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WIP Excerpt: Lost Hero

Adapting a fanfiction into a ‘real’ book. Playing with archetypes is fun!!

Genre: Fantasy, not high...more medium?

Word Count: 88,400

Synopsis: Ero Gotkasi is the Chosen One, Wielder of the Sword of Tanyr, the Champion of the Goddess. Destined from birth to battle against the gathering darkness. And destined to fail, betrayed by those he swore an oath to serve.

Into the scene came a hideous beast. The firelight made the wool and straw construction seem almost like real fur and scales. It had too many legs, masked head snarling. Shouts of frightened hilarity rose as the creature swooped down on the onlookers, shaking its bristling mane, stomping in time to the drums.

The story-weaver brandished his blade. He struck the creature and the faux sword snapped in two. The stunned ‘hero’ stood gaping, staring past his ruined weapon into the beast’s maw. A shout of laughter chased the man from the stage, defeated and scrambling with comic haste.

The drums swelled and another man entered, dressed in deep brown and green. June looked again to the Champion, who watched with lowered brows. The new actor shouted challenge. The beast roared and battle was joined.

Back and forth they danced, first the hero, then the beast with the upper hand. A gasp rose as the hero fell beneath the monster’s grasping claws, arms straining to hold back gnashing teeth.

The beast reared back to strike. The hero rolled free, snatched up his fallen sword, and braced the blade as the beast impaled itself on the upturned point.

A might cheer rose and the beast was carted off amid the triumphant jeers of the crowd. The real Champion’s companion leaned down to say something in his ear.

“Wasn’t how it happened,” the Champion whispered fiercely.

“You want to go correct them?” his friend shot back with a grin.

“One of his battles?” Ninan murmured to June, eyes on the victory procession moving past them.

“I assume so.”

More of the boy’s exploits were displayed, frightful ogres, giant serpents, pirates, a besotted NAME princess. All fell before his might.

June would not have believed half of these stories, until recently. She had not believed when Ninan brought news of the death of the MONSTER, a terrible creature on her northern border who had slaughtered an entire battalion of her border guards.

Witnesses had described a young man, armed with a divine weapon. A silent warrior who slew the creature with deadly ease and vanished into night before the grateful villagers could ask his name. A fairy legend come to life.

More stories followed as the fire burned down, the light changing from gold to red. The tales changed as well, less costume and more recitation, chanting almost. Darker, older tales of the Champions from ages past. Until finally the story-weaver stood and spoke as the First Hero.

Tanyr.

The crowd was quiet, now. Children slept in their parents’ arms. The fire was allowed to fade, until the moon alone lit the plaza with silver light.

It was a tale June knew well. It was retold all over the sub-continent, how the First Hero had defeated his greatest enemy, once his dearest friend, consumed by greed and evil. No actor played opposite the man, but June could almost see a shadow challenging. A horrible figure of darkness that was once a man.

Tanyr stood firm, sorrowful, but undeterred. They clashed, their battle shaking the earth itself. Tanyr fell, wounded by the Dark One. The drums were barely audible, felt more than heard as Tanyr groaned, blood streaming from the mortal wound in his flank.

June’s attention was broken by a sudden motion. She looked down to where the Champion’s hand gripped his tunic. His fingers tightened, fist pressed against the same place the actor did, where legend told Tanyr had been pierced by the darkness.

She looked to the boy’s profile. The moonlight washed the color from his face and reflected white in his eyes. In the night, June couldn’t tell their shade. The flickering embers cast a rainbow over them, first pale, then dark, then golden bronze.

How many Champions had held Tanyr’s sword? How many warriors had waged this eternal fight, through untold ages until this very moment? Could this boy, this soldier, could he remember them? Was he reliving this battle once again? Was the face of darkness one he recognized?

June shivered inside her borrowed wrappings. Was it the story-weaver’s magic chilling the air with fear? Or was it sorrow? June could not place the emotion in her chest, cold and biting, almost loathing. Yet Tanyr had not hated his enemy, had in fact loved him, once his brother. But the feeling was there, chewing at her. If not the enemy, who then did the First Hero hate so absolutely?

