![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
der_jemand posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
120_minutenChallenge: #1 Nebel + #3 neue Traditionen
Fandom: Original
Charaktere: Cynwrig, Marcus Valerius (die hier)
Wörter: ~ 950
Widmung: Für![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nyx_chan. Und für thots_tochter, die mich dankenswerterweise darauf aufmerksam gemacht hat, dass ich „magos“/“magus“ verpeilt habe. - Frohe Weihnachten euch allen, ich bin dann mal rausfinden, wo ich mein Latinum zurückgeben kann. ^^“
A/N: Wales, etwa 618. Ein walisischer Druide, ein römischer Magus, Anachronsimen und historische Falschdarstellungen galore! Heute mit mehr oder weniger (eher weniger) neuen Weihnachstraditionen und keiner Notwendigkeit irgendwas mit den beiden schon mal gelesen zu haben. ;)
Thick fog crept over the hills, swallowing trees and grass and noise, curling around Cynwrigs legs, crawling up his arms and into the collar of his tunic. Winter fog - especially around the solstice – always tended to the clingy side, but tonight it felt different. Almost like an old friend embracing him. Or trying to suffocate him.
Cynwrig sighed. “Stop messing around, witch.”
The fog wrapped itself tighter around him, definitely trying to suffocate, and then, as if caught in a sudden gust of wind, dispersed, only to regroup a few steps away into a gaunty human figure.
“So you do remember me, druid. I’m flattered.”
Cynwrig raised an eyebrow. It had been two and a half centuries, not an eternity. On the other hand, in that time, the Roman Empire had fallen apart and crumbled into dust. Even the Eastern Empire had found itself in a perpetual state of disarray. So, for the magus, it might have felt like an eternity. He certainly looked the part.
“You look awful.”
“While you’re as pretty as ever. I like the red hair.”
Cynwrig raised a newly red eyebrow. “I’m serious. You look… old.” It was an odd word to use to describe the haggard figure in front of him, who, yes, looked tired and a bit worse for wear with the ugly scar under his left eye but still not a day over forty. Which was pretty impressive for a human who’d been born over six hundred years ago.
“Charming. I knew there was a reason I came to see you.” Marcus voice is hoarse, the Byzantine accent heavy but the amusement in it is as clear as it had been all those centuries ago when they met, not far from here.
“Which is the question at hand, isn’t it? You certainly haven’t left sunny Constantinople just to wish me a merry Christmas?”
That had Marcus roll his eyes. “Please, tell me you haven’t gone Christian on me.”
“Hey, that one’s on your people! You brought the damn thing here and now monastery after monastery is popping out of the ground. – Hard to not go a little bit Christian, just by association.”
“Gods, I hate this century.”
They were standing in the middle of the forest, heavy fog drowning out every noise but the distant howling of dogs. There was just a hint of an oncoming storm in the air and the earth beneath their feet was soggy with magic. Cynwrig could taste the spirit world on the tip of his tongue. And yet, the magus…
“You’re dying.” It wasn’t a question. What Cynwrig surprised about it was the fact that he cared.
Marcus Valerius shrugged. “Probably not. Constantinople is going to soar again, if only for a while, and I can always go further east… It’s just this century, the last few hundred years, maybe…”
“I always assumed you’d thrive in the chaos and the wars.”
“Not how it works, druid.”
Admittedly, Cynwrig had never actually contemplated how Roman magic worked. Or human magic, for that matter. Retrospectively, it made sense. Marcus and his lead platelets and fire magic, were – for all their destructiveness – essentially about order. Where Cynwrig drew his power from soil and blood, Marcus relied on theory, structure, control. - This really wasn’t his century.
“So, this isn’t the last visit of a dying man?”
It didn’t sound much like the smug magus, but Cynwrig needed to be sure. Professional interest.
Marcus huffed a laugh. “Because I would want to spent my last minutes with you, druid?”
“Well then, what are you here for? The landscape?” Cynwrig indicated the heavy white fog surrounding them.
