[Winter Writing Contest 2023] Through The Looking Glass

For my submission, I've decided to share an excerpt from a Fantasy Novel I'm writing named "Heaven's Folly". This is more or less a proto first draft, not anywhere near finished, nor is this even the entire piece, but I think it rounds off nicely as a general hook and hits the theme of "War/Conflict" that is part of the contest this year along with that fact that I also didn't want to force you all to sit through 14,000 words of my self-indulgent prose, I'm not that monstrous, haha.

Anyway, without further ado, please enjoy "Through The Looking Glass":


With twelve divine breaths, the world took shape.

With twelve pairs of divine hands, freedom was forged for the living below.

With unimpeachable reign, there was no contest to their order.

With time, impurity grew from a stagnant Breath that laid below, Darkness rose to challenge Light.

With tragedy and revelation, a falling star burnt away the limbs of both with a single betrayal.

With silence the story was lost.

With rot below and dimming light above, the world shrinks evermore.

With racing Tyrants and shifting soils, with tumultuous tempests and singing silver and bellowing brass, with burning brambles the stairway will open, and a soul will be marked to carry a final, luminous hope and reignite the Furnace and Engine that compels existence.

With one spark and blackened wings, The Child of the Stars will rise to the throat of the world and life will be breathed, once more.



The 812th Year in The Age Of Silence, The Term Of Swallows, The Coming of Spring.

History is a twisted mirror. Everything reflects the past but is also its own indivisible self.

The world exists in endless cycles; a dichotomy of contribution and destruction that flow from one another. To build and then collapse, the lucky might cling to the falling pieces and have a foundation to build back up again, but the laws of entropy are absolute. The circumstances and names forever bonded to them might be unique but without a doubt it becomes a rhyme.

But what of the mirror itself? Given form and soul, allowed to participate and observe, a living record of glory and defeat that have both already fallen to ash and wind, what does it think about this inescapable repetition of fate?

If it is condemnation you expect, there is none to be found, as The Mirror herself is as much a subject of this abusive repetition and cannot folly Man for reproducing the same conditions and results across all of time.

Both above and below, parallel and symmetrical, or as different as night and day, there’s no avoiding it.

Today is a reminder of the profound and pronounced reality that she is no exception to the rule.

Love.

Loss.

Lament.

She is the record of these things, no matter the era, no matter the distance between.

Her name is Elaina, The Looking Glass Knight, the only known sovereign Homunculus: a living, crystalised embodiment of magic in human form, undying and constant. But most relevant to these events: an inhabitant of the Principality of Arianrhod.

Arianrhod, beneath the Crowned Sun- a vigil of broken heritage and empty legacy- where the calls of war have been swept into footnotes and finished at the end of a drying and cracked quill, is a land of angst. A land wracked with indecision, a land with the road forked out ahead of them and mistrustful eyes to the back. To the front. Side to side. Blood made thinner than water by ambition.

But seldom are nations undone by brazen swords flashed free of their scabbards without just cause. And if so, they are the first to be put to the sword, ran through, and those who are left to pick up the pieces are the ones who fight over the scraps, and demolish whatever was worth seizing in the first place.

It begins with a look, a thought, an opportunity that cannot be ignored by those with ideas above their station, be it one imposed or one achieved.
Venomous words follow, hidden hands curled into fists underneath cloaks, fingers tapping against blackened daggers, an alliance of temporary convenience for the sake of resources and manpower that will implode, with time.

Then the hammers meet the anvil, the sparks of war flung onto the flammable populace, and a peaceful world is ignited and fragmented into any number of irreconcilable contenders and pretenders.

But for now, the calm before the storm is what hangs over this land, and the trumpets are silent, the banners held in reserve.

The winds sing no songs. The birds themselves are silent upon the limbs of their verdant trees, scattered amongst a wild and untamed grove. The trees are damp, heavy, the colourful walls of primrose that race up trunk and landscape, rising to the top of hills, that spread across manmade walls with a naturalistic supremacy that supersedes the synthetic stone, are sapped of their majesty. They are forlorn and bowed, like the turn of Autumn has arrived two seasons quicker than expected. Marching through is a procession of tempered steel, thirty-five blessed Knights belonging to the retinue of High Prince Roderick, Lord Protector of the Eighth Vale, The Principality of Arianrhod. All wear glum faces, heads bowed, they are organised into two columns either side of their deceased Charge, his body shouldered by the most dependable and trusted: aged warriors who were present for his first wails, the wretched gurgles of life that would punctuate his death, some twenty-three years after the fact.

It is a spur of the moment ceremony, his death only hours old, for many it does not seem real; a surreal fever dream from which they will awake in due time.
But the rest know it is real, disturbingly so.

The clouds are dark, heavy and burdened by their pregnant precipitation, the virgin sky utters its first raucous bellow of thunder, trembling the very roots of the trees, shaking their awnings, serenading the funeral with motion and sound, a requiem with which nature attends.

The regal white capes belonging to the Principal Knights have been exchanged for mournful black, absent of their sigils and flourishes, no prideful adornments of their Houses. Their helmets are doffed, pressed to the right hip, palms atop the pommels of their broadswords.

It is a slow and laborious affair, painfully drawn out. Most accompany the event with regimented stoicism befitting their station, and the occasion itself. But the entire experience is a knife slipped between the second and third ribs, left there, every step exacerbating the ache, pushing the blade deeper, wrenching the heart further.