[writingrampant]

Challenge Accepted #1

Prompt:

A teenage boy already going through growing pains gets a school assignment to write about his family history. He’s adopted. And the only parents he’s ever known?

They’re spies.

Joshua read the first line of the homework assignment and groaned. It was swallowed by the general chorus of complaints, some deep and rasping, some rising in a childish whine. Mrs. O’Neal ignored them, as she likely had ignored her students for the last two decades.

“Times New Roman, twelve-point, double space. Four pages,” she recited. It was her mantra. Joshua wondered if she had a tattoo of the phrase, she repeated it so often. If she hadn’t already made such arrangements, he would pay to have it engraved on her tombstone.

“Due Monday, beginning of class. And don’t even think about changing the file name, switching operating systems, etc., etc.” She swept a wry look over her students. “Just do it right the first time. It won’t kill you. Enjoy your lunch!”

It was their prerogative to grumble, so they did. Even though they knew Mrs. O’Neal was the nicest of the English teachers. She sent them out with the bell, laughing at their feigned distress.

Joshua dragged behind the rest, still gripping the instruction sheet.

Narrative Essay: Tell your family history. Where did your parents meet? Where is your family from? Why is this important to you?

He stuffed it in his backpack and settled the straps. The warm fall sun met him outside. His parents had rented a tiny house just across from the school and open lunch meant he could escape there for fifty-three minutes every day.

“Afternoon, Joshua!” his mother trilled out the open window. He raised a half-hearted hand in hello. “Lunch is waiting, dearest!”

He winced as he went up the steps, still jarred by their new house. Their front yard was perfectly landscaped. A decorative flag hung by the front door, proclaiming “Summer Fun!” with a smiling watermelon underneath. He shuddered.

“Hey, mom,” he greeted, hoping he sounded a little enthusiastic. Inside was as bad as the out, like Pinterest had vomited Modern Country Chic all over the living room. His mom swept out of the kitchen and hugged him. He squeezed her back, reassured by her familiar smell, her arms around him. It made the discordant surroundings more tolerable.

He settled at the table and stared at the ridiculous lunch she placed before him. How she had found the time to bake a pie, make bread, homemade jam, and grind her own peanut butter, he would never know.

“How was school?” she asked, pouring him some milk. Probably organic, local, and thick as a milkshake from a cow named Deidre or Hazel or something like that.

“Fine.”

She peppered him with questions, which he tried to be patient about. She sat next to him and smiled. He didn’t like when she wore so much make-up. It was too perfect, somehow, too precise.

Her manicured nails – cream with a tiny strawberry on the pinkie – tapped the tablecloth.

Dad home late, she signaled, urging him vocally to try the new pie recipe.

Trouble? he tapped back.

Unclear. Prepared?

In locker.

Watch for signal.

He nodded and drained his milk. She ruffled his hair, her smile faltering a little. She held him close again.

“I love you, Josh,” she said, voice a little husky. “I love you so much.”

“You, too, mom.”

She jumped up and flitted away, talking about her book club meeting. He finished leisurely. The warning bell floated across the road.

“Got to go, mom. ‘Bye.”

“See you after school!” she called from the kitchen.

Josh shoved through a knot of gamer girls to reach his locker. He sorted through his books, preparing for the afternoon. His English homework fell to the ground.

He read the prompt again and sighed. He used to have fun creating ridiculous back-stories for his family, for their life. Now, it was only tedious. And reminded him of the life he would never have. He shoved it into a book.

In the bottom of his locker was a small, zipped bag. Heavy for its size and padlocked. He settled it in his backpack, praying he would not have to use it.

The last three classes dragged. His phone, checked surreptitiously under his desk, showed various alerts of his mother’s Instagram activity. Nothing suspicious there, innocuous pictures of her bread and pie. Josh loved it! read one caption. He shoved the phone into his pocket and bent over his math.

The final bell rang. He tried to walk nonchalantly with the rest, but he couldn’t stop his head from craning to peer at his driveway. His father’s car was there. He picked up speed, scanning the house. Upstairs windows were open, mailbox closed, porchlight off. No warning.

“Josh!” his father called as he threw open the door. Josh dropped his bag and crossed to his father. He hugged him tight, all the worry of the afternoon catching up to him.

