Semi-Gods
folder
+M through R › Myst (Series)
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,129
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
+M through R › Myst (Series)
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
3
Views:
1,129
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the game that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
3. Accounting
Disclaimer: see pt.1.
*** 3. Accounting. ***
The rain seems regular in this Age, and as he writes in his journal, he wishes it’d never stop. This way, it blots out the screams of animals and the constant rustling in the jungle, which upset him with their sense of *presence*. He’s never liked hearing many voices at once, and crowds of strangers always awoke nothing in him but hunting instinct.
Of course there was a wreck when he linked there. This Age wasn’t called Haven for nothing. Sometimes he rereads his first journal, the one he wrote when he was curling up – holing up, to quote his own words of a hunter’s jargon – in the wreck of a ship on the shore. Sometimes, when he has absolutely no other worthy pastime, he counts the numbers he had mentioned Sirrus on those pages.
On clear days he sometimes climbs up a cliff and watches the sea merge with the line of the horizon. He could, theoretically, use whatever is left of the wreck’s timber and built a raft or a boat, to investigate what lies out there in the distance, or behind that cape. He could, but he never will.
He has always lived on islands his father built, and he knows that it just won’t work.
***
Spire is ironic, he thinks as he listens to the green crystals of this Age sing in their vibrations. Take, for example, these voices. Did father, by writing an Age filled with voices of long dead or never existing civilizations, plan to disturb his memories? Or those crystals, some of them look so much alike those gems he used to bring home from his travels – is it a reminder? He has heaps of them now, he can hoard them, grind them into dust or throw one after one into the gap between his mountain and another. Speaking about all things shiny and glittery, he’s never been wealthier in his life. He must have given Atrus more credit: father appears to have known his sons better than they ever assumed.
He sits on the edge of the platform, feet dangling in the abyss, his back against the cold stone. It has taken him a lot of roundabout maneuvers and gentle persuasion to convince mother he needed that syringe for his experiments in the garden. Well, it’s true, in a way. It’s due to that garden that he’s now able to see worlds come to life and explode in bright flashes where otherwise he’d only see layers of dark clouds. Pity the effect of that concoction wears off way too soon.
He picks up another glowing rock and throws it in the direction of another spire. So close, so tauntingly close, and yet outside of his reach forever. There are islands, as always, but this time there are no boats; there isn’t even a sea – only turbulent, ozone-smelling air.
He thinks at first his home-made drug is to blame for the strange illusion he observes: the rock refuses to fall down and floats towards the next mountain through mid-air, slowly rising as it defies gravity.
He stands up, in his excitement nearly slipping off the edge, and stares at the nearest towering mountain, behind which there lurks another one, and another. He’ll just have to manage it one thing at a time, step by step. He can do it.
*End*
*** 3. Accounting. ***
The rain seems regular in this Age, and as he writes in his journal, he wishes it’d never stop. This way, it blots out the screams of animals and the constant rustling in the jungle, which upset him with their sense of *presence*. He’s never liked hearing many voices at once, and crowds of strangers always awoke nothing in him but hunting instinct.
Of course there was a wreck when he linked there. This Age wasn’t called Haven for nothing. Sometimes he rereads his first journal, the one he wrote when he was curling up – holing up, to quote his own words of a hunter’s jargon – in the wreck of a ship on the shore. Sometimes, when he has absolutely no other worthy pastime, he counts the numbers he had mentioned Sirrus on those pages.
On clear days he sometimes climbs up a cliff and watches the sea merge with the line of the horizon. He could, theoretically, use whatever is left of the wreck’s timber and built a raft or a boat, to investigate what lies out there in the distance, or behind that cape. He could, but he never will.
He has always lived on islands his father built, and he knows that it just won’t work.
***
Spire is ironic, he thinks as he listens to the green crystals of this Age sing in their vibrations. Take, for example, these voices. Did father, by writing an Age filled with voices of long dead or never existing civilizations, plan to disturb his memories? Or those crystals, some of them look so much alike those gems he used to bring home from his travels – is it a reminder? He has heaps of them now, he can hoard them, grind them into dust or throw one after one into the gap between his mountain and another. Speaking about all things shiny and glittery, he’s never been wealthier in his life. He must have given Atrus more credit: father appears to have known his sons better than they ever assumed.
He sits on the edge of the platform, feet dangling in the abyss, his back against the cold stone. It has taken him a lot of roundabout maneuvers and gentle persuasion to convince mother he needed that syringe for his experiments in the garden. Well, it’s true, in a way. It’s due to that garden that he’s now able to see worlds come to life and explode in bright flashes where otherwise he’d only see layers of dark clouds. Pity the effect of that concoction wears off way too soon.
He picks up another glowing rock and throws it in the direction of another spire. So close, so tauntingly close, and yet outside of his reach forever. There are islands, as always, but this time there are no boats; there isn’t even a sea – only turbulent, ozone-smelling air.
He thinks at first his home-made drug is to blame for the strange illusion he observes: the rock refuses to fall down and floats towards the next mountain through mid-air, slowly rising as it defies gravity.
He stands up, in his excitement nearly slipping off the edge, and stares at the nearest towering mountain, behind which there lurks another one, and another. He’ll just have to manage it one thing at a time, step by step. He can do it.
*End*