Elaina, the High Prince’s most trusted confidant, stands at the fore, leading the way to the abbey built in the densest section of the grove, her resolve ironclad to hide the sorrow streaking down her cheeks. Her alabaster skin is tainted with dark shadows of sleepless nights, prismatic eyes both blue and pink with their colour washed out, tarnished by the pain of loss, and her starlit hair is messily pulled away from her face into an off-centre ponytail partnered with a princess braid, imprecise and rushed, steadily darkening from the rainfall. She stands tall, nearly on par with the men, but not nearly as broad, even in her fully plated and shimmering silver armour. She is slim and sharp, like the stem of a Rose, prepared to cut deeply into whomever is foolish enough to admire her beauty too impudently, too readily.

But now even such a stalwart Rose appears prepared to wilt. Cut away with the brush of a wind’s whisper. Steadfast, as she is, as she has been spoken of by bards and barons, lords and ladies, lads and layabouts, she is ready to fall. Upon her sword, or at the urging of another, the impetus hardly seems to matter in the equation.

She has lost him, the boy who ushered her into his arms, wrapped her in a cloak, begged her to live when all seemed lost. She has lost the man who stared past those mirrored eyes, their semi-transparency, glass only partially tempered, and still saw a girl worth welcoming into the fold and giving a home.

He was hardly a Prince, certainly not one belonging to one of the Congress where he and his contemporaries gathered to break bread, make peace, set strategy, not anything like tradition might have demanded. He was stout of personality, not rough around the edges and unpleasant, not crass and cruel, heavy-handed or tyrannical. He was a boy, a boy more suited to the life of a heroic fairy-tale, a Brigand with a heart of gold that made up for his empty pockets with richness of spirit and smile, better with a lute to play than a sword to swing. And when he was called upon to defend, he was somebody who would always strike first without thinking, simple-minded, perhaps, but it was part of his charm, an endearing sort.

Elaina supposes that is what was his undoing. That boyish charm and energy threw him into a tempest of danger, time and again. A new scar, a new badge of honour, a new memory to recall by the fire as she stitched it closed, admonished him, then felt his skin on hers and begged him not to make her do it again. He never did learn, and neither did she.

Eventually, he was caught in the storm, and he would not leave its clutches in safety.

She, his Ordained Rider, elected to the position, a Knight and diplomat in equal measure charged with the responsibility of travelling between realms and cementing faltering alliances, the tip of a reticent and scarcely employed spear. It is the highest position in the land for a commoner, selected not solely by him, but by her peers also who recognised her character, her strength, and still she was powerless to save him.

Now all she can do is her duty, shoulder the burden and silence her grief, bury him amongst his ancestors and kinsmen.

A single man cuts out of formation, to the ire and consternation of the majority. Their condemnation has negligible effect, rather, it spurs him on evermore. His stride, unbroken, falls eventually into lockstep besides the Looking Glass Knight herself, eyes the one quality of his person that do not betray the occasion, and remain fixated upon the body of their late High-Prince as he is carried to his final resting place.

Only one man has the temerity, or foolishness, to declare himself above the ceremony that accompanies a state funeral, all so he can have the ear of Elaina.

He is Ser Gaspard of Weystone, a Knight of quality, famed for his decisiveness, singlemindedness, his blunt and unforgiving honesty, and his regular departure from chivalrous tradition.

A man who rose from nothing, no lineage to point to, the etching of his sword failing to depict an ancestry who shared his position and the wear from dozens of battles from which he should not have survived has earnt him the title he carries alongside it, the laurels upon his head.

He is not a man Elaina looks forward to speaking to. Philosophy is not a topic they agree upon, they clash frequently, from tactics to law and its adherence. Where the exceptions lie, where the precedence should begin, how to approach sensitive and complex issues alike. Elaina is a maze, of answers begetting more questions, whereas he is a man with his heart on his sleeve and no room for anything apart from an answer without derivation.

There is something to be respected about that, less so if you were on the receiving end of his penance and judgements, but he is the type to hand out such justice himself and would never impose them upon another.

That is something they could agree upon, one of the few.

Perhaps now their dynamic could be different in the wake of Roderick’s passing, but Elaina is not in the frame of mind for an Olive branch to be offered, nor is he the type to approach her in such a way.

She can see upon his face the seriousness he carries himself with. A warrior made soldier made knight, and with each change to his profession came with it a change in outlook. Once free-spirited and unburdened, now he is stalwart in duty. There is now delineation between the private and public, a man made sombre and strict by burden. No conversation he is about to start will be light. It borders upon existential threats and obstacles that the Principality will have to overcome in the coming days. Of this, she cannot have any doubts.

Light scratches of healed wounds from years passed litter his face, the most prominent of which slashes like a crescent moon around his right orbital bone and stops short of his lip. His skin is a warrior-rough, brown hair chiselled down to the scalp with domineering hazel eyes sunken into his skull like a retreating, if dangerous, animal. He stands a whole head above her, frame well-built and impressive to the point his armour discourages his speed none.

She slows her pace, gesturing for her subordinates to continue, a substitute cycles into place, and the delay is miniscule.

Gaspard speaks, but Elaina keeps a watchful eye on the body of her beloved Prince, both looking and feeling wretched.

“A Ruler is but an anchor that may stop a ship sailing off the edge of the world. A good anchor holds the ship steady wherever it needs. But a bad anchor? One too heavy, or one too light? That spells the end for all good men. The bad too. A briny fate for us all.”

“Is that what you think of Roderick? A bad anchor? How loose your tongue is in the wake of his death, Ser Gaspard.”