“Hey, son, what’s up?” Josh shook his head, throat tight. His father held him a long moment, then pushed him back to smile at him. “Everything alright.”

It was a statement, not a question, a reassurance. Josh nodded agreement. “Yeah, everything’s good.”

Josh chased his peas around his plate at dinner. He knew his parents were exchanging glances over his head, but he didn’t care.

“Got homework today,” he said, breaking into their rattling description of their days.

“Oh?”

“Family story essay.”

“You love those!” his mom exclaimed.

“Yeah,” Josh drawled. “Love’m.”

More glances. “What’s wrong, son?” Josh bristled at his father’s hearty tone. How they decided on Perfect Modern Middle-American Family as their new cover…well, he certainly hadn’t been part of that vote.

“Nothing.” At least it gave him the chance to be as surly as he wanted. His father’s stare could be steely even as he smiled benevolently.

“Attitude, Josh,” he warned.

“Not hungry.” Josh shoved his plate away.

His room was upstairs overlooking the street. He bypassed the stairs and went down to the basement. The basement door was thick and heavy. He threw the catch behind him and flopped down on the couch.

It was cold and dim down here. And it had escaped the mason-jar remodel upstairs, which was a bonus. Instead, several laptops sat on a folding table. Various cases sat against the wall by the water-heater. A camera blinked mournfully at him from a dark corner. He buried his head in a pillow and closed his eyes.

His father joined him later, long enough that Josh started to feel a little chilled.

The lock fell into place, a solid ‘thunk’ of reinforced steel.

“What’s up?” his father asked, his voice back to normal, quiet and even.

“Nothing.”

He settled on the couch next to Josh. Grimacing, he straightened and removed his pistol from his back holster. Checking the chamber was clear, he set it aside.

“Kids at school bothering you?”

“No.”

“Girl you like?”

“No.”

“Well?”

“Just, stuff.”

“Like our family history?”

Josh scowled. “I’m running out of ideas.”

His father smiled. “And here I thought you were the brains of this outfit?”

Josh threw the pillow at him. “That’s mom, remember?” They sat in silence for a while, listening to the hum of the laptops and the clank of the water heater. “Mom said there was trouble?”

His father shrugged. “A little.” He rubbed his shoulder, wincing. “Needed a little…motivation.”

Josh grimaced, hoping the poor fool wasn’t too badly hurt. “We need to leave?”

“No, no. All taken care of.”

Josh looked at his father’ smile, his warm brown eyes, the way he locked his hands behind his head. He thought of the worry line creasing the perfect contouring of his mother’s forehead, the relief she showed in the way she touched her husband, the purr in her voice.

“Josh?”

Josh dragged an impatient hand across his eyes. “Nothing.”

He was still swallowed in a hug. He gripped his father’s shirt, breathing deep to fight back the tears.

“Everything is going to be okay,” his father’s voice rumbled next to his ear. “I will protect you. I promise.”

Josh nodded. “I’m fine. Stupid hormones.”

Why couldn’t teenagers be put in a coma for a few years and wake up in their adult bodies? It would save everyone a lot of grief, he thought. When his mother threatened to tie him up in a closet for the next five years, he had half-agreed with her. But that had been two aliases ago, when she was a ‘raging drunk’ and his father ‘incarcerated.’ That had been almost better than Perfect Pinterest Mom and Mr. America Dad.

His father released him and held him at arms-length. “I am proud of you, Josh.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Go do your homework.”

Josh groaned. “Dad, its Friday.”

“Procrastination –”

“Is the thief of time,” Josh finished wearily. “Yes, I know.”

His dad laughed. “I had something more lewd, but let’s go with that one.”

Josh grudgingly laughed. But he did spread his homework on the kitchen table. His mother dropped a kiss on his head.

“What will you write about?”

Josh shrugged. “Everyone can tell I’m adopted, so that’s easy.”

Though they all had brown hair and eyes, the features were wrong, his build too different to be blood. Josh was already dreading the chorus of ‘aaaaawwww’ waiting him as he read aloud on Monday.

“Circus performers?”

“Nah.”

“Met in Paris?”

“Did you?”

