Fan Fiction

[AUST]

I couldn't see an appropriate place to post this, dosn't seem to be a seperate board for discusssion of peoples fanfiction/reviews/advice ect, just places for you to get it published.

Anyways, can you have a look at this and give me an idea of what you think, it ain't much yet. (And if I've missed where it should go could a mod please transfer it there)

The mistress of Jordon collage was dying and she knew it. There was nothing wrong with her, no great desise or illness, unless you count old age as aliment. She was not afraid, she claimed she knew what was coming and looked forward to it, to meeting old friends and finally being at one with the world.

Her maid, Cassie, thought she was delusional, her great age catching up with her at last. She knew that her Mistress had once been a great woman, one of the great minds of her era, yet that was hard to believe now, looking and the wrinkled creature that huddled in the armchair facing her. Her daemon, a pine martin, was on her lap, staring with heavy eyes at the maid as she swabbed the old woman’s forehead. The old woman tried to push Cassie away with one weak, bony hand. “Oh desist child, do you think I want to see Will sopping wet?”

Cassie laughed and put away the sponge. She liked the Mistress, once you go past her hard exterior, but occasionally she did wonder. Was she confusing some past love with the Authority, the Mistress had always had strange ideas about life and death and had been an opponent of the Church. It was, people said, the malgain influence of her farther when she was young that had made her such. He too had had unorthodox ideas about God, and those he had passed on to his daughter some time long ago, or so the rumours went. Nobody had ever been able to get the truth about the Mistresses disappearance when she was a child and it looked like she would die with the secret.

The Mistress beckoned towards Cassie and smiled, “Child, has the Manchester Guardian arrived yet?”

“It has mistress,” Cassie arrived. She was, of course, no child but she did not mind the old woman calling her such. In Cassies opinion anyone so great in years as the Mistress should be allowed such indiscretions.

“Fetch it.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Cassie exited and the Mistress relaxed back into the chair again. One bony hand stroked the daemon that laid in her lap while the other gripped the chair. The girl was not a bad lass, she thought, evidently not the brightest tool in the box but no fool either-unlike there last maid. She reached behind her and pulled out a hard leather bound book, placing it on her lap while her daemon lethargically moved to the arm rest. A large, elaborate pen was produced from within the folds of the Mistress’s back dress and she began to write, murmuring to her daemon every so often for a clarification or a memory.

This was the scene that met Cassie when she re-entered the room. She smiled, the Mistress had always been a great writer and even now she wrote. Before she was elevated to mistress of the Jordon Collage she had been a professor of English Literature but in, in her own words, she had dabbled. She had written thesis on many subjects, Theology, Atomcraft, Dust had all come under the nib of that fountain pen engraved with the snow leopard. It had been the mistress who had finally worked out the dangers of the many worlds project and convinced Corpus Christi Collage to stop working on a device to cut between worlds, it had been the mistress who had finally explained what the Elementary Particles actually where, a revelation for which she had been tried for heresy.

Cassie coughed politely and offered the thick paper to the Mistress who took it, blinked at the pages, scowled and then passed it back to Cassie. “You read it child, my eyes aren’t what they once where.” Cassie nodded and began to read, stumbling over the harder words and being corrected by the woman in the black dress who leant forward and took in every word, occasionally chortling at some item or releasing some comment at others that wouldn’t have shocked a sailor.

Finally Cassie finished reading and put the paper down. The woman slumped back into her chair and then beckoned Cassie forward. “Child,”

“Yes mistress.”

“I’m dying child, don’t you dare interrupt me, I know I am. My body wearin’ out and falling to piece and I don’t reckon I got too much time left.”

“Mistress, don’t say that!”

“Don’t say what? The truth? I ain’t no fool child. A person ain’t supposed to live longer than a centaury and I have, so it my time to go. But before we do me and Pan want you to have these.” A frail hand gestured towards a pile of books that lay on one side of the table, upon which she placed the volume that she had just been writing in. “There my life, child, everything I remember true to the word. I ain’t lying in these, because when I’m gone I don’t care what happens to me, there no point in lyin’ in something like this ain’t there. They’ll probably declare me possessed and have my body exhumed, or excommunicated or something like that but I don’t care. Everyone in there is either dead or they can’t get them, so I have left out nowt. I want you to have these, all of it, I’ve put em in my will and everything so they can’t take them away from you. Do what you see fit with them or whatever.”

Cassie had turned white, “Mistress, I can’t!”