Gaspard clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Don’t be so foolish. Our late High-Prince was a safe pair of hands. The realm has been made strong. His bannermen loyal. Prosperity returned, coin in the hands of the people, the fields rich and the masses content. Our position secured, as nobles and overseers, most importantly of all.” His voice grows in volume and strength, pride more so, but it soon cuts itself short and finishes before a tired exhale returns it to the grim tone he began with. “What worries me is: what stops us from falling off the edge of the world now? A bad anchor might do the job, albeit unlikely. But no anchor? Rudderless, guideless, at the whims of a choppy sea? We are a nation in turmoil. Sycophancy and self-pity achieve nothing. Worthless ceremony and tradition that eats away precious seconds we could spend devising a solution. Forging a new anchor, if necessary.”

Elaina shakes her head. Not so much at a loss for words as much as she is stunned by his brazen and heavy-handed analogy. “You speak of crowning a new High-Prince? From what royal blood would you draw? The tap is empty.”

“All blood begins the same, Elaina.” He shrugs, unperturbed. “From the dirt, not the sky.”

“I would not be so sure. The Sky Bled once already, divine powers spread after.”

Gaspard scoffs. “Do not disservice yourself by suggesting you believe in such tall tales. It is a bedtime story for children, of felled gods and fallen angels by a manic spirit. Trite.”

“But the sky did bleed for six days and six nights 800 years ago, a crimson rain that did not cease nor falter until the last of it was spent. Oracles rose to prominence when it ended, Heaven’s Folly claimed Divine Mandate. Veyans sprouted Divine hair, eyes, and constitution; battled back armies and killed scores of foes in their crusade.”

“And what good did it do them, if any of it is true? The Oracles were culled for madness and inaccuracies. The Veyans were culled for massacres against the defenceless. Heaven’s Folly were a breakaway state of religious fanatics which were, shockingly, culled in the name of peace.” Gaspard rattles off, increasingly exasperated as he does so. “They were no better, if anything their claim to divinity served only to exacerbate their misdeeds. Hubris the most obvious distinguishing factor which precipitated their downfall.”

Elaina’s eyes grow heavy and dark, she looks away. “If you say so.”

“Nobody is made with blessed hands, no more than the rest of us. Kings and Queens, and Princes and Princesses, are fashioned by acts of virtue and glory; fortune that we surround with myth to convince ourselves it stands out from the Common folk.”

“Speak of your philosophy however you like, The Congress will not accept it.” Elaina waves her hand, dismissively. “Truth has little worth, here. It is gold and blood that sway their hearts. They would sooner tear us apart than hear us out. The Royal Prerogative for independence is derived from a thousand years of unbroken legacy. Without that, we are no more than common bandits to them. Squatters in a derelict keep with delusions of grandeur. Sooner or later, they will call for our eviction.”

“Then put them to the sword before they, us.” Gaspard speaks candidly, no pretence, his words light as a feather.

“I thought you the pragmatist?” Elaina scoffs, finding his unshakable conviction the one silver lining to today’s ugly and upsetting mood. She folds her arms, regarding him strangely, unsure if she should be impressed or offended with how effortless his open call for armed conflict is. “Do not forget, for better or worse, the Thirteen Principalities of the Congress are united. Should one step out of line, the twelve others will converge to pull them back into it. We are outnumbered, apocalyptically so.”

“If blood is their answer, let their blood be our response.” His finger plays with the edge of his scabbard, meeting the hook of his sword’s guard and rests there. However, for a moment it is held taut as if he is about to swing wide and cut the head from the shoulders of the priest by his side, who is inspired to a quicker gait, and then Gaspard relaxes thereafter.

“Our blood would fill their goblets for a generation should you have your way.”

“And what would you do? What answer, what direction, would you steer us in? Conjure a High-Prince from thin air? Ask the Gods for a replacement? Have them return Roderick to us? Or maybe you seek to have us abandon our Ancestral home? Make like Nomads and turn our backs on all we have fought for, accept a fate bestowed on us by a stubborn liege and irresolute immortal?”

“I do not presume to steer us in any direction.” Elaina replies, miserably, eyes falling onto the verdant grass, sinking into the dirt from the weight of the rain.

The turf is quickly becoming sodden. Her hair grows darker, to those who perceive it as capable, eyes searching for nothing and everything, failing to find whatever it is she wants by the distracting sound of memory. It is deafening and then vivid, real enough to blur the border between thought and touch.

Crumbling stone, collapsing watchtowers, cast-iron gates blown open, fallen soldiers and butchered civilians, a pervasive and pungent nickel in every direction, a gasping girl in Elaina’s arms begging with broken breaths and emptying eyes. A hand slides against her cheek, and then falls to the ground and never moves again.

A sword plunges through Elaina’s chest, and from the darkness she emerged is where she is returned.

She made her choice. Deigned herself qualified to do so for another.

She has regretted It ever since.

“But you would go down with the ship, if that were to be our fate?” He asks, honestly, and she replies in kind with a nod of her head, having recovered her composure, fingers idly flexing the numbness away at her side.

“Aye. That I would. Should it come to it.”

“And he has left us to that fate. What a worthy inheritance.”

“Do not be so bitter,” Elaine says, tone harsher than before, her impatience growing from his decorum, or lack thereof. She breaks from his side, positioning herself in front of him, both hands interlaced and lingering against her sword. Her prismatic eyes flash with warning. “It is unbecoming of a Principal Knight, Gaspard.”

“But well-earned! He was derelict in his duty.”