“No, Beirut. Both sets of twins?”

“I got this, mom.”

She nudged a plate of muffins at him and let him be. He stared at his laptop for a half hour, until the screen saver went to black.

Text block limit! Read the rest at writingrampant.wordpress.com Thanks!

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Thicker Than Water: Ch. 6

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

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WIP Excerpt: The Lost Hero

Genre: Fantasy

Words: 93000

Summary: Ero is the Hero reborn, destined to hold the sword of Tanyr, the first Hero, and fight the battle begun ages ago. However, betrayal, both mortal and divine, may allow the Shadow to overtake them all.

Scene summary: after escaping an assassination attempt and coup on the Queen of Vabia, she and Ero travel in secret to Ero’s homeland in hopes of reclaiming June’s throne. They stop to rest and Ero remembers past battles and lives, as well as the ancient hatred the First Hero still carries for his enemy.

Ero did his best to hide his impatience. June sat next to him, legs curled up, her head on her knees. She had pleaded for a few minutes rest. He could feel her shivers where her shoulder touched his. He unfastened his cloak and settled it over her shoulders.

“I’m fine,” she insisted.

“I’m not cold,” he said truthfully. White fingers slipped out to grasp the frayed edge of the garment and draw it closer. Satisfied, he went back to watching the rain. It gathered in fat drops on the edge of the hayshed that sheltered them and plopped to the puddles in the dirt.

The hay was dry, at least, and gave some protection from the wind. The gusts were not strong, but enough to keep their faces wet. Hopefully June wouldn’t come down sick.

The sound of the rain helped soothe the drive urging him to keep moving, keep running, never stop. It grew stronger, the longer he was away from people. He could walk for miles yet. But she couldn’t. So he sat in the darkness and waited.

“This is what it’s like,” he said suddenly, surprising even himself.

June shifted, looking over at him. He kept his eyes on fields beyond the rain.

“What I do, I mean. Being a ‘Hero,’ adventuring, or whatever you want to call it.”

“Cold?”

He smiled a little. “And wet. Lots of walking. Searching.”

“For?”

He shrugged. “Something. A…a feeling, maybe. A call for help.” The shadows here were soft, no hint of evil, no restless muttering. He’d feel safe to sleep here.

“Do you go alone?”

“Yes.” No one else could keep up for long, his strength and endurance beyond any mortal. And he refused to endanger others. It was better to die alone than live with the death of his loved ones due to his failure.

“Sounds miserable.”

It was, though most people thought it exciting. “It’s not that bad. Athusli, she helps. It’s boring, mostly. It’s nothing like the stories.”

June’s voice rippled with hidden laughter. “Tell me honestly, Ero, did you defeat the Giant of NAME with a wooden spoon?”

Ero had to laugh at that. “I will never live that down,” he complained. “It was a spoon, I guess, but it was as tall as I am and heavy. It had significant tactical advantage given the situation.”

He could see her smile in the night. “Any other artistic license taken with your exploits?”

“Too many to name. The stories, they are all wrong.” His amusement faded, listening to the ancient murmurings of the earth beneath him. He sighed, weary, but in a different way than the queen. “They’re always wrong.”

He thought she had fallen asleep before she asked softly. “Tell me.”

He tried to remember the tales told that night back in Athus. “The NAME was twenty feet long, not fifty. The MONSTER had three heads, not two. Drinking the blood of a NAME will kill you, not give you immortal life. Its poisonous and it burns your skin.”

He rubbed his arm. The scars were gone, healed by the grace of Athusli. But only after he’d walked for days in the blistering heat, every step agony, until he’d reached Athus and his father’s healers. A few days rest and he left his home yet again, called to do Her bidding.

How many beasts and men had he killed? For not all evil was formed of nightmares and teeth. Some he had faced were simple mortals, drunk with power. Seeking what they could not control.

“The eyes of a NAME can freeze you in place, steal your will to fight. You must lure it to a body of water, battle by the reflection. The NAME only eats the fruit of the PLANT and will not harm you if you stay away from its nest.” Dozens of battles, ranging across the subcontinent and beyond. Were they all his? Or memories of Hero’s past? It was hard to tell. He slipped further back, when fewer men stood against the wild.

