The Forum's Scriptorium

[Róisín]

That was beautiful, and a little sad.

[dmeck7755]

That was beautiful, and a little sad.

It is but there is hope in it and a little smile about the surprise.

[LooNEY_DAC]

So, I guess it's been long enough for me to put up an ad again.

[RanVor]

So yeah, I have committed Code Geass fanfiction again, and after many trials and tribulations (ask Grey, I was mostly just waiting), it is finally up on ao3, where you can read it if you want. Or not read if you don't, I mostly just wanted to say that I've made something, I don't really expect you to be interested or to understand much of it.

[thegreyarea]

And another short one, this time with Emil! Fire

Ran, I really like your story. It works very well with the others, and I'm very curious about what comes next. Actually I think your stories are better than the source material.

LooNEY_DAC, I haven't read all the whole CSM, but what I read is very good! Someone should publish it.

[Grade E cat]

I had to write down a few Ascendance of a Bookworm ideas to allow my last SSSS fanfic to continue, but so far only one is resisting my chronic "this is a good beginning, but I have zero idea what to do for the rest of the story" problem.

Things Rozemyne is not allowed to do in the archducal castle and Royal academy:
1. Not allowed to read when I’m supposed to be working.
2. My status is second child of the archduke, not sixth most powerful adult in the duchy.
3. Not allowed to add "in accordance to the prophecy" to the answers I give to questions. If Hartmut likes the idea so much, he can do that himself.
4. Not allowed to name any new product "Get over it".
5. Not allowed to join the former Veronica faction on a whim.
6. Not allowed to join any faction other than the one I’m already part of.
7. This was supposed to be warning about starting my own faction, but it turns out some of my "relatives" are already doing that.
8. Not allowed out of the temple while archdukes of other duchies are visiting.
9. May not call any nobles of higher status than me immoral, untrustworthy, lying, slime, even if I’m right.
10. Must not taunt people from Ahrensbach anymore.
11. Must attempt to not antagonize the Sovereignty’s Knight’s Order
12. Must not tell any noble of higher status than me that I am smarter than they are, especially if it’s true.
13. Not allowed to chew that gum stuff in class, unless I brought enough for everybody.
14. Not allowed to chew that gum stuff in class, even if did bring enough for everybody.
15. I am not authorized to fire nobles of higher status than me.
16. It is better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission, no longer applies to Rozemyne.
17. I am not the Psychological Warfare Mascot. Ferdinand is much more suited to the job, anyway.
18. May not conduct psychological experiments on the rest of the archducal family. The same goes for my "biological" family.
19. Must not start any report with "I recently had an experience I just had to write you about…."
20. Must not challenge anyone of higher status than me to ditter. I don’t even like playing ditter.
21. If the thought of something makes me giggle for longer than 15 seconds, I am to assume that I am not allowed to do it. I am to assume the same for anything that makes the archduke giggle for that long. If it makes Ferdinand giggle, I am to record it into an ordonnanz and send it to the archduke to prove it actually happened.
22. Past lives have absolutely no effect on my status within the nobility.
23. Take that hair stick off.

[Yastreb]

I viewed a new piece of music by Phil Rey Gibbons, a composer I greatly esteem. The piece is called Gates To The Pantheon.

I was moved to comment...

These are the Gates to the Pantheon.

For those who strove for justice, who treated all with compassion, and worked for a better world, the Gates are open.

For those who reached out to the less fortunate, who comforted those in distress, and soothed the pain of those who suffered, the Gates are open.

For those who worked for the good of society, who raised their children to respect others regardless of any and all differences, and turned away from violence to foster peace in the world, the Gates are open.

For those who exploited and ruined the world, practiced and encouraged cruelty and dishonesty, made a mockery of justice, made a virtue of selfishness and disregard for the future, scorned and vilified those they perceived as below them, and laughed at suffering and inequality... the Gates are closed.

[dmeck7755]

i needed this out of my head to concentrate on secret santa
https://archiveofourown.org/works/43430788

[Yastreb]

This story is set in the world of my Dragonhost Saga, and takes place some years after the events intended for the fourth volume... so there may be some spoilers!