“Of course you bloody can child! It ain’t a big responsibility. I had bigger before I was your age and I coped. Its just the life of an old woman whose lived too long and seen to much. You’re the only one in Jordon I can trust Child, those professors would never even read them, and if they did they’d burn them or hide them for fear of the Church. You can’t do that child, don’t let them rot. There all I’m gonna leave. Now get my chair.”

“Your chair mistress?”

“Yes, my chair child, are you death? You and I are going out.”

“Where too mistress?” Of course Cassie knew where too, it was the same every year. No matter how ill or infirm the mistress was she would always make her way to the Botanic Garden on midsummer’s day to sit and recollect. It had been that way for a long time, as long as anyone could reamber, ever since the Mistress had got back from her great journey when she was a child. There where many rumours about her custom, that she was remembering some passed lover, something that she could never regain.

They passed through the main hall of Jordon followed by curious students and new professors, many for whom had never seen the Mistress or the ritual before. Like a great ship they swept up many passers by and other interested parties as they slowly winded through Jordon streets. A band of curious photographers and cameramen picked them up outside the collage and followed along with the crowd as they reached the tree.

There they stopped, flashlights batting at the ancient face that was poised in silent recollection. “Shall I tell them to go away mistress?” Cassie asked, anxious that her Mistress’s would remain undisturbed.

“No, leave them. They can do no harm.” The mistress looked up at the sky expectantly for a moment and then looked down, pulling up one sleeve to check the time. “She’s late.”

“Who mistress?” The old woman’s voice had been so quiet Cassie had barley heard her. As if to answer the question there was a swish of cloud pine and a beautiful woman landed in front of them. The assembled crowd gasped and the intensity of the flashing increased. This was something that had not been seen for many, many years. A witch in England! And not just any witch, but a clan queen.

“Lyra.” The witch bowed towards the figure in the chair, “Pantalaimon.”

The old woman raised one had very slowly in acknowledgement. “Serafina.”

“Who are these people?”

“Fools. Come to see an old woman die.” The old woman, Lyra, said it very simply and clearly. Another gasp ran round the crowd. “Leave them. They can do no harm. You look well Serafina.”

“I wish I could say the same of you. You are sure about this?”

“I am. I am a witch the same as you, I cannot go to Will with a third of my being rooting underground.”

“I understand. You are a witch and it is your right,” There was another gasp from the crowd. “Now?”

“Not yet. There is something I want you to have.” A frail hand dug again at the fold and pulled out a golden circle that glinted in the sun. She passed it silently to Serafina and then nodded. “Now.” The old woman’s voice was firm. “Yambe-Akka! Come to me.” She shouted the last part and then was silent as the Witch pulled out a long knife and plunged it through the folds of dark cloth and deep into the old woman’s heart. Lyra did not gasp nor collapse. She just sat there in the chair and a slow smile came to her face, a final look of contentment.” She whispered one last words and finally closed her eyes. “Will…”

There was a gasp and anger from the crowd. Serafina knew she had only seconds before disbelief turned to rage. She leant forward and took Lyras weight in both hands. The woman who had accompanied Lyra leant forward to stop her but Serafina pushed her back. “Its what she wanted, child.” The woman stared for a second and stood back, letting Serafina pick up the body and mount the cloud pine, disappearing into the sky.

Lyra Belacqua, who called herself Silvertongue died.

[furbaby]

I think that’s very well written indeed.

Just a few typos/spelling errors to weed out. You’ve rendered Lyra’s accent well too, and you haven’t overdone it. Change the Cockney “ain’t” to “ent”, and lose the “nowt” (that’s a Northern English expression).

I’d capitalise Mistress throughout to make clear it’s a title. (Digression: I have a feeling that in our Oxford a female Head of College would still be styled Master. I have checked, and currently there aren’t any, so I can’t be sure. There are some female HoCs, of course, but only in colleges that use another title such as Warden. In any case, you are writing about Lyra’s world, where things are not always the same.)

A very polished and professional piece IMHO, and you should be proud of it.

[AUST]

I think that’s very well written indeed.

Just a few typos/spelling errors to weed out. You’ve rendered Lyra’s accent well too, and you haven’t overdone it. Change the Cockney “ain’t” to “ent”, and lose the “nowt” (that’s a Northern English expression).

That would be because I'm a Yorkshire farmer mate, I'm not experienced with rendering cockney accents, I'll change that.

I’d capitalise Mistress throughout to make clear it’s a title. (Digression: I have a feeling that in our Oxford a female Head of College would still be styled Master. I have checked, and currently there aren’t any, so I can’t be sure. There are some female HoCs, of course, but only in colleges that use another title such as Warden. In any case, you are writing about Lyra’s world, where things are not always the same.)