“Watch your tongue.” She bites, voice low and ominous.

“Expect me not to speak ill of the dead?”

Elaina arches a brow, daring him. “I expect you not to defame our Liege.”

“It is not defamation; it is a statement of fact. He would have expected no less of us.” Gaspard says, voice quieter now, more moderate. It forces her to listen, to lean closer, anger denied priority in place of curiosity. “I loved Roderick, we all did. It was an honour to serve him. His blade was sharpest, his spirit strongest, his bravery unmatched even by legend. But the fact remains the same, he indulged in his fancy for you over his duty. A Lord’s duty, any lord, is to govern. And an aspect of governance is its continuity. The assurance that it can be safely passed down from hand to hand, generation to generation, without complication. A simple and easy to follow line of succession that does not inspire conflict between competing parties. Did he do that? Answer me, Elaina.”

Elaina is silent where he wants an answer, her hand ghosting across the edge of her cape, the one symbolising her position and prominence within the military apparatus. Old and warm memories of their time away from the castle spring forth. Warmth of their bodies, of their lips, the smell of sea-salt and the load of her armour absent, naked flesh under the stars. She listened to his heartbeat, he waited for hers, tried to revive it, his stubbornness exceeded hers. When it was cold, this cape he draped her in, speaking of the importance of her health. She would scold him for his concern, laughing, brushing a hand against his chest and remind him to look out for himself. That she would not, could not, do without him or his boyish, roguish smile.

Sweet memories.

Dead memories, now.

That was her crime, caring for him, reciprocating his affection when she could not provide for him the one thing he needed.

An Heir.

Elaina hangs her head, sighing. “Are you blaming me?”

“For love?” His voice grows soft. Soft as she has ever heard, like fresh linen. His hand touches her shoulder, but she shrugs it off in a non-existent, purely theoretical, heartbeat. “No. I would not be so cruel and unreasonable to you.”

“What would you have me do differently, then?” The blonde knight looks to him, voice brittle.

“Stand aside. Acknowledge the perilous position of Arianrhod. You could not bear him a child, no matter how much you wish it so. If we have no High-Prince, the Congress will not accept us as equals. You said it yourself: We would be no better than common bandits to them.”

“Bury my feelings? That is your answer?”

“Perhaps that is an answer befitting the duty of a Knight, but it is not what I had in mind. You could have fought with that love in mind, in service of him and his Kingdom. Perform your duty, and he would perform his own.”

“Hardly a distinction worth making, naught but pretty words.”

“No, I agree, especially now. Hypotheticals achieve nothing. We are as rudderless, anchorless, as when we began. Simply with heavier hearts for it that might sink us faster.”

“Pick a side, and damn the consequences?”

“Hardly. We have been too short-sighted, for too long. Every move must be meticulous, every plan methodical. The right choice must be made at the right time, without any hesitation.”

“And yet your first instinct was to slip free the dogs of war?”

“I am a soldier. It is natural. I would not trespass on their soil. But should they come to ours, I will bury them in it.” Gaspard says, cold as ice. “I would be lying to say I want that, however. Another way would be preferable, and not by a slim margin.”

“Then, do you have a strategy in mind?”

“Not a clue. We are asking for a Messiah when deliverance has all but slipped away into shadow. These hard-headed fools are good for charging into shield walls and cutting through battlements, but diplomacy may be beyond them.”

For the first time that day, the first time since Roderick died, Elaina manages a smile at the comment, returning to Gaspard’s side, walking again with him. A sigh escapes her lips.

“Good men.”

“Yes, they are Roderick’s men after all. Trustworthy men. Men I would die alongside.”

“But not politicians.”

“Gods, no. I would not sully their name.” As their march stops, the priests take centre stage within the Abby, the casket is lowered down to a slab of stone in the centre of the room with the name and titles already etched into that which will soon cover the body of their former liege, Gaspard brings his lips close to Elaina’s ear and whispers. “But on this difficult path that lays ahead, we cannot allow the passive and the cowardly to rule. Though they are friends, though they are fellow subjects, there are many who would disrupt us, or hinder us, Ministers and Priests, Merchants and Sheriffs who think a sword is furnishing, not weapon. Those who would surrender us, who would tear down our standard and replace it with Lily-white. That cannot come to pass. Do you understand? May I count upon your name in the challenges to come?”

Elaina chews upon the inside of her mouth. Her breath is steady, but the anxiety where her heart should be coils and folds to the point of singularity. She feels the tips of her fingers like they are bloated and heavy, as if a heart has relocated to them, pounding against the surface.

A difficult question.

He is no rightful heir to Roderick’s dominion.

Hardly somebody who can be considered suitable for the role, either.

A good, if predictable, man.

But what she predicts of him leaves her apprehensive. Her nerves on fire.

He is a blaze himself. Something good when tempered. But left entirely to his own devices?

He may make the throne into a kiln. The country a furnace. The world but kindling ahead of him.

The institution he covets would see him as the last person they would present sovereignty to.

He represents a metamorphosis they see as something to avoid at all costs. He would take a hammer to their established order, shatter tradition as if it was fragile iron unsuited to the task.

As right as he might be, it would not be accomplished without many souls exchanged- lost- as part of the transaction.

This country cannot afford a calamity of that size.

“I will preserve Roderick’s Principality. And whatever that demands of me, I will see it through.”

Gaspard lingers by her ear, but he is frozen like ice, contemplative of the diplomatic answer. It stops short of revolutionary sentiment but can easily venture into that territory if the circumstances deem it the rational option.

