threads of time being rewritten, and she knew too that it was up to her to reweave them. The Sybil gave herself back to the god’s power.
“Fairest and fallen,” she cried. “Greetings and defiance! I see your work in this prophecy, I see your hand extending this boy’s life. Marcellus, you are not to journey to the stars!”
Anchises and Aeneas turned to stare at her, but the Sybil only had eyes for Marcellus’s shade, which was solidifying before her eyes, his eyes bright and cold and terrifyingly familiar. “Yet I have spoken it,” he said, his voice like a knife against her chest. “Marcellus does not die—that is what you were going to say, is it not? That he will die, having raised aloft the hopes of his people only to dash them with illness? That he will leave behind a grieving widow, a grieving uncle, an empire without an heir?”
“That is how it goes,” the Sybil said. “I have seen it. I have written it on leaves and spoken it aloud. And besides, no man in this age can yet journey beyond the skies. It will be many, many ages after the Roman Empire that this will be.”
“Well then,” said the Lone Power through Marcellus’s mouth, “you must try and stop me, seer.”
And so the Sybil did. It was not a battle of wizards in the conventional sense of the Cumaean wizards at that time; the Sybil’s gifts lay in prophecy instead of in spells, and she took her wizardry straight from the god when he possessed her. So the battle was a battle of prophets. As she spoke the future, the Lone Power would speak a new one; as he foretold a future of flying chariots and conquests beyond the stars, Roman rule extending out from the whole planet, she told a future of Agrippa and Nero, of Vespasian and Hadrian and Julian. She told the futures the god had told her as fast as she could: the denial that the Earth was a sphere; the eventual acceptance that it was; the thousands of years before anyone would fly like a bird or even dare to think about going farther.
In front of them, the descendants of Aeneas stood in a line and metamorphosed as they spoke. In one future there were more; in another there were less; in some there were women and in some there weren’t even humans at all.
If the Sybil were honest with herself, there were moments when her own future looked less bright than the one That One offered her. He saw this—he could not have missed it—and pounced: “Do you prefer your own prophecy to this, Sybil? There will be room for you here. For you will be here to see it, will you not? Though once a mortal woman, now you are cursed with too much life. You will age and wither here, and die when you are too small to live even in your jar, when even your voice has died away. But if you journey with Marcellus, he will take you to planets you can only dream of, planets that can restore your youth and vitality and even your virginity.”
She was tempted. She could not help it. But however bright the future might be for Marcellus, or her, or Rome itself, an empire expanding across the constellations with the Lone Power at its head could only bring darkness for the universe.
“No,” she said. “I will not let others die that I might live. And Marcellus—I see the boy you have taken, and he will not allow it either. Marcellus, throw It off! Or else it will be an endless war, the Gates of Janus open for eternity. Wars, horrendous wars throughout the universe—you will find a new Tiber foaming with tides of blood, a new Simois, a new Xanthus, an Achilles in every planet! This is what I see!”
And, to her surprise, Marcellus seemed to stir deep inside his own shade. The Lone Power bristled and stiffened, but the cloud around Marcellus’s head lightened and changed until it was only the cloud of an early death.
“You will be Marcellus,” Anchises was saying as if he had not noticed the battle in front of him. “Fill my arms with lilies, let me scatter flowers, lustrous roses—piling high these gifts, at least, on our descendant’s shade—and perform a futile rite.”
The Sybil took a deep breath and settled herself. “Come,” she said to father and son. “There is much yet to see.”
“I cannot change what my brother says,” Apollo whispered to her. “You will wither and die. I cannot give you endless youth now, my Sybil. My Deiphobe.”
It does not matter, the Sybil decided. For no woman, no wizard, is meant to live forever.
There are twin Gate of Sleep. One, they say, is called the Gate of Horn and it offers easy passage to all true shades. The other glistens with ivory, radiant, flawless, but through it the dead send false dreams up toward the sky. And here Anchises, his vision told in full, escorts his son and Sybil both and shows them out now through the Ivory Gate.
Author:
animus_wyrmisRating: PG
Word count: 1100
Prompt: This statement from shitmystudentswrite.tumblr.com as an AU, thanks to the Lone Power's interference in the timeline: "Rome went on to conquer other territories and planets."
Summary: Aeneas and the Cumaean Sybil journey into the Underworld. Things go a little differently.
Notes: With apologies to Vergil, and thanks to Robert Fagles. Large swathes of this have been lifted liberally from the Fagles' translation of Aeneid VI. Thanks also to my beta, and apologizes for being a bit late on this--I had some last-minute trouble with the ending.
“Who is that, Father?” Aeneas asked. “Matching Marcellus stride for stride? A son, or one of his son’s descendants born of noble stock? What acclaim from his comrades! What fine bearing, the man himself! True, but around his head a mournful shadow flutters, blacker than night.”
“Bursting even the decrees of fate, he too will be Marcellus,” Anchises replied. “No enemy could ever go against him in arms and leave unscathed, whether he fought on foot or rode on horseback, digging spurs in his charger’s lathered flanks. And in the midst of his triumph in Britain, he will find the winged chariots of the gods, a gift of Hades himself, and in them he will fly to the very stars in search of his deified ancestors. And through him, Rome will stretch through the skies to the stars, to other worlds, to Olympus itself and yet farther.”