I had a look at that as well. I thought about calling her master, but considering that Lyras society mirrors ours during the Victorian period I presumed that it would be Mistress as its slightly more formal and also seems more, well, suitable. I'll check when i have my visit.

A very polished and professional piece IMHO, and you should be proud of it.

Thank you.

[zemarl]

it reads well. not too heavy on dialogue nor description nor action. have you taken a writing course or do you find this flowed naturally as you wrote it? i'm interested in reading more, if you have written anything else.

perhaps an idea would be to ask an admin to link it on btts with the rest of the fanfiction? that is if you haven't already done so.

[AUST]

it reads well. not too heavy on dialogue nor description nor action. have you taken a writing course or do you find this flowed naturally as you wrote it? i'm interested in reading more, if you have written anything else.

perhaps an idea would be to ask an admin to link it on btts with the rest of the fanfiction? that is if you haven't already done so.

I haven't taken a writing course, it just comes straight off, odd ain't it. I've had a few awards though for other stuff. I'll write another chapter if you like, I probably need to spellcheck this again and make a few minor alterations before its ready for properly being published.

I was considering doing that, but because I haven't written HDM before I was hoping that someone with more knowledge of the book-perticually of the unique Lyras world words-would check it for me.

[AUST]

Writing a new chapter now, a bit ahrd to write this one-more complex and slightly hard to discibe. It ain't flowing quite os nicly. Still 800 or so words done.

[AUST]

Right, done, this was orignally intended to be a oneshot, but who cares. Its a bit angasty, but whatever. Please point out any points wehre I've evidently made a huge mistake... I'm not quite as pleased with this one-I don't think its as well done, but whatever.

-------------------------------------------

Lyra Silvertongue lay in the witches arms and died.

And stood up. Stepping out from her corpse she took one last glance at what had been her earthly home for more than a centaury before it was carried away from her into the breeze. She looked down with pleasant surprise to find that she was slowly floating down towards the ground below. So, she thought, this is what its like to be dead.

All around her colours where fading, like ink from s discarded parchment. She had, of course, experienced this before but she hadn’t truly appreciated the significance of what was happening. She thought how young she had been back then as she slowly floated down. Too young she decided, she understood why she had been chosen back then, why she had had to be that age-the story demanded it-but it was too early for what she and will had been too. Then again, she doubted there was any appropriate age for that sort of journey.

She finally landed on the dead grey ground and felt the call of the land of the dead. It was a yearning in her heart, dragging her west with the ranks of the other dead that silently trooped past her. Most didn’t even look up to acknowledge her presence. Where had they all come from? Every world that existed, every creature with a soul from the cruellest criminal to the greatest saint. They all came here in the end.

She joined the ranks and slowly walked towards the huddle of buildings that formed the encampment for the living who waited to die. Every so often she saw one of them, huddle and frightened, fearful of the sprits that crunched the grey grass around them-the only shred of colour on a landscape of greys and whites.

Finally she reached the boat that would ferry them across the grey waters. She had no idea how long had passed; her memory appeared to have dissolved into a sludge of grey. She could no longer recollect what had happened after she’d died, all she could remember of the world of the dead was what had happened previously and even that faded into the grey murk.

There where four of them on the boat. The ferryman looked at her oddly then brightened. “So you made it then?” He said, “You did the impossible.”

“Yes.”

“I saw the other one. He said the same.” Lyra looked at him excitedly,

“Will?”

“I never find out names. Just faces. He said you’d done it. And I said that you couldn’t both have got out of there.”

“And what did he say.” But the ferryman said no more, he just leant his puny weight on the oars and like magic they hauled through the turgid brown waters life a hot knife through cold butter. Lyra remember wondering about this when she had first crossed the same waters, how such a man could haul such oars but now she understood.

Finally the boat ran up the bank next to the great wall that separated the dead from the rest of the world. Its passengers poured off, hundreds of them at once. Lyra had been wondering quite how the ferryman managed to transport all the dead from every world. Now she realised, she had no idea how they managed it but she also knew she was now into past where mere logic could take her and into the bounds of Theology and myth. This world was, she knew from her dabbling in physics, impossible. There was no logical reason for it to exist yet it did, there was no logical or atomic reason for life to exist after death yet it did. Suddenly Lyra felt far younger than her hundred and eight years.