With a flourish, Marcus produced something from the folds of his black toga and presented it to Cynwrig on outstretched hands. Cynwrig eyed the little figurine warily. “Is that a… red clay dragon? Is it poisoned? - That’d be an oddly quaint attempt at my life. I’m almost disappointed.”
“Shut up, druid. It’s a present. Io Saturnalia!”
Still wary, but oddly touched, Cynwrig took the small (and amazingly ugly) figurine. “Of course you of all people would cling to ancient traditions revolving around ancient gods.”
Marcus’s bright grin almost managed to hide the lines etched into the dark skin around his eyes. “Well, if you’ve met the God in question, it’s hard to let go…”
“Yeah, that’s the problem with the Christians, isn’t it? Way too elusive, theistically speaking.”
Marcus nodded gravely. “Yep. And this inordinate condemnation of human sacrifices… Takes the fun right out of the holidays.”
“Well, you look like you need some fun. And I’d wager good old Saturn could need the sacrifice.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow at that. “Careful, that’s blasphemy, druid.”
“A little Roman magus dabbling in immortality, that’s blasphemy.”
It took Marcus quite a while to react to that, and when he did, it was with a defeated shrug. “I guess.” His voice certainly sounded like that of a man of over six centuries. “So what about you, druid?”
“What about me?”
Marcus tilted his head. “The solstice is almost upon us, and while I cling to sigillaria and ancient gods, what are you doing? You can’t be on your way to church…”
“Well, I was collecting mistletoe before you so rudely interrupted me.”
“Intersting. I always assumed you were the evil people needed protecting from.”
“I’m flattered.” Not that the assessment was entirely inaccurate, you had to keep yourself busy over the centuries. Behind them, in the thick fog, the growling of the dogs grew inexplicably softer. “Say, witch, as you have an eternity or two to waste, would you be interested in trying a new tradition?”
“That depends entirely on whether it’s fun.”
“Oh, it’s the best of times. Have you ever heard of the Wild Hunt?”
Fandom: Original
Charaktere: Cynwrig, Marcus Valerius (die hier)
Wörter: ~ 950
Widmung: Für
nyx_chan. Und für thots_tochter, die mich dankenswerterweise darauf aufmerksam gemacht hat, dass ich „magos“/“magus“ verpeilt habe. - Frohe Weihnachten euch allen, ich bin dann mal rausfinden, wo ich mein Latinum zurückgeben kann. ^^“A/N: Wales, etwa 618. Ein walisischer Druide, ein römischer Magus, Anachronsimen und historische Falschdarstellungen galore! Heute mit mehr oder weniger (eher weniger) neuen Weihnachstraditionen und keiner Notwendigkeit irgendwas mit den beiden schon mal gelesen zu haben. ;)
Thick fog crept over the hills, swallowing trees and grass and noise, curling around Cynwrigs legs, crawling up his arms and into the collar of his tunic. Winter fog - especially around the solstice – always tended to the clingy side, but tonight it felt different. Almost like an old friend embracing him. Or trying to suffocate him.
Cynwrig sighed. “Stop messing around, witch.”
The fog wrapped itself tighter around him, definitely trying to suffocate, and then, as if caught in a sudden gust of wind, dispersed, only to regroup a few steps away into a gaunty human figure.
“So you do remember me, druid. I’m flattered.”
Cynwrig raised an eyebrow. It had been two and a half centuries, not an eternity. On the other hand, in that time, the Roman Empire had fallen apart and crumbled into dust. Even the Eastern Empire had found itself in a perpetual state of disarray. So, for the magus, it might have felt like an eternity. He certainly looked the part.
“You look awful.”
“While you’re as pretty as ever. I like the red hair.”
Cynwrig raised a newly red eyebrow. “I’m serious. You look… old.” It was an odd word to use to describe the haggard figure in front of him, who, yes, looked tired and a bit worse for wear with the ugly scar under his left eye but still not a day over forty. Which was pretty impressive for a human who’d been born over six hundred years ago.