The inspiration came from a composition by Phil Rey Gibbons.

THE GIRL AND THE FOX

 She saw him standing at the edge of the clearing, ready to dart away in a blink.
“Don’t be afraid, my love,” she said.
He edged forward as she crouched down and reached out for him. She drew him into her arms and hugged him close.
“I’ve kept looking for answers. Gods, I’ve tried. Wise women, a hedge wizard... even a Veela Lord. They don’t know how to remove the spell. The Veela Lord told me there was a great mage who might know, but he’s far away. He said he would send word. He didn’t know how long we might wait...” Her tears soaked into the red fox’s fur. “I’ll wait for as long as I must. As we must.”
It was a long time before she released him and took out the flute.

***

The stranger walked into the village an hour before sunset, and drew cautious glances as he headed for the tavern. He was Human, a sturdy youth in a warrior’s harness over plain brown homespun, with a sword and a dagger at his side, a quiver of arrows over one shoulder, a bulky pack over his back and a longbow in his hand. What drew their eyes at first was the wolf cub trotting along beside him, but as he came closer they saw the puckered scar across his left cheek and another scar on his forehead that left a white streak in his chestnut-brown hair. A youth, perhaps, but one who had seen and survived battle, and the way he looked around as he walked into the tavern was that of someone eternally alert, who left nothing to chance.
He was the only stranger in the tavern, and the innkeeper looked at him warily.
“I will not stay here long,” the stranger said. His accent sounded Rashkan but deeper than that of most Humans. “A meal and ale is all I need.”
The innkeeper brought bread and cheese and sausage and a flagon of ale, and started in surprise at the silver coin handed to him. “And some meat for my wolf also,” the stranger added.
The innkeeper nodded and hurried away. Not only was this stranger generous with coin, but he bore a fine sword with an ornate hilt... that and the wolf cub deepened the mystery. He was no wandering knight in that garb; perhaps a sellsword seeking a new master?

It was nearing twilight when the stranger left the tavern, tossing another silver coin to the innkeeper and walking away without another word, the wolf cub trailing.
“He’s a rare one,” the innkeeper said to no-one in particular.

***

Yastreb called upon the Runes for the cat, enhancing his sight and hearing and sense of smell as he entered the forest past the village.
* Do you scent fox, Zalushka?
* Not yet.
* Then we wait.

The faint sound of music drew him out of meditation into instant awareness.
* I hear it, my brother.
* It’s time.
Yastreb rose to his feet. Slinging his bow, he began to pick his way through the trees, manifesting the Runes for the cat once again. It was not long before his Sight picked out the shape of a Human at the heart of the forest. Soon he could hear the music more clearly... a sad and haunting melody, played by someone who had mastered the flute.
Summoning other Runes to mask his scent and muffle the sounds he made moving through the bushes and undergrowth, he edged closer.
* I scent fox, my brother.
They were near the edge of a clearing, and the melody played on.
At the base of an ancient oak a young woman in fine clothing of silk and lace was crouching over where a fox lay curled up among the roots.
By the faint moonlight he could see the sparkle of tears on her face as she played on.
Finally she stopped and looked up at the moon.
“I have to go back,” she whispered.
The fox raised its head.
“One day. One day...”
“Today,” he said. “It can be today, Dushanka.”
The girl bit back a gasp as she jumped to her feet, and the fox sprang upright, standing by her as if ready to defend her.
“Who’s there?” she called out.
“My name is Yastreb. My companion is Zabeelushka. Lord Wolfkin told me of you... both of you.”
Yastreb stepped out slowly, keeping his open hands visible. Zabeelushka followed cautiously.
Dushanka looked him up and down. “Lord Wolfkin said... he knows a great mage. You’re a warrior!”
Yastreb manifested a moon orb and sent it to hover between them. “I’m a warrior when I must be. But a mage is what I am. And I’m here to right a wrong. Tell me what was done. Tell me who it was done to. And I will do what I can.”