She stayed behind and gave the boatman a coin that she had secreted in her robe when she died thus fulfilling the ancient custom. He gave a low bow and smiled, “thank you, my Lady.” Bowing again before re-embarking on the boat for another voyage. It slid of the bank and disappeared off into the grey gloom. Lyra turned towards the wall that bordered the world of the dead. It was a great thing, reaching high it’s the heavens and dripping with green slime-the only colour on the landscape. She briefly ran her hands along it before making her way towards the door.

She remember this only too well. She knew that under her flowing grey hair she still hid the scares of the last time she had attempted to pass through the small, battered postern. This time no harpy screamed at her and no bird-woman tried to dive on her. She wonder what the world beyond would be like. Had the Harpies kept there promise? Or had it returned to the terrible place it had been before. Someone had carved something on the door, “Abandon hope all ye who enter” followed by a smiling face to indicate it was a joke. That was, she supposed, a good sign.

Her hand passed straight through the knob so she simply stepped through the wood and into the broad flatted plain beyond. It was exactly as she remembered it, the same dingy light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The only real difference was that it was far emptier than before. The ghosts who had arrived where still visible through the mist she could see few others. Some where milling about by the gate as though waiting for someone to come through, others embraced certain newcomers.

“Lyra! Lyra!” A voice called, barley higher than a whisper yet audible across a great distance. Lyra turned, towards it source, “Will…” But her voice died in her throat. It was a female voice that had been calling not a male one and as she turned she saw that the caller was a tall, thin elderly woman who slowly made her way towards Lyra.

“Lyra? Is that you?” The woman asked, looking surprised. Then Lyra recognised her.

“Mary?”

“Lyra!” The two attempted to embrace, ghostly arms passing through ghostly bodies. They turned and look sheepishly at each other. “Lyra! Your old!” Mary exclaimed unbelieving. Lyra smiled and returned the compliment.

“Your not look to young yeself Mary.” Mary smiled back at her and erupted into a stammer of words as if trying to apologise for some great error.

“Well, of course I’ve heard about your career down here, Lord Faa told me about it first when he came through, and just last week there was that Professor Burnside who came through just last week who said he’d known you and that you where now the mistress of Jordon! I can’t say I was surprised after all an academic from my own collage, Corpus Christi, came through and told me all about your thesis on the Elementary Particles and…” She stuttered off as she noticed that Lyra was no longer looking at her but was looking around her, over her shoulder, everywhere except at her face.

“Mary, where’s Will?”

Mary knew that the question would have to come through at some point. It was inevitable that Lyra would want to know and she’d been preparing an answer for longer than she could remember, constantly revising and improving it, trying to make it less harsh on Will and easier for Lyra to take.

“Will…isn’t here Lyra.”

“Why? Where is he?”

“You must understand Lyra that he did wait, but there where complications and…”

“Where is he?” Lyras voice was harsh now, passionate and energised, ghostly arms reaching towards Mary as though they would attempt to shake an answer out of her. “Where is he?”

“Will went through Lyra. He passed on.” Lyra just stared.

“He diden’t wait for me.” She sank to her knees and then to the floor, the broken figure of the powerful woman that had held Oxford in her Thrall for almost half a century. “He diden’t wait? I waited...” Her voice was disbelieving as it slowly faded into nothing.

“You must understand Lyra that he could just wait forever, he did, honestly he did, but time passed, and…” Mary’s voice too faded as she tried to comfort her old friend, finally she gathered herself and plunged on, “You must understand, Lyra, that there was Marisa and the kids to look after and we couldn’t wait for ever for you to die. It wouldn’t have been fair, and the kids wouldn’t go without there dad and…It was all very painful.”

“Will had kids?” Lyra asked, looking up. Mary could see the tears in her eyes, she was beginning to realise just how important Will had been to Lyra, beginning to realise that she had never given up on Will, never thought that she wouldn’t see him again. She tried to be positive and answer the question.

“Yes, three of them. Lyra, Mary and Asriel. He named the first one after you Lyra. He never forgot you.” Mary hoped this would soften the blow but she miscalculated. Instead of seem less aggrieved Lyra exploded up at her, ranting.

“He never bloody forgot me! Of course he bloody forgot me! He bloody married some bloody woman and gave up on didn’t he. Gave up on what we had! I never did Mary, I never bloody did, 98 years it was! I had no one else! I waited for him, I waited and remember him and went to the midsummer’s bench for him like we had agreed. Did I? Did he do that, did he Mary, or was he satisfied just to call his kid that and forget about me, us!”

