Essence of Stars (book one) - Prologue
I've been debating posting an updated version of the prologue for a while now. So here it is in all its poetic prose glory!
In the dim light of the nearing dawn, blue-tinged shadows cast solemn hope between the graves. A raven settles on the thatched roof of the preacher’s house. Behind it, the sky is the colour of a bruise that might never heal. Silence lies heavy. The church bell is still hours from ringing its joyous call to wake the village. A town dying along with their rotten crops.
The raven watches.
Hope is as rare this season as a day without rain. But still, the sun pushes slowly over the horizon turning blue-black to blue-grey. Black feathers shine in this light; the raven’s call could be heard across town if anyone were listening. No one is listening. The bird peers over the edge of the roof.
It waits.
At long last, the silence is broken by a murmuring. Movement inside the house of the preacher, up with the sun. Movement on the porch from something small, a basket, a bundle of blankets. A soft cry and round blue eyes looking up at the raven. It tilts its head and the infant smiles. This time, the raven’s call is answered with an open door. The raven takes wing, its secrets flying with it, as the preacher of Cambridge township carries a new life across the cemetery.
. . .
At the edge of a city, the sun shines golden rays that catch in thick smoke. The factories are busy on such an afternoon. They are busy every afternoon. Progress is in the air. A wagon beats broken wheels on the rutted road to the city. The horses slow at the gentle command of their owner, a command in a foreign tongue. Guards stand watch over the trading route. On their outpost, a raven cleans its feathers, idle, unworried. It lifts its head slowly as the wagon approaches.
It watches.
On the back of the wagon, among items to trade, sits a woman with a child on her lap. Age weighs the woman’s face, masking her sorrow. The child babbles, playing with items that he will never own. Items meant to be traded away. Hushing the boy, the woman smiles at the guards as they inspect her wares. The child’s small, dark eyebrows push together. The smile does not reach his grandmother’s eyes. Above them, the raven crows softly. Kindness is not common among the Queen’s guard, the Koninwacht. Least of all to those who speak in foreign tongues.
The raven waits.
Too young to understand, too young to remember, the boy smiles as the old man at the reins points to him among the goods. A black feather floats down and the child grabs for it, thin eyes drawn up to the bird. It caws softly again and the grandmother looks, shielding the boy away from the raven with a shame-filled glare. Families must do what it takes to survive. To protect their future.
The wagon is waved into the city. Knowledge carries the bird into the sky. Knowledge and secrets as numerous as its feathers.
. . .
Smoke-filled skies and soot-filled streets welcome a weary wanderer of the city. None of it is natural. The product of progress. Progress for a great many and misery for a great many more. The raven flies from roof to roof, searching. Narrow alleys and twisting roads block its view. Houses shrink into shacks near the foot of the factory hill. Men, women, children sleep on the cold, hard ground. Sleep where they eat, eat where they piss. Owning nothing more than the shirts on their backs and a list of diseases they pray won’t kill them. The city is not awake yet.
The raven watches.
The raven waits.
A boy walks beside his father, tired as he has been every day of his short life. The man pockets a bag of coins, an explanation. He coughs and the boy understands. He understands more than he should for his age. The raven follows from above as the boy continues on alone. Follows as the boy starts to climb the hill. Smokestacks loom high above, blocking the rising sun. The raven caws and the boy’s step falters. He looks at the bird, fear and determination on his round face. That boy will do what he must to survive. That boy will make tragedy into triumph.
The raven knows.
The boy approaches the factory door alone. The raven keeps its secrets.
. . .
Silvery flakes drift downward, glittering in the bright light of the harvest moon. The raven soars, feathers shining obsidian. In the distance, smoke lurks above treetops, a hulking beast, an immaterial fear. The black bird settles on a branch. Thin wood quivering under its gentle weight.
It watches.
The forest is quiet. So quiet the drifting flakes can almost be heard as they land on leaves and gnarled roots. Feathers rustle as the black bird shakes fallen stars from its back. Under the light of the moon, the raven’s eyes glint and its beak shines sharp.
It waits.
Smoke curls higher now. The stars above fade, choked out and dampened. If there were eyes to see, they would water. If there were noses to smell, they would burn. The smoke glows, reflecting orange and gold like the harvest moon above. Shifting on the branch, the raven preens.
It does not feel.
The settlement lays smouldering. Something terrible happened here. This camp, this village, this home. Tragedy on tragedy buried beneath snapped structures, smoldering skins, burnt log walls. Once home, now embers. There are no roaring flames. Not anymore. The time for ferocity is gone. The raven sits in the tree, high above the coals. Coals that once were everything to a wife, a daughter, and a baby girl. Coals that are as black as the black bird’s wing, save for the last winking red eyes of heat. Cold air bites back. The raven watches as something moves in the skeleton homes.
It knows.
The movement draws nearer to the raven’s tree. A gentle whimper and a tilt of the black bird’s head. A miracle. The little girl kneels among the roots. Dark eyes catching dark eyes. Her eyes are a plea. The raven makes no response. A little girl, a miracle. A lost daughter abandoned in a world burnt to the ground in the dead of night. Her nightgown, once white, is streaked with soot. Silvery flakes cling to her dark hair. She is young. Round cheeks dark in the bright light of the harvest moon. She is not too young to remember. To remember the night her home died. She will remember the eyes of the black bird with feathers shining obsidian. They stare. Girl and bird.
There is nothing but silence.
Silence and the gentle caw of the raven as it again takes wing. Disappearing beyond the fallen ash and tears. It keeps its secrets once more.
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Taglist: @undrthesummerstars @ratracechronicler @leonajasmin-writeblr @frenchy-and-the-sea @rho-nin @starlitesymphony @written-by-yours-truly
If you’d like to be tagged in (admittedly infrequent) updates about this WIP - including mood boards, excerpts, and worldbuilding - please let me know, and I’ll add you to the list!
I'm also going to tag @aninkwellofnectar and @pinespittinink because you expressed interest in the more poetic prose excerpts in a recent tag game post!
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