The Iron born are dying. The Old Way has been corrupted by decades of poverty, ignorance, and radicalism. The Priests of the Drowning, once a fanatical, fringe group of dogmatic literalists and narrow minded puritans secluded in their sect.
Now, they are the entire Priesthood of the The One Beyond the Deep. Now the God of the Deep, has become the Drowned God. Once, so long ago it has been forgotten, those ancient times when Iron Islands were known for steel, fruits, sailors, warriors and naval yards. Now, they are known for thinly veiled poverty. For blood feuds that end entire houses, for pride, arrogance, hubris, and ignorance that rivals all.
The House of Learnea is of the Old Way...
Once, the Old Way was different. Once, the Iron Price was the Iron Due. Once, the Iron Born thrived. Once. Before House Hoare and their Drowned Priests, before They of the Black Line burned the orchards, scoured the mines, burned the forges, subjugated the isles. Made the Old Way anew. To Reave and Pillage and Drown. To fill empower the Kings of the Black Line, limitless in their ambitions, unshackled in their violence.
The House of Learnea is of the Iron Dues...
Ignorant to history. Blind to reality. Deaf to reason. Fallen. Lesser. Weak. Splintering. Dying. A thousand wounds and a hundred disease clawing at a people once more. So much more. Those few of the Old Way still remember. Still know. Still dream, not of a past long lost.
Of a future, soon to come. How many the years that could not end they, Leal followers of undying faith, this House of Learnea?
How many Priests of the Drowning, Kings of the Black Line, of the Greyjoys and Hoare?
The Iron born are dying. The Old Way has been corrupted by decades of poverty, ignorance, and radicalism. The Priests of the Drowning, once a fanatical, fringe group of dogmatic literalists and narrow minded puritans secluded in their sect. Now, they are the entire Priesthood of the The One Beyond the Deep. Now the God of the Deep, has become the Drowned God. Once, so long ago it has been forgotten, those ancient times when Iron Islands were known for steel, fruits, sailors, warriors and naval yards. Now, they are known for thinly veiled poverty. For blood feuds that end entire houses, for pride, arrogance, hubris, and ignorance that rivals all.
The House of Learnea is of the Old Way...
Once, the Old Way was different. Once, the Iron Price was the Iron Due. Once, the Iron Born thrived. Once. Before House Hoare and their Drowned Priests, before They of the Black Line burned the orchards, scoured the mines, burned the forges, subjugated the isles. Made the Old Way anew. To Reave and Pillage and Drown. To fill empower the Kings of the Black Line, limitless in their ambitions, unshackled in their violence.
The House of Learnea is of the Iron Dues...
Ignorant to history. Blind to reality. Deaf to reason. Fallen. Lesser. Weak. Splintering. Dying. A thousand wounds and a hundred disease clawing at a people once more. So much more. Those few of the Old Way still remember. Still know. Still dream, not of a past long lost.
Of a future, soon to come. How many the years that could not end they, Leal followers of undying faith, this House of Learnea?
How many Priests of the Drowning, Kings of the Black Line, of the Greyjoys and Hoare?
How steep the decline. How long the night...
Soon, it must be. Soon, must come the dawn.
For Never Will End, this bloodline of the Old Way, Blessed of the Deep One, they of the Iron Dues, sacrosanct be the House of Learnea.
CHAPTER 0 Never Will Die
At nine, he was drowned.
It was a simple affair. Father's hand holding his head down, other pinning him. His upper body submerged, his arms flailing, air bubbles frothing as he desperately tried to live. Nothing made his father's hands budge.
Not an iota.
Water was in his nose, his throat, his ears and eyes. All sound dimmed and muffled by the liquid. It burned. It burned on its way down, and on its way out of his throat, and in his chest. In his lungs.
His wild flailing weakened.
Then stopped.
Then he stilled.
A kick sent him deeper into the pool of water. His body propelled into the depths. He sank. Dying gurgles blowing tiny bubbles in the water. No air. No breathing. Burning pain. The water boiled around him.
"You kicked him in!?" uncle roared.
Father replied. "Yes?"
Deeper and deeper into the water he fell.