“He did his best to get there Lyra but he was away and…”

“That no bloody excuse. I always got there. I chose to die there so I’d die with him! I took a bloody express Zeppelin from Munich to get there for him didn’t I! And this is how he bloody remembers me! A bloody kid!” She collapsed into another fit of sobs.

They waited for many hours, Mary standing with Lyra and enduring her tirades against her ex-lover and his unknown family. Mary could feel the waves of emotion come out of her with every sob and every swearword. She was beginning to understand the sheer enormity of Lyras feeling for Will. Celebrate for 98 years, or at least with no real partner, just waiting to die and see Will again. Incredible.

Finally the sobs began to slow and weaken. Lyra whispered something to Mary. “How old was he?”

“Will? When he died? 35.” Lyra looked almost shocked.

“And the children?”

“Lyra was 12, Mary 9 and Asriel just 5.” Mary almost cried herself at the recollection, bracing herself for the next question which she knew would bring painful recollections.

“How?”

“It was a car crash.” Mary couldn’t keep the sadness out of her voice and felt herself welling up, “It wasn’t Wills fault, it was the idiot coming on. We never saw him coming. He just appeared, down the wrong side of the M1 and hit us head on we didn’t stand a chance.”

“We?”

“We where all in there, Will had one of these family hatchback things that we could all fit in. Me him and Marisa where in the front, Lyra, Asriel and Mary where in the back. I hope they’d survived by Asriel came through a couple of days after us-we learnt later that he’d died in intensive care.” Lyra nodded and then fell silent, deep in thought. Mary joined her on the ground, silent and thoughtful.

In the hours that followed they talked slowly about what had happened since they had parted. Will, Lyra learnt, had been an explorer like his farther, trying to find a key to stopping the warming that affected his planet. Mary too had had a distinguished career, actually becoming the CEO of Corpus Christi, “So you didn’t quite make it to my level.” She joked, “But being head of a junior collage isn’t bad.” She had been 73 when she had met her untimely death.

Finally Lyra stood. The plain was near empty except for the permanent Waiters who watched the doors intently for loved ones and friends. Lyra stood, “Well,” she said, “I guess the ain’t no time like the present, lets go see Gracious Wings.”

[aklebury]

i generally liked it.

I think possibly the too at the end of the second paragraph should be changed to a 'through' ? ???

Also it was a little weird that Will's wife was called Marisa (unless you had a reason for doing that?)

[furbaby]

Yep, there's a few little things to be tidied up, but nothing major, and there are plenty of people who can do that for you. Always best done with a fresh pair of eyes.

I like the way you handle dialogue. No tiresome repetition of "said X", "X said", etc. You do it all with description, and you avoid the traps of using too many adverbs and adjectives. It reads very well.

[AUST]

:) i generally liked it.

I think possibly the too at the end of the second paragraph should be changed to a 'through' ? ???

Also it was a little weird that Will's wife was called Marisa (unless you had a reason for doing that?)

It was supposed to be Lyras mams first name, but speelcheck didn't know how to spell it and to tired eyes that looked like it.

I did do it belibratly, but more on that later...

[zemarl]

oh, anguish! you are a twisted meanie. but it's very well done. the lyra of this reads quite a bit like her younger self, when she's meeting her father on svalbard before he takes roger away. 'celibate' i think you mean, instead of celebrate? there's a few mistaken homonyms as well but other than that you have a delicious way with words.

[AUST]

oh, anguish! you are a twisted meanie. but it's very well done. the lyra of this reads quite a bit like her younger self, when she's meeting her father on svalbard before he takes roger away. 'celibate' i think you mean, instead of celebrate? there's a few mistaken homonyms as well but other than that you have a delicious way with words.

Thanks-unfortuntly dislexia means that some of my spellings get so twisted even the computer can't work them out. Thus I fiddle about until I find somthing that seems about right.

By celibate I meant that she hadn't had sex, or at least hadn't ever had a long term partner. I'm not sure if this is true, but certainly its the impression that Mary gets from Lyra.

I understand it sounds like a yougner Lyra, but I think that in tiems of extream emotion she would probably revert to that. After all shes a woman who hasn't been crossed for almost a centuary and who has been waiting for Will for 98 years-she ain't going to be too pelased when she find out he's scarpered with another woman. I do find Lyra quite hard to write as well-shes not my charatcer and thus I don't really 'know' her, thats why she probably sounds a bit diffrent to PP's version.

Next chapter will probably focus on Cassie a bit more and her trying to get the diarys published. There will be one, maybe 2 more Lyra chapters to go.