“There used to be great herds of them, roaming across the plains. The boys would compete, try to mark one of the mammoths with a chalky handprint. Cut a lock of its fur as a prize.

“One could see for miles. The air was thin and so cold. Only the strongest of the MONSTER could survive there.

“I did not wed Athusli.”

He felt her jerk of surprise, was startled himself. But the words still came.

“Maiek betrayed us. He killed her.” The night air did not chill him, but this anger did, a tight, icy flame in his chest. “She sacrificed her life and for what? They did not heed my warning, her Sisters. They stayed my hand and Maiek escaped.”

Her fingers were cold on his. “Athusli lives. She protects you.”

“Hinue-“ He choked off, bitter and grieving. “Hinue made Her choice. And now we all suffer its consequences.”

And it would never end. He could see that. Reborn again and again, destined to fight this battle, always losing in the end, no matter the victor. Never able to rest, to be with her again.

Her fingers gripped his. “Ero. Ero, look at me.”

He did, tearing his eyes from the unseen battles around him, stretching into the past and future.

She spoke so softly he could barely hear it. “I would change nothing. Not a single choice, if it altered my fate now.”

Would he? If he could have stopped this, done more to protect her? Would he choose a different life?

What could she see of his face in the darkness? He could see hers as well as day, the colors muted, silvered so her eyes shone. As brilliant as her throne overlooking the ancient sea.

“It’s stopped.”

He came back to the night. The smell of clean hay, fertile earth, the soft, sweet smell of the grasses.

“The rain,” June said, drawing away. “We should continue on.”

Ero rubbed his face. Had he fallen asleep? “Yes. Yes, we…can you? Do you need to rest longer?”

“No.” There was something brittle in her tone. Shuttered. “No, I am well.” He took back his cloak.

“Please, Ero. Let’s go.”

[writingrampant]

WIP: Archer 887

Genre: Sci-fi, a little space opera-ish

Word count: 55,394

Synopsis: Sentient Captian Arsaces Wood and his AI starship must lead the desperate defense of their star system when an unknown enemy invades their space. The Queen is kidnapped and Arsaces launches an impulsive rescue attempt. Seperated from his Sentient, Arsaces begins to realize how extensively his body and mind have been altered, planting the fear that maybe he is not quite human anymore.

Hurry!”

Arsaces urged them faster, boosting Evi up through an access shaft, leaning down to lift Tate after them. His shoulder creaked under the man’s weight, but the joint held.

“Damn, you’re strong,” Tate muttered as they ran stooped over. Up another ladder, across a sky-bridge, down a second tunnel.

Any second now…

The floor shuddered.

“Was that-?”

Arsaces pushed himself up, ears ringing. He spat blood to the deck. He’d fallen? The air was thick with…smoke?

Explosion!

“Evi!”

He scrambled to her. She coughed, grimacing as he helped her up.

“Are you hurt?”

“I…I don’t think so. How did you know that would—wait! Where’s Tate?”

Arsaces peered through the hazy air. A blue jump boot stuck out from under a strut collapsed across the passage.

“Tate! Hold on!” Evi called to the trapped man. Arsaces tried to find a way through the mess. He cursed as his hand went to his pocket. No arc-tools, of course.

You couldn’t have foreseen this.

But how else to get him free?

“Tate?” Evi called. “Tate, can you hear me?”

A weak voice answered, too soft to make out.

“Hold on, we’re coming for you.” She spoke in a fierce whisper, “What are we going to do?”

Arsaces’ L-plant informed him of the impossibility of the task.

1.4 meters…steel alloy…134.7 kilograms…45.23…

Lift it.

They both pushed on it, unable to shift it.

Lift it, Arsaces.

It was impossible. Hundreds of kilos, wedged between the structural beams.

Tate cried out. His leg jerked.

Do it! Now!

The L-plant calmly continued feeding him information. 47 centimeters…0.97 meters…particulates: 5.6 ppm and rising…air temperature: 38 and rising…36.9 kilograms…

“Captain?” Tate’s voice hitched, scared. Panicked.

Your name is Arsaces Jankovic Wood. Do not panic.

“Arsaces, I see flames!”