They sat down by the oak, facing each other, and Dushanka began to speak.
“My parents... they have plans for who I should marry, when he is old enough. I don’t want that. There’s another...” She stroked the fox’s head. “Voyslav is the youngest son of an old house, but his family is not wealthy. They have great lands, but not as much wealth. But... I love him, and it would not be a bad marriage for my house, if I cared about that. But my parents care only about the gold and silver that Milosh Voyinok would bring them. They want to show that wealth when they go to the court at Belogra.”
“How long until he... that is, Milosh... is old enough?”
“Two more years. He’ll be twelve. I will be seventeen.”
“And Voyslav?”
“He’s just a year older than I am.”
Yastreb thought back to Caillor, to Gisela and Wolgrez. “I understand. I know why. Now... what was done?”
Dushanka swallowed back tears. “I... I don’t know, not for certain. Only... that they said they would keep Voyslav from me, that the Gods would see to it. He would not die, so that House Vedrenok wouldn’t be able to declare war on them. And... this happened.”
The fox whimpered softly.
“The fox is on the Vedrenok coat of arms. Whatever they did... it was a joke to them to do it this way.” She looked Yastreb in the eye, and her eyes spilled over. “What can you do?”
“What I can. Both of you, stay still and stay silent. And know this. I must see into your spirits, to bring you together. Do not be afraid.”
He manifested the Sight again, and slipped into Transcendence as the life-sparks of the girl and the fox became clear. Twined with the fox’s form was another shape, and it was Human.
* There will be pain, Zalushka. I’m sorry, but there’s no other way.
* Do what you must, brother.
He drew forth Beast Runes, and then shaped the Spirit Runes for Sending, clenching his teeth in anticipation of the pain to come...
Through the red haze he reached out to both minds.
* Think of each other. Think only of each other. Clear your thoughts of anything else.
The images flowed into his mind, growing sharper...
* Your heart beats in his soul. Your heart beats in her soul. Let your love make him whole. Let your love restore what was. Let your love take away what should not be.
He reached into the Beast Rune, unweaving the threads that twined it into the Human shape...
* Be the fox no more. Be who you truly are. Be Voyslav Vedrenok.
The Beast Rune faded from his Sight.
* Let what should be... truly be.
Yastreb heard a stifled cry of joy, and opened his eyes to see Dushanka clumsily embracing a naked youth sprawled among the roots.
“I doubted you!” she gasped. “Forgive me! Great mage!”
The youth slowly turned his eyes towards Yastreb. “I bless you...” he whispered. “Whatever you wish... If it’s in my power, my family’s power, it will be done...” Suddenly he looked down at himself, and cringed, clasping his knees to his chest. “Oh! I’m sorry...”
Dushanka, blushing crimson, released Voyslav. “I didn’t think of that! What do we do?”
Yastreb gave a long sigh as the pain receded and eased the pack from his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Dushanka. I brought some clothing. Plain, but useful. It should fit, more or less.” He rose to his feet and turned away as Voyslav began to open the pack. He was moving awkwardly for a moment, but soon he had opened the buckles.
* Granya taught me well, little sister. She’ll be pleased at what I achieved here.
Dushanka was at his side.
“My family... they won’t approve. I pray that what you’ve done won’t lead to misfortune for you.”
“I did what I had to do to right a wrong. I did what I could. They’re not always the same. But to fail to act? That’s not my way.”
“You speak as a true knight should.” She grasped his hand and raised it to her lips. “A mage who does deeds like a knight? I never heard of such a thing.”
He could not hold back a wry grin as something Radul had said long ago came to mind... the story tellers wouldn’t tell the truth about you, would they? The humble peasant lad who slays dark monsters and bandits and gy’avol with mighty magic, like the Saviours did? No, that’s for knights and heroes. Not for mages. He remembered too what Rajko the mercenary had said... Whoever you really are, what name you should bear, you behaved as a true knight should. Blood will tell.
“The desire to right wrongs... it’s not from the blood.”
“I remember now!” Voyslav had managed to don breeches and a tunic. “This one is no knight, Dushanka! Yastreb the Veela’s son! Sworn brother to Queen Myrallea.”
The legend has become truth. I’m remembered for a lie.
Dushanka lowered her hands. “No wonder Lord Wolfkin said you could help us. But... the Queen’s sworn brother? You came for us?”
“Finish dressing, Voyslav. Then you must leave. Both of you, if that’s your wish.”
Dushanka covered her mouth again.
“Both of us...?” Voyslav whispered. “How?”
“Finish dressing, then come with me.”