She is uncommitted to any particular side but is more than experienced enough to avoid overcommitment too.

With a heavy tone befitting the topic and an unreadable expression, Gaspard pulls away and stands tall, “I see.” He brushes forefinger and middle across his forehead in sign of prayer as a hush falls over the gathered crowd of Principal Knights, priests, and ministers as their late High-Prince is finally laid to rest. A prayer is led by the high priest of the Kingdom, conducted in complete silence, any disruption would be seen as unforgivable heresy, and with this in mind Gaspard holds his tongue until the moment after the ritual is complete.

A hymn takes to the air from a choir of boys and girls dressed in pristine white, squires of the Knightly class and daughters of Barons, Counts, and Dukes alike, carefully selected to sing the late Prince to his final rest. It is gentle, and quiet, more an accompaniment to the forlorn silence, whispers that rove and twirl around bramble and nestle against leaves, a parasol of sound that guards against the growing rain. Lutes and Lyres add to the mournful, but grateful, atmosphere, capturing both the essence of youth and innocence and when joined by a pair of flutes, one softer, one heavier, one lighter and one darker, it provokes thoughts of an adventurous and heroic man who abandoned dreams and sentiment for a Noble’s duty and calling.

He smiled when the crown descended onto his skull, he met every trial and crises with candour and sincerity, a man who wore his heart on his sleeve and deceived none, even to his own detriment.

The sound swells, growing above their heads, the performers sink then to the ground the moment it reaches its apex, the sound gradually sinking down with them, and upon this, so too does the body draped in the Prince’s standard.

Finally, Roderick’s sword is plunged into the stone covering of his grave, marking his rest. Gaspard speaks again, now that honour and ceremony no longer demand silence.

“Upon your arrival in this Kingdom, and Roderick’s quick appointment of yourself as his personal guard, I questioned the validity and wisdom of the decision to make you one of us. But none can boast your strength of decisiveness, and in respect of his Highness, I will continue to trust his judgement. But take heed, Elaina, vipers crawl through the grass of this garden. Careful where you step. And careful whom you trust.”

Elaina replies with a solitary gruff exhale as the Principal knight stalks back towards the castle grounds, radiant in colour from the blooming flowers that cover the high-reaching sand-stone walls, staring straight at the fresh grave where the Prince who welcomed her into his home now rests.

A wide gap exists between herself and the others. It is exactly as Gaspard explained, seconds ago, she is a stranger. A novel addition brought about by the whims of a boy who could not be denied. When he left, that tolerance also abdicated the world with him.

“You were wrong, Rod.” Elaina whispers, wistfully, voice cracking. Some more pass her by, but none spare a glance, none offer so much as word of condolence. “You said I would recognise this place with or without you. But I have realised now, you were my home, my anchor, and now this place is but a mirage to me. All smoke and mist.” Elaina’s fingers scratch at her palm, slowly drawing tighter and tighter and sketching deeper until the skin is breached, and a fist is formed, a shimmering tear reflecting warm memories that cannot be composed into words, adequately, leaking out of her, to drop away and be forgotten in a heartbeat. “I’m afraid. Afraid the world I am walking into will be the same as the one I walked out of. A reflection in empty and distorted glass that I fooled myself into thinking was real. You were real. And now, you’re gone with all I thought good about the world…”

Such is the distance between herself and the now departed Prince that she feels it too inappropriate to approach his grave directly. She stands, away, at the back of the crowd, both sword and stone seem to shrink, the resolute image of the man in her mind already beginning to fade like a sketch, sans of colour, being erased.

She inhales, she shuts her eyes. Her hand wraps around the pommel of her sword.

“But…I know what it is you would ask of me. You would ask me to never give up, no matter how painful or challenging my life becomes. That you will always be with me. That I should rise and meet the challenge.” Her fingers press into the plate of armour covering her chest. There is only silence and the absence of rhythm. “I might not have one of my own, but I carry your heart with me.”

She mourns, she remembers their first kiss, she remembers what it was like to mimic the sound and feeling of a very living and vital heartbeat in her chest when he gazed into her eyes, even if it was only delusion.

But to her, it was real.

And then she lets it go.

Not for the first time.

Not for the last.

She has practiced and rehearsed loss so many times to date.

“I am not alone.”

That is not to trivialise the pain, but it is the only way to come to live with it.

“Goodbye…my Prince.”

What a treat that was to read. Yuri, I really feel like our minds were connected by some string of fate this year in terms of theme and general feelings of our stories and the elements of love. As I was reading more and more, I found myself very interested in Elaina, a homunculus in this world, and what exactly that meant for her and how unique she must be, picking up on your references to the coloration of her eyes, of her hair, of her lack of a heart, and yet a passion that would rival any mortal. Knowing that this is a piece of your larger work, I was happy to appreciate a portion of it and get to sample some of your literary mastery again this year. Here I list some of my favorite parts:



This is probably my favorite paragraph of the piece. It is just so vividly described and each sentence is crafted so beautifully well. What I like so much about it is that the description is so thick that I can practically taste the scenery. My favorite line is the one in bold because the alliteration lends an almost poetic rhythm to a scene that is already dripping with literary honey. I just simply adore it.



To carry on from the earlier passage, this might be the first time I have seen clouds and thunder described with such an intimate connection to feminine life. In connection with the relevant funeral, it's almost eerily accurate to a reflection of the human life cycle. I think it's a rather unique perspective and one I appreciate.