“Ez odpo ara ed… ez odpo ara ed…” …There is a fire…There is a fire…

Always too many voices! Couldn’t he just have his own, for one fraac ghar minute!

Arsaces shoved Evi away from the metal trapping his crewman. Fool boy, chasing after him. He didn’t ask anyone to come rescue him, didn’t want them.

He braced his back against the now hot paneling. The edge of the strut was sharp and dug into his palms. It was a welcome pain, blocking out their incessant clamoring. Couldn’t they just leave him alone? He didn’t want them!

He hadn’t wanted a promotion or a crew or a houkon computer in his head. Put in there without his consent, with no other choice, a desperate grasp at salvation and now he would do anything to protect them and this stupid girl he barely knew, whom he loved and hated and adored.

“Arsaces, you can’t-!”

He felt his bones stiffen, responsive to the weight of the strut. Felt the tightening of his reinforced muscles, the speed of his half-plastic heart increasing to feed them. Felt how his entire body braced. Almost reveled in finally using the strength lying hidden.

The strut shifted. Under the growing roar, metal shrieked, bending, tearing.

Better leverage now. He got his shoulder under it and heaved up.

“Tate! Move!” Evi tugged at the man’s boots as he wiggled free. Sweat dripped from Arsaces’ face, the air thick with smoke.

“He’s out!”

Arsaces jerked back. The strut slammed to the deck with a deafening noise.

“Come on!” He slung Tate’s arm over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” the man panted.

“Save it. Not home yet.”

[writingrampant]

Thicker Than Water: Ch. 5

As Damian ate Ryan’s perfectly poached eggs, he considered.

She was some sort of private operative, as Dick had spent some years doing. Or a government agent, maybe retired for a blown cover.

Or she was a threat and would need to be eliminated.

Which was too bad, because she made an amazing chocolate chip cookie.

“Structurally, it is similar to an amphetamine,” Bruce said, twisting the computer’s rendering of the molecule.

“Explains the euphoria.” Damian held up the vial, a few milliliters still sloshing around inside. “This man, he said something about being chosen, that using this would show if I was one of them.”

His father scowled. “I hate cults.”

Damian hesitated, then spoke calmly. “I lied to you.”

His father’s face did not show much surprise. It made Damian squirm like he was thirteen again.

“What about?”

“I didn’t escape. Ryan helped me.”

“Who is Ryan?”

“Aine Ryan. Our butler-in-training.”

It took a lot to baffle the Bat, but that did it. “What.”

“She found me, took out three men. Blew up the flat. Stole a car. And had it cleaned, records rewritten. Bought me breakfast.”

His father’s bellow echoed from the depths of the cave. Pennyworth was unperturbed.

“You yelled, sir?”

“Get down here, now!”

Damian wondered if this was what normal children felt like, watching their parents argue. He stood awkwardly between his father and Alfred, trying not to make eye contact with either.

“You said she was safe.”

Alfred frowned. “You asked me to find someone capable, Master Bruce, not ‘safe’.”

“How do you know her?”

“Not personally, sir. A trusted friend, his niece.”

So at least that part was true.

“This friend,” Bruce hissed. “Who is he?”

“From my service days,” was the evasive answer. Damian had done some research and Alfred’s past was as murky as it came. They didn’t talk about it: actions mattered more than background checks.

“Threat in my home,” his father was growling.

“Proved her worth, hasn’t she?” Alfred challenged.

Damian had to speak up. “I would have been able to escape.” His stubborn honest streak made him add, “Though, likely with severe burns.” Curse Jon and his good influence. “Where are you going?” Damian asked sharply.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[writingrampant]

Ugh...

I am doing the draft where I retupe it word for word per some writing advice on here I cannot remember from where and it S U C K S.

The typing. Not the writing. I am rather pleased with my writings.

[writingrampant]

The Soldier of Ordon Chapter 1: Prime in Third, a legend of zelda fanfic | FanFiction

More fan-fiction, it just won’t stop! But also proof that you can and should write everywhere. You got a phone? You can write. On your lunch break, in the ER, at Disneyland. All places I added bits to this and to its sister ‘The Lost Hero.’ Every bit counts, my writblr friends!