Hand in hand, Dushanka and Voyslav followed him to the edge of the forest. He glanced back and saw them looking at each other as if to reassure themselves.
“What now?” Dushanka looked around anxiously, grimacing at the sight of the castle beyond the village, and then cried out in surprise as a white horse with a flowing mane and tail of shining gold seemed to walk out from behind a tree no wider than a man’s hand.
“Greetings to you,” the horse said in a deep whisper that seemed to rumble more from its belly than its jaws. “I am Yabutchilo. I am here to take you home.”
Dushanka and Voyslav stood slack-jawed in disbelief.
“He speaks the truth,” Yastreb said. “Climb on his back. Trust me, you won’t fall.”
“He speaks the truth.” Yabutchilo snickered. “You are safe with me.”
Voyslav paused for a moment before springing up and astride Yabutchilo’s back and reaching down to help Dushanka up to sit behind him.
“It’s three or four days to my home,” Vaslav said. “We’ve no money for the way...”
“Days?” Yabutchilo tossed his head, and amusement sparkled in his golden eyes. “Hours, my friends!”
“How?”
There was a brief flexing, and suddenly wings like an eagle’s, snow-white edged with golden feather, blossomed out from Yabutchilo’s shoulders with a slight crack from the tips.
“I know the way.” Yabutchilo edged back from the tree line. “Farewell, Yastreb. Travel safely. Until we meet again, in this land or another.”
“Bless you, in the name of the Saviours,” Dushanka said.
“I owe you a debt,” Voyslav said. “And by my honour, I will repay.”
“Be happy,” Yastreb said.
Yabutchilo bounded upwards, rising into the night sky. His legs began to move as if he was cantering, mist billowing around his hooves as he ascended with the only sound the cries of awe from those on his back.
* They’ll speak of this, brother. Another piece of your legend.
* At least this will have some truth to it.

[Róisín]

Well! That fox tale is sweeter than that of Reynardine. Or even the Japanese story of the nine-tailed kitsune. Well done Yastreb!

[dmeck7755]

Yastreb,
Wow Thank you.  This is a lovely story.

[Yastreb]

MORITURI

"The situation is grave," the Wing Commander said. His face was haggard from sleepless nights and the strain of command; of sending men out to die. "The Meuse bridges have to be cut to stop the German advance."
No-one spoke. We'd been there.
"I'm calling for volunteers."

When 15 Squadron first deployed to France in September 1939, we were confident. The Advance Air Strike Force was well-equipped, so we were told, and that's how it seemed at first. But doubts began to creep in. The Battle was a good aircraft for its day; a single-engined bomber with three crew and a capacity for a standard load of four 250-pound bombs. But it was over 100 knots slower than just about any fighter you could name, with no armour or self-sealing tanks, and just a single Vickers K machine-gun for the third crewman to use. The pilot had a single machine-gun too, for all the good that did. The Battle was no fighter. It was a barge compared with fighters.
When the German offensive began we went straight into action, bombing German columns advancing through Belgium. In two days we lost two Battles shot down and three others so badly damaged they were written off.
Then came the orders to bomb the bridges over the Meuse River, to stop the German advance and prevent a catastrophic breakthrough. Four of our Battles were shot down and three more badly damaged and written off. Now there were just six, two of them hastily repaired. 
I'd been lucky. My Battle, which I had whimsically dubbed Beatrix, hadn't taken a scratch.

In the silence that followed the Wing Commander's words, I thought of numbers. Six Battles lost, six beyond repair; eighteen men I'd known, four from my school days, all missing, presumed dead. Maybe some had survived, but I doubted it…
"I see." The Wing Commander looked down at this feet. "Two squadrons of Hurricanes will be escorting. Take-off is in one hour." I thought I heard a sob. "Godspeed, gentleman."
I didn't realise that I'd stepped forward.
I looked around and saw that everyone had stepped forward. Dave Charnley, my bomb aimer, and Roger Brennan, my air gunner, were at my back.
Eleven crews; thirty-three men. But only six crews would fly.