If there was another passage that could equate to the earlier to tie in my mind for the most powerful and memorable, it would be this one. I find myself drawn to passages that depict a picturesque scenery that is so natural to imagine, its descriptions lending credence to how meaningful and important it is, to me, to aid the imagination in conjuring a view of the world, but more importantly, of those within it. I find it incredibly powerful to depict those within it with passion and earnest feelings, connections, and lives. You do a great job of expressing just how much Elaina and Roderick cared about each other and how complicated the world around them is and was, and how that world affected them, mistreated them, and caused them to suffer, yet they shared something incredibly powerful that soothed that ailment. I just love that so much about a good story. To pair that with a very human exchange of dialogue between her and Gaspard, it really is something that I look forward to in every story I read.

Splendidly done this year. Well written, and I'm glad that this little contest between ourselves could serve as an opportunity for you to share a good third of a portion of your novel. If this is how it is in its proto stage, I truly believe you have begun to build something exemplorary and has the making of a legendary work. Thank you for sharing it with us.

Awww, I'm really happy you liked it as much as you did! Honestly, you have me blushing a little....literary mastery, now that's just flattery! But I'll take it, and then some!

Honestly, to peel back the curtain, Elaina has been a labour of love of mine for a long time. I've poured heart and soul into forging her character and circumstances, so I'm glad the snippets I've scattered into the submission make her stand out. I guess that would happen anyway, since she's the POV, and you get to experience her wrestling with her grief and doubts, but it's still nice to hear.



You're definitely right about us being bound by a string of fate, that was my favourite segment too. I've definitely honed in on a style since writing my most popular piece the last two and a half years of focusing on alliteration, and particularly sibilance, when painting a picture. I try to stray away from overly complex and detailed description, finding it one of my weaknesses (in fairness, I'm also my biggest critic, so it might not be valid) but equally I will always try and include a vivid image of landscape, especially when it is thematic or perfectly conveys a character's emotional process without the need for dialogue or the narrator unambiguously stating fact. They always end up being something I love returning to, and having the juxtaposition of the wilting landscape against solid, unmoving, unerring stone, reflecting (haha) Roderick and Elaina is something I love.



I like to think of the world and nature as a very living, real, active character in my stories. It's not just a brutal, often inelegant means of conveying emotion. The world around Elaina is as privy to her circumstances as any person. It literally weeps and cries out in despair for her, it is both miserable and angry. As a character, Elaina is softly spoken, not prone to outbursts, keeps a cap on her emotions and speaks as succinctly as she is able without coming across as blunt or inhospitable. Even at the funeral of her beloved, she is nearly silent until Gaspard intervenes and forces dialogue out of her, like wringing blood from stone. What she is too afraid to verbalise, or too stoic, Nature does for her. I like to think it adds another layer of unspoken tragedy behind her character, that she is almost too perfect at what she is- professionally- that it comes at a cost to her humanity and how she copes with events in her life.



I really wanted to give credence to the idea when in the planning stage for this, that even though Roderick will never be encountered by the reader (except maybe in a flashback, or a story spun by Elaina for other characters' sakes/the reader) that he is both a cornerstone of the plot of this world, and important to Elaina and gave her reason to live. Like you said, the natural landscape communicates their depth of love, reflected in the fact they have none of the symbols that hold them down or back, no crown, no cape, no armour, they are simply themselves. Free beneath the stars, listening to the waves, and one heart shared between two.



With an endorsement like that, it's all the more reason to continue developing and drafting more! Seriously, thank you for the kind words. I always love coming back here, participating in these contests, keeping in touch and seeing what we can come up with. It challenges me, and reminds me of simpler times, so thank you for hosting it to begin with! Should I ever begin to publish complete chapters, I shall be sure to let you know. I don't have time as of now, but I'll make sure to provide you and the other contestants my thoughts on the submitted works as you have done for me, tomorrow!

I assure you, it is all warranted and quite deserved. It's one of the reasons I look forward to your participation in these contests each year. I know that whenever I will sit down to read your entry, I will have to prepare myself with no distractions in order to gather up as much as I can to appreciate it all. Perhaps it was a few years ago now, but I still think back fondly on The Distance Between Two Souls when it comes to the works I've appreciated here over time. Getting to peek a little behind the curtain from what you've explained, I do appreciate it. It does allow me to understand Elaina a bit more.



I'm glad to hear that you enjoy what you've produced! As I clearly do. Thank you for mentioning, you've reminded me of sibilances in particular. If there is any weakness in what I consider to be your greatest strength, it's merely that excessive description, even though I do love it so, makes it easy to get lost over time. I enjoy a more purple prose, but it does help to remember that each sentence must serve to advance the narrative. I feel like you do a good job of it here, but I'm unsure what was condensed and what may be longer otherwise. But again, I am quite biased in that I do enjoy that kind of writing. For others, it may drag on, or at the very least demand a reread or so. Regardless, it was helpful and interesting to learn about those juxtapositioning elements of your story. I admit that I had not picked up on them thematically but did appreciate the images that it conjured in my mind of the scene change.



Now that you mention it, I have heard it helps to think of towns or cities as their own living beings to create depth and humanity to something that would otherwise be a stagnant and empty thing where nothing changes. It doesn't surprise me that one could think of the world in this way as well, and it does pair well with that classic narrative element of reflecting the emotions of the main character. I suppose it could be a bit cliché to have it rain during a funeral, but these elements are cliché for a reason. I'm glad that you have a greater intention in mind. That being said, thank you for the explanation of her character. It does help me to sympathize with the inner turmoil she must have felt through the story.