Eyes closed.
Limbs stilled.
Deavid Learnea drowned.
He drowned in the deep, into the dreams. They were peaceful. He dreamt of swimming in warm waters, mother's cheerful clapping rhyme to the rhythm of the waters. He dreamt of uncle, surfing across the surging waves. Hands spread, wide grin on lips. His father was in the corner, reclining on a chair, reading from a book, sipping a drink.
It was a physical blow, hammering across his entire body. With a jolt, his body jerked awake. His blood boiled in his veins. His heartbeats a dull roar. Thumping against his ribcage. His eyes dilated into thin slits.
He woke vomiting, coughing and heaving. Water pouring out of nose, mouth and ears. When it was over, he lay there. Shivering. Drenched to the core. A shimmer of heat all around him, the water fading to vapor.
Deavid Learnea did not cry. He covered his eyes. He did not sob. He covered his mouth. He lay there, creamy blonde hair stuck to his face, golden eyes scrunched shut.
His clothing was ruined.
Mother picked it for him.
His hair was ruined.
Aunty did it for him.
His scented oils gone, his cologne gone, his kohl eyeliner running down his face, the henna patterns on his arms and neck eaten by the salty water.
Deavid Learnea did not cry.
He did flinch when scaly hands grabbed at his hands. Moving them away from his mouth and eyes. He looked up.
At his Honored Ancestor, cloaked and hooded. Scaled, hands and feet webbed, features cloaked by the darkness of the sea cave.
He'd been dragged here, from below in the pool.
"Infano de mia infano," the Ancestor said. "Kio kaŭzas al vi tian malĝojon?"
Deavid didn't reply.
With a shake of the head, the Ancestor grabbed him, sat down, placing him on his lap. It took time to calm down. To clear his eyes, silence the sounds of weakness coming out of his mouth.
"Pli bone nun?" the Ancestor asked.
Deavid nodded, numbly, he was better now. The Ancestor ran a hand across Deavid's hair.
"Nine years," the Ancestor mused. "Forta estas la sango de la Prapatro en vi."
"I drowned," Deavid mumbled.
With a scratchy voice, the Ancestor replied. "You lived," his accent off. Odd. Too thick. "The blood of your Forefather runs strong in you."
Deavid looked down.
"Good, good, it is," the Ancestor gently pushed him off. "Follow."
Obediently, Deavid followed. The sea cave transitioned into a bridge of stone. He could see eyes from down below. Ancestors, watching him. Men and women.
Slowly they rose from the waters, dressed in silver metal and green hides. Dresses and cloaks. They were scented.
They smelled of water roses and eal musks.
His face turned red in shame, he stank of brine, he looked disheveled. A beggar, not the second son of Learnea. Not one being honored on his nineth name-day.
They reached a gargantuan cave where statues stood, a giant of a man. Two meters tall, and muscled to match. Wielding the giant spear of their house. At his back, a woman aiding him in pushing the spear down.
On her arm was a shield, breaking apart fangs that had closed down around her.
Her hands webbed, her scales brilliant shades, whites, greens, and golds and blues. A crown of grey-black wood, veiled with silk, covered her head.
She was pushing the spear down, her whole body weight behind it.
So was the man.
The two splitting open a three headed beast. Its body filling the cavern, it's bones silvery metal, it's heads scattered, beheaded, all around the cavern.
No. Not cavern.
Nest.
It had been asleep.
Moss glowed in red and blue and green, shining over the cove. Ancestors followed, chisels and tools in their hands.
They stopped before the beast's bones. Before the twin statues.
He could see ancient furrows.
Marks of a beast that had thrashed in its death throes.
"Behold! child," his Ancestor said. "Jen! Infano. Nemea, slayer of Hydra. His flesh made stone. Our Foremother, She of the Deep, Learnea, at his side. Plej vera de lia sango. You are of him, so him in legacy you are owed."
His Ancestors swarmed over the bones, picks and chisels sparking against the bones.
Deavid flinched at the loud bangs.
He cowered behind the legs of the Ancestor.
They broke off a chunk of bone, four times as tall as him. Carved into, tools breaking and being replaced.