I went back to my quarters, and found the letter I had been writing to Anne last night. I hadn’t finished it. I looked at the last sentence I’d written, a bit of gossip that I thought would amuse her, and tried to think of a way to end the letter, but in the end, I signed as I always had, and put the letter in an envelope for my orderly to post. 

I was the leader of A flight. The other pilots joined me in looking at the map of the approaches to the Meuse bridges, trying to work out the best approach.
"We need cover from their ack-ack," Bill Forbes said. He’d survived two crash-landings, and something in his eyes made me think he wasn’t expecting to survive the next. 
"North-east, here, using the ridges as cover." I traced a line on the map. "Their guns will only have, what, thirty seconds before we're over the bridges."
"You'll have that long to line up." Paul Sharpe’s voice was taut. He was the only one left of D Flight. “And we’ll have one chance only.”
“Dive bombing hasn’t worked. We have to try something else.” I realised that my voice was sounding harsh.
Bill and Paul looked at each other.
“All right, sir,” Bill said.
“Morituri, te salutamus,” said Paul.
I knew what that meant. We’d all learned Latin. But hearing it then...
“Let’s go,” I said.
We who are about to die, salute you.
There was time to confer with Roger Wilton, leading B Flight.
“We’ll be going in high,” he said. “Better chance to hit...”
I understood their thinking. If they were going to be killed, then let it be making a successful attack.

It was forty minutes after sunrise when we took off, to find our escort circling; fourteen Hurricanes. Two squadrons, the Wing Commander had said, so there should have been twenty-four; but the fighter squadrons had taken heavy losses as well.
There was one other aircraft with us. A French Bloch MB174; a trim twin-engine bird with three crew that could outrun a Hurricane and maybe even a Spitfire. The pilot told us his job was to watch the attack and report back. I remember he looked pale as he spoke. His name was Antoine, and he looked twice my age, but that’s all I remember about him.