The god stirred within the Sybil, and she lifted her head. Coming through the dark mists and swamps and down the stairs into That One’s domain had been difficult enough, although she knew her duty to passing heroes, but it had weakened her wizardry, and there was still the return journey to make. Yet even in this mind-dampening place she could feel the threads of time being rewritten, and she knew too that it was up to her to reweave them. The Sybil gave herself back to the god’s power.
“Fairest and fallen,” she cried. “Greetings and defiance! I see your work in this prophecy, I see your hand extending this boy’s life. Marcellus, you are not to journey to the stars!”
Anchises and Aeneas turned to stare at her, but the Sybil only had eyes for Marcellus’s shade, which was solidifying before her eyes, his eyes bright and cold and terrifyingly familiar. “Yet I have spoken it,” he said, his voice like a knife against her chest. “Marcellus does not die—that is what you were going to say, is it not? That he will die, having raised aloft the hopes of his people only to dash them with illness? That he will leave behind a grieving widow, a grieving uncle, an empire without an heir?”
“That is how it goes,” the Sybil said. “I have seen it. I have written it on leaves and spoken it aloud. And besides, no man in this age can yet journey beyond the skies. It will be many, many ages after the Roman Empire that this will be.”
“Well then,” said the Lone Power through Marcellus’s mouth, “you must try and stop me, seer.”
And so the Sybil did. It was not a battle of wizards in the conventional sense of the Cumaean wizards at that time; the Sybil’s gifts lay in prophecy instead of in spells, and she took her wizardry straight from the god when he possessed her. So the battle was a battle of prophets. As she spoke the future, the Lone Power would speak a new one; as he foretold a future of flying chariots and conquests beyond the stars, Roman rule extending out from the whole planet, she told a future of Agrippa and Nero, of Vespasian and Hadrian and Julian. She told the futures the god had told her as fast as she could: the denial that the Earth was a sphere; the eventual acceptance that it was; the thousands of years before anyone would fly like a bird or even dare to think about going farther.
In front of them, the descendants of Aeneas stood in a line and metamorphosed as they spoke. In one future there were more; in another there were less; in some there were women and in some there weren’t even humans at all.
If the Sybil were honest with herself, there were moments when her own future looked less bright than the one That One offered her. He saw this—he could not have missed it—and pounced: “Do you prefer your own prophecy to this, Sybil? There will be room for you here. For you will be here to see it, will you not? Though once a mortal woman, now you are cursed with too much life. You will age and wither here, and die when you are too small to live even in your jar, when even your voice has died away. But if you journey with Marcellus, he will take you to planets you can only dream of, planets that can restore your youth and vitality and even your virginity.”
She was tempted. She could not help it. But however bright the future might be for Marcellus, or her, or Rome itself, an empire expanding across the constellations with the Lone Power at its head could only bring darkness for the universe.
“No,” she said. “I will not let others die that I might live. And Marcellus—I see the boy you have taken, and he will not allow it either. Marcellus, throw It off! Or else it will be an endless war, the Gates of Janus open for eternity. Wars, horrendous wars throughout the universe—you will find a new Tiber foaming with tides of blood, a new Simois, a new Xanthus, an Achilles in every planet! This is what I see!”
And, to her surprise, Marcellus seemed to stir deep inside his own shade. The Lone Power bristled and stiffened, but the cloud around Marcellus’s head lightened and changed until it was only the cloud of an early death.
“You will be Marcellus,” Anchises was saying as if he had not noticed the battle in front of him. “Fill my arms with lilies, let me scatter flowers, lustrous roses—piling high these gifts, at least, on our descendant’s shade—and perform a futile rite.”
The Sybil took a deep breath and settled herself. “Come,” she said to father and son. “There is much yet to see.”
“I cannot change what my brother says,” Apollo whispered to her. “You will wither and die. I cannot give you endless youth now, my Sybil. My Deiphobe.”
It does not matter, the Sybil decided. For no woman, no wizard, is meant to live forever.
There are twin Gate of Sleep. One, they say, is called the Gate of Horn and it offers easy passage to all true shades. The other glistens with ivory, radiant, flawless, but through it the dead send false dreams up toward the sky. And here Anchises, his vision told in full, escorts his son and Sybil both and shows them out now through the Ivory Gate.
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Date: 2011-07-07 02:13 am (UTC)I really like the way you extrapolate this into the description of the battle, with the futures changing as they speak. And the ending, with the description of the Gates of Sleep, is beautiful.
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Date: 2011-07-08 04:42 am (UTC)The description at the end is taken straight from Vergil, who took it straight from Homer in the Odyssey. Some of my very favorite lines. :)
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Date: 2011-07-08 03:49 am (UTC)Quick mod note, though: Could you edit this post to include your fic title as the post title? It's helpful when we're looking at the list of entries. :)
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Date: 2011-07-08 04:42 am (UTC)Oh, duh, of course.
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Date: 2011-07-09 09:22 pm (UTC)rusting_roses directed me to that Tumblr initially, and when I found that post, I thought it would be a really interesting prompt for any number of fandoms - needless to say, I'm OP, and wow, you definitely just floored me. *sits and stares for a while*
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Date: 2011-07-18 01:30 am (UTC)