You introduced him into the story with his full and fanciful title paired appropriately with his funeral. It is therefore much easier to appreciate his character as the memories and dialogue serve to memorialize his more human traits he had while living. I think this is a great thing. It really helps to let the reader know what kind of man was lost, taken from Elaina, and also, from the reader as well. I wish I could have known him too.



Best of luck to you in your continued work on it. I know that in the contest thread you mentioned that you weren't in the best of health. I don't know if that was temporary or otherwise, in either case I do hope that it won't hinder you much. I appreciate you finding the time to prepare something for us each year. I suppose this has changed to become more of a quaint gathering of fellow literary hobbyists who just can't help but return to support each other over the years. And I know what you mean about challenging yourself. Truth be told, if it weren't for these contests, I probably would have filed away my metaphorical pen a long time ago, so it does help me to continue exercising this craft and creating something new when I am so used to only consuming during the rest of the year. But really, I do wish you well with this. I can tell even from this amount that this is something really special and worth publication someday.

I think this is the first time, across all the competitions held here, that a snippet of a larger story felt complete enough as a short story on it's own. That, in itself, is very impressive.

First of all though, everything above this paragraph:

I just couldn't parse at all. For me, it's just unreadable, so unreadable that I can't even give suggestions. I feel like fantasy has the tendency to be overly superfluous, and this is one of those times. I even finished the story, and tried to read it again, and it's just too much.

I did my due diligence and read the rest though. And I am very glad I did. I think everything after the opening page is incredible. Where the first page felt entirely unreadable and superfluous, much of the rest of the story is filled with incredible detail and imagery. All three characters, Elaina, Roderick, and Gaspard are characterized very well. I'm impressed you were able to give so much life to a dead character. Tbh, I'm down to serve Roderick too lol.

However, I'm most impressed by Gaspard - what a character. I started off hating this guy, and then kinda liking him, and then meeting somewhere in a very grey middle. And that... is incredible. Unlike Roderick, and to a lesser extent Elaina, Gaspard has quite some depth on display. On opening, you think he's just a violent, no-nonsense character that is interrupting the procession, but it evolves very very fast showing that he is capable of weighing option and thinking of consequences from his suggestions. I think Elaina is right, what he suggests would be paid in blood, but he speaks and carries himself in a way that he understands that. His non-noble upbringing gives him perspective - he isn't just taking the lives of people lightly.


And here, absolutely insane execution. This line is surgical in precision. Everything up to this point has been super spicy. Constant bam bam bam, clash clash clash, and then we get here, and it all comes to a sudden halt. You write this line poorly, or misplace it, and it would come off so much worse. But here, it really seems sincere, and that just adds yet another facet to Gaspard. I dunno, I fking love this character lol.

And I said it before, but this snippet is good enough as a standalone, which is rare. It's a story of a girl mourning and trying to move forward. Of course, there's a lot more going on, but the entire section with Gaspard is not just political fancy that you are using to info dump about the world. The entire thing is all about building up the relationship between Elaina, Gaspard, and Roderick. The job was to make us care about them and to understand their stance on each other. And you did it! Good work.

It's honestly really touching to read that, I'm glad it left such an impression and my writing has you coming back from more! Honestly, I come across similar sentiments on ao3 (that's where most of my recent writing goes, including The Distance Between Two Souls) from my readership (feels weird and humble brag to admit that) but it means the most here. This is the first place I publicly shared my pieces and opened myself up to criticism. It might be purely sentimental, but the praise means the most coming from you all. So sincerely, thank you. I'll keep coming back for as many years as you want to continue running it.



I've suffered from CVID for most of my adolescent and adult life, common colds can land me in the hospital and do so frequently and I've had a flare up recently. I battled with the flu for the last couple months and am confined to a wheelchair so I don't exert excess energy and weaken myself, but I'm doing much better recently. Medication is making me stronger day by day and honestly, writing is always a good way to take my mind off of things, so if anything, the contest helped instead of hindered. It's good to have outlets when outside activity isn't an option, at least until Spring rolls around.

I don't think we've ever conducted this contest with much of a competitive atmosphere, it's always been fun and light-hearted. I'm very thankful for it, this place is one of the few corners left of the internet that doesn't feel overly politicised, argumentative, or bad natured. I only have good memories of not only this site, but this subsection of 'Writing And Fanfiction'. It's like a Summerhome to me, now. Yeah, none of us frequent it daily, weekly, monthly, only ever seasonally, but I love coming back and seeing old faces (avatars, whatever). Even if this is the only real exercise of your own work that you commit to, it's all the more reason to be grateful for the Contest. Reading your works is a nice holiday present and engaging in the contest similarly so.

Thank you, fingers crossed somebody takes a chance on me and gives 'Heaven's Folly' the opportunity to find its way onto a bookshelf, one day. Hell, I'm even so far ahead of myself that I have a Prequel in mind. I've even toyed with the idea of tying Elaina into other series that I'm contributing to, but that's all a long way off. For now, I'll just enjoy reading and rereading the entries here.

I think you make a fair point, I think jumping in more directly to Elaina, providing her exposition with brevity and as neatly as possible would have been better. I wanted something profound and striking, but it comes across as a little pretentious upon read back. Character has always been where I excel and maybe that's what I should have done in place of this. I'll consider it for the redraft!