“Charming. I knew there was a reason I came to see you.” Marcus voice is hoarse, the Byzantine accent heavy but the amusement in it is as clear as it had been all those centuries ago when they met, not far from here.
“Which is the question at hand, isn’t it? You certainly haven’t left sunny Constantinople just to wish me a merry Christmas?”
That had Marcus roll his eyes. “Please, tell me you haven’t gone Christian on me.”
“Hey, that one’s on your people! You brought the damn thing here and now monastery after monastery is popping out of the ground. – Hard to not go a little bit Christian, just by association.”
“Gods, I hate this century.”
They were standing in the middle of the forest, heavy fog drowning out every noise but the distant howling of dogs. There was just a hint of an oncoming storm in the air and the earth beneath their feet was soggy with magic. Cynwrig could taste the spirit world on the tip of his tongue. And yet, the magus…
“You’re dying.” It wasn’t a question. What Cynwrig surprised about it was the fact that he cared.
Marcus Valerius shrugged. “Probably not. Constantinople is going to soar again, if only for a while, and I can always go further east… It’s just this century, the last few hundred years, maybe…”
“I always assumed you’d thrive in the chaos and the wars.”
“Not how it works, druid.”
Admittedly, Cynwrig had never actually contemplated how Roman magic worked. Or human magic, for that matter. Retrospectively, it made sense. Marcus and his lead platelets and fire magic, were – for all their destructiveness – essentially about order. Where Cynwrig drew his power from soil and blood, Marcus relied on theory, structure, control. - This really wasn’t his century.
“So, this isn’t the last visit of a dying man?”
It didn’t sound much like the smug magus, but Cynwrig needed to be sure. Professional interest.
Marcus huffed a laugh. “Because I would want to spent my last minutes with you, druid?”
“Well then, what are you here for? The landscape?” Cynwrig indicated the heavy white fog surrounding them.
With a flourish, Marcus produced something from the folds of his black toga and presented it to Cynwrig on outstretched hands. Cynwrig eyed the little figurine warily. “Is that a… red clay dragon? Is it poisoned? - That’d be an oddly quaint attempt at my life. I’m almost disappointed.”
“Shut up, druid. It’s a present. Io Saturnalia!”
Still wary, but oddly touched, Cynwrig took the small (and amazingly ugly) figurine. “Of course you of all people would cling to ancient traditions revolving around ancient gods.”
Marcus’s bright grin almost managed to hide the lines etched into the dark skin around his eyes. “Well, if you’ve met the God in question, it’s hard to let go…”
“Yeah, that’s the problem with the Christians, isn’t it? Way too elusive, theistically speaking.”
Marcus nodded gravely. “Yep. And this inordinate condemnation of human sacrifices… Takes the fun right out of the holidays.”
“Well, you look like you need some fun. And I’d wager good old Saturn could need the sacrifice.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow at that. “Careful, that’s blasphemy, druid.”
“A little Roman magus dabbling in immortality, that’s blasphemy.”
It took Marcus quite a while to react to that, and when he did, it was with a defeated shrug. “I guess.” His voice certainly sounded like that of a man of over six centuries. “So what about you, druid?”
“What about me?”
Marcus tilted his head. “The solstice is almost upon us, and while I cling to sigillaria and ancient gods, what are you doing? You can’t be on your way to church…”
“Well, I was collecting mistletoe before you so rudely interrupted me.”
“Intersting. I always assumed you were the evil people needed protecting from.”
“I’m flattered.” Not that the assessment was entirely inaccurate, you had to keep yourself busy over the centuries. Behind them, in the thick fog, the growling of the dogs grew inexplicably softer. “Say, witch, as you have an eternity or two to waste, would you be interested in trying a new tradition?”
“That depends entirely on whether it’s fun.”
“Oh, it’s the best of times. Have you ever heard of the Wild Hunt?”
no subject
Date: 2018-12-14 12:34 pm (UTC)