Five minutes out, and we’d seem no sign of German fighters so far, B Flight broke away to climb to three thousand feet as I led A Flight down to tree-top height. We were in V-formation, and I was leading.
Then the leader of our escort spoke; “Bandits, north-east, twenty plus, engaging!”
“Hold formation, we’re going in,” I told the flight. The Hurricanes were outnumbered. Some of the Germans would break through.
“I’ll hold them off, skipper,” said Roger Brennan. “Trust me.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” said Dave Charnley. “Just as long as you keep them off until we get us over the bridges, I’ll do my part.”
“Quiet down, chaps,” I said. “Concentrate. We’ll all do our part.”
I know. Trite words. But we can’t all make grand speeches. What should I have said? Once more unto the breach, dear friends? Or Gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accursed they were not here? Neither of those came to me. I kept my mind on the mission.
“Skipper, bandits, six o’clock!” Dave Charnley called out. “Three 109s!”
One each. And they had heavy cannons. They could tear us apart.
We were two minutes out. I could see the dust rising from the road leading to the bridges. There’d be a convoy, and it would have ack-ack of its own.
“Just hold them off! We’re almost there!” 
I saw tracers fly past us; not at us. The others...
“We’re on fire!” Paul shrieked, and then he was cut off.
“I’m hit...” That was all Bill said.
Two Messerschmitts arced past us, climbing away, and then I heard Roger’s Vickers-K firing, a single snarling rip, and he cried out, “I got the bastard! He’s down!”
I said nothing. The ridge was barely a minute away.
“They’re circling back,” Dave said. “Good shot.”
I couldn’t get Beatrix to go any faster. We were on our own.
“They’re forming up, line astern.” Roger’s voice quivered. “Coming in!”
I didn’t dare look around.
There was another burst from the Vickers-K, and Roger shouted again, “I got him! Oh my God, he’s down, he’s...”
Something smashed into Beatrix, and I flinched as if I’d been hit. But she was still flying, and we cleared the ridge to see the convoy below us, lorries and half-tracks, and tracers were flying up at us...
“Roger’s gone...”
I glanced up at the mirror I’d had fitted above the cockpit, something the Hurricane pilots had recommended, and saw the Messerschmitt lining up on us.
This close! I was about to shout at Dave to release the bombs before we were shot down, may as well kill some Germans before they get us, when suddenly the Messerschmitt vanished from sight.
Next moment I saw it slam into the roadway below, exploding in a fireball that engulfed two lorries, and a Hurricane swept past us, banking away.
I saw the pontoon bridges ahead, three of them, one broken and ablaze.
“Dave, get ready, trying for both!”
I angled Beatrix slightly to port. Bullets were hitting us. Not cannon-shells, just machine-guns. The light flak, their Oerlikons and Bofors, would be on the river banks.
“Ready, skipper, just keep her steady...”
I heard the clunk, clunk of two bombs releasing, and then two more, and I raised the nose to clear the ridges on the far bank as more tracers flew around us, and these were bigger, twenty-millimetre I guessed, and Beatrix shuddered again, and again, and she swung hard to port, wing dropping, and I fought to keep her level...
We were heading for the trees atop the ridge, and I dragged the stick back hard. No time for gentle handling. I was risking a stall, but if I didn’t we’d go straight in...I think we brushed the tree tops, but then we were over, and the tracers weren’t following us any longer.
Beatrix was handling badly. I glanced at both wings, and they’d been hit hard, both ailerons shredded. I could see vapour trailing from the nose; coolant leak.
“Skipper,” Dave said wearily. He sounded as if he was about to pass out. “Roger’s dead. I think a shell hit his gun. I’m all right. Scored hits...”
“We did what we came to do.” I realised that I was sounding the same. “I’ll get us back...”
The Hurricane had formed up on our starboard side. I saw the pilot look at us, and then tap his headphones; so his radio must be out. Then again, the Hurricane looked badly hit, with fabric blown away from the fuselage to reveal the framework beneath.
Moments later, the MB-174 swooped down to form up on our port side. I saw the crew looking at us, and Antoine giving us a thumbs-up. I acknowledged with a salute.
For now, that didn’t matter. We had to get back.

Beatrix lasted until final approach, when the engine cut out. I landed her anyway. The starboard main tyre burst, and we ground-looped, with both gear legs buckling. She slid for a good distance before coming to rest.
We made it out, and the other pilots were there, wringing our hands, but I couldn’t speak. Everything came back at once, and I fell to my knees. I was sobbing. I knew we were the only one to return before they told me.
Antoine had landed. He came over and told us that all three bridges had been hit. So we’d succeeded. But I knew, even as he told us that news, that the Germans would have new bridges up within twenty-four hours at most.

The Wing Commander wrote a citation recommending me and Dave for the Victoria Cross. For some reason he left our Roger. In the end I received the Distinguished Flying Cross, and Dave the Distinguished Flying Medal. Roger ended up with a Mention In Dispatches.
When we were finally evacuated to England, I put in a request to transfer to Fighter Command. I knew I could never go in for another bomb run. 
The transfer was approved, and that’s how I ended up among The Few, the ones that inspired Churchill to talk about “their finest hour.”

I would have said that the finest hour was the last flight of 15 Squadron. We did our duty and wrecked those bridges. If others squandered our victory, it takes nothing away from what we did.

[thegreyarea]

Nicely done, Yastreb! It's been a while since I read a WWII story that felt like we are hearing it from someone that was actually there, particularly that last remark, "We did our duty", that I've heard from veterans before.

Also a well-thought and very appropriate title.

[Yastreb]

Thank you! You would have liked an earlier posting of mine, A Hole In A Moccasin, which was in the same style.

WRT the character Antoine and his aircraft; that's actually Antoine de Saint-Exupery, the aviator and author of the classics The Little Prince and Wind, Sand and Stars. He flew a Bloch MB-174 during the Battle of France, and wrote of that time in his memoir Flight To Arras (which I must read someday).

[dmeck7755]

Yastreb,
Well done!! Thank you