Fuck yeah, Roderick simps for life. His rule is the textbook example of "I'm here for a good time, not a long time" sadly for him and his countrymen. He's an important secondary character, I wanted to add as much context and substance for why Elaina, our POV, is as grief-stricken as possible. Making him a competent, fair, and caring ruler is the easiest way to make the reader realise both how good a person he is, and why his loss hits so hard. On top of that, he's flawed, he's not the wisest ruler, he makes mistakes and indulges himself, but it's done for reasons that most people would fall foul of. It makes him very human, despite being *very* dead.



Glad you like him, writing him was fun. It's no fun writing one-dimensional antagonists (situationally, I wouldn't quite use that word for him, but he's the foil to Elaina here), and I wanted him to be different, so he ended becoming a novel concept in the realm: a meritocratically appointed member of the nobility, a hardened and ruthless butcher of a man, but he has a good head on his shoulders, he would have to be to have earned his position. Like you said, Elaina is right (it would be twelve on one, with each State being roughly equal size), but Gaspard's suggestion isn't a deluded one. He knows exactly what will happen, he doesn't favour it, but to him only a radical answer after years of mishandling and poor decisions means it is the only suitable answer. He's layered, and not easily faulted for how and why he has arrived at the perspective he has. It's just not a popular one, for good reason, nobody *wants* to die in a war.



They're at it hammer and tongs, and then you see who Gaspard really is: A shield brother. A soldier, a comrade, he doesn't hold Elaina with disdain, he's sympathetic, but he's logical and rational. He might not be a friend, but he's far from an enemy. It's very validating to hear you appreciated the exchange, and it's a relief to know it came across sincerely from him and evoked what I wanted out of it.



Thank you! In some ways I'm glad I didn't complete and share the whole chapter, as it delves into more intrigue and plot progression, with less focus on Elaina's mourning and less thematic relevance to her loss. Sharing this snippet, as it is, I think it's better contained for that theme. It's enough for me to know you enjoyed it as it is, and that the characters struck a chord. Thank you for your thoughts, Nine!

I'm very happy to hear that! I actually sent a regular here over to AO3 when this place went into full hibernation mode the rest of the year. But that it continues to mean something to others besides myself makes it worthwhile.



Fascinating. You know, I am actually familiar with CVID thanks to the vtuber Ironmouse. I know that it's not a condition that is easy to manage or treat, and to live with it in addition to having to deal with the rest of your responsibilities must be an intense challenge. But that makes me quite impressed that you find the strength of will to create such beautiful stories while battling with it. I'm happy to help give you something to look forward to during winter, at the very least.



No, it has been a long time since the competition of the contest has meant much more than a formality to continue tradition. But, I think it may be time to change. I suspect next year, I will probably be dropping the voting, just like I dropped judges in years past. When there are more entries than votes, when there are more judges than entries, you begin to wonder what even is the point of all of that anyway? At the very least, I look forward to interacting with everyone again each year, and so a transformation from contest to event may be warrented. I suppose we shall see next year.

You know, a good friend that I've met here in this community that I still speak to regularly expressed a similar sentiment. It is really wonderful that you can create genuine friendships and interactions here that stick with you over the years, and on a hentai forum, no less. For that much, it makes me happy to continue the event and catching up with everyone.



If that happens, you let us know right away. I will be happy to be one of your first patrons, for certain.

Mousey is one of my biggest inspirations, I'm not the type to say I'm only drawn to something I can personally relate to, but seeing somebody with my illness (and far worse than I have it) be as successful and beloved as she is means a hell of a lot to me. She's awesome, I didn't even know she had it when I first began watching her, I knew she was sick frequently, but I assumed it was anemia or something insignificant to begin with. Regardless, I appreciate the kind words about my illness, but I don't fight it alone. My wife is the most supportive person in the world, my parents ensure I am always provided with everything I need, and ask for nothing in return. I'm very lucky to be as healthy as I am all things considered. I try not to be a sob story, just another Sickly Girl trying to live her life, haha.




I think relabeling it as an "Event" or a "Literary Fair" is a good idea. I mean, you won this year and you deserved it, I speak from experience when saying that it's a nice little boost to the ego but none of us truly care if we win or lose. It's fun at the end of the day, a mental exercise and chance to interact with some old friends. And that's a good thing.





You have my word!

Ah, I'm happy to hear that you're already familiar, and I'm really happy to hear that you have such a great support structure! I know it can mean the world to know you aren't alone. I can relate, not in the sense of a debilitating condition, but conditions nonetheless that help you appreciate that you are able to manage what you do have, even if it may not be as worse as others have it. But I don't want to diminish your accomplishments either. I can relate to not wanting to be a sob story, but specifically because I can relate, I know personally that our trails, they are our own, and we do work hard to overcome them. It does help me appreciate what you create all the more, absolutely. Thank you for being open enough to share that about yourself.



I suspect that will be what happens, depending on how I'm feeling in 11 months, haha. Thank you for the congratulations, though. It does make me happy that you and xnine enjoyed it that much, but you are correct. Your personal comments on my story mean so much more. It helps me feel like I really created something I can be proud of. I'm currently in a post-contest euphoria rereading your comments and rereading story passages brainstorming ideas for the future. It's been a while, probably a year since the last contest, that I felt such encouragement and inspiration, so thank you for the genuine feedback. It really means a lot. Additionally, I really value being able to learn from your writing and your entry. Maybe you don't feel of your writing in that way, but I feel like I'm gaining knowledge and experience just by reading it. It is as they say, that one of the greatest ways to improve your writing is to read good writing. But I'll stop with the excessive praise before I sound too ingenuine.