It took hours and hours.
He felt tired. He yawned. He sat down. He closed his eyes.
He woke up, his body held tight by a female Ancestress. She was warm, she brushed his hair. He stayed beside her. Mesmerized by the work. He wasn't bored. Not even as another day passed.
Not as another ten went by.
Not by the thirtieth.
He ate of fish, he was kept company by his honored ancestors. Time passed by in a dream. Then one day, the Ancestor woke. Softly nudging him off from the woman.
Twenty ancestors held a spear. Another ten held a small, leaf shaped buckelr.
They struggled to hold the items. As if its weight was crushing them.
"True of blood true, of father's blood proud, not in a hundred years seen so pure, blessed of this family," the Ancestor spoke. Voice heavy, laden. "Your inheritance true, for an heir true."
Deavid furrowed his eye brows. He opened his mouth, closed it again.
"Take it," the Ancestor said.
Deavid, hesitantly obeyed. Slowly, surely, his small hand grasped the spear.
It was heavy. It felt heavy. But he could move it. Grunting with all of his meagre strength, he took it.
He heard a hundred gasps.
He felt the deep, rumbling laughter, when he also managed to hold the shield. They were heavy together, but he managed it, barely.
"Purest of a thousand thousand years," the Ancestor said. A motion to follow came, and Deavid obeyed.
He followed all the way to the sea cave where they started. To where the water connected the cave, to the pools above.
"Return," the Ancestor ordered, tying the two items around Deavid's small frame. "Up, above land. You have been ordained, to bring the Deep to the Earth."
Deavid took a shaking breath.
His golden eyes stared down at the deep waters.
"Afraid, boy?" the Ancestor asked.
A nod.
"What for?"
Deavid pursed his lips.
"Speak."
"I… It hurt," he said, after a long moment. "The water hurt me."
The Ancestor gave a low nod. He walked beside Deavid. "A step."
Deavid followed, leg shaking. A single step forward.
"The next," the Ancestor took a second.
Deavid took it in tune.
Then the fourth.
Then they were running.
Heart hammering, fear screaming in his mind, and he knew, he knew, if he stopped, he would never leave this place.
So he ran faster.
Diving into the pool of water.
Rising up, alone, spear and shield on his back. Gasping for air, coughing, crying, laughing, crawling up into the cave.
Smiling up, only to see nobody there.
Deavid barely pulled himself up to the platform. Barely shuffled up the stone stairs, rising up into the basements of his home. Of the great Sea Fortress, of their Ancestral home, of Ceynos. Up and up he dragged his feet.
Into the silent hallways of his home.
A salt-maid saw him. Screamed.
Shrieked.
Scrambling and fell down as she ran away from. "Sprite! Demon! Ghost!" she yelled and yelled.
Guards ran out, dozens yelling, mordaxes drawn. They saw him. They froze. In disbelief. Orders and shouts carried out. As men shouted his name.
"Deavid! It's Deavid!"
Their castellan came first. "Deavid? By the Deep. It's Deavid!"
Mother came sprinting down the hallways. She saw him, threw herself bodily at him. She grabbed him in a bone crushing hug. She cried, at some point, incoherently mumbling something or another.
Uncle came third. Saw the spear four times his size, dragged by his arm.
"By the Deep Ones…" uncle stared. "…a Nemean spear and shield…"
Father came fourth, brother with him. Stared down at him. His eternal, impassive calm shattered into sheer relief. Deavid saw something in his older brother's eyes, something he didn't understand then. That intense gaze that never left the spear on his back.
Mother took Deavid in hand.
Her face turned towards father's face.
Her hand came up, striking him clear across the face. That had been her intent. Father grabbed her hand mid motion.
She grunted, glared. "Let go!" she hissed.
Father raised his hand, fury in his eyes. Palm open, his massive form looming. Mother's anger turned to fear.
The blow never came.
Father let go.
Deavid in hand, mother stalked off. He looked back.
Deavid remembered that day, clear as anything else.
Throwing some more classical Erdrich horrors into Asoiaf through the iron islands, love the premise. Your writing style is very interesting and I enjoy it, keep up the good work.
