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fandomhighdorms2007-01-02 01:30 am
sneerkite) wrote in fandomhighdorms2007-01-02 01:30 am
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The Earldom of Gormenghast to the roof of the dorms, Tuesday morning
Gormenghast was the very picture of revelry that day. A new heir had been born, destined to become the next Earl, and it was an occasion for great joy and excitement. All over the castle the staff was celebrating, mostly by working themselves into varying states of inebriation. Indeed, the news had spread even to the bright carvers who lived in the shadows of the great castle walls, and they paused in their tireless woodworking to welcome in the new son.
In the kitchen, where the ovens burned day in and day out, Abiatha Swelter, head cook, was holding a sort of court of his own, all his apprentices gathered about his massive girth as he guzzled wine and offered them song. All but one.
Steerpike held back, as he always did, watching the celebrations with disgust and hatred. He cowered, wishing for and planning his escape from Swelter and the other kitchen slugs and dreaming of sunlight and cool air. It was not until Swelter called him by name (though he managed to slur it thoroughly) that he was dragged over to join his fellow apprentices and noticed that Mr. Flay, the Earl’s manservant, was also present.
Mr. Flay, who glared at Swelter with even more disgust and hatred than Steerpike himself.
An opportunity, then. A plan began to hatch. This, perhaps, would be Steerpike’s way out.
As Swelter collapsed finally into a drunken heap and the other apprentices pranced and nattered about the kitchen, Steerpike slipped away, after the departing Flay, following the odd crack of the older man’s knees as he strode out of the kitchen and into the long, dark stone lanes.
He was not silent enough. Flay noticed him, caught him, and Steerpike offered every insult at his disposal towards Swelter and his kitchen scum, hoping to win the favor of the upper ranks. Flay was not easily flattered or distracted, however. Though Steerpike was treated to a view of the cat room, and through a whole placed in its wall, the Earl himself, and privy to the Earl’s conversation with the court doctor, his attempts to use his new information, that the heir was hideously ugly, to his advantage backfired, and he was dragged by Flay to the tower dungeons and locked into a tiny, dark room.
But there was sunlight. And there was cool air. And Steerpike wanted more.
The window was tiny, and it was a tight fit for Steerpike to squeeze his lean body through, but he was determined. The window was high, and surrounded by sheer rock for several feet on every side, but Steerpike wouldn’t be stopped. He pushed through, and, with some difficulty, finally grasped the thick carpet of vines that covered the wall of the tower, and with a backward glance to the glory of Gormenghast spread out before and below him, he began to climb.
It was a strange thing, climbing through the greenery so thick that only the barest glimmers of sunlight shone through. It was hard work, but as a kitchen boy, he was used to hard work. It was long, and tiring, and it seemed to go on for ever, dragging himself ever upwards, and soon, Steerpike had the oddest sensation that the vines were leading him through space and time itself. Though the climb took less than an hour, with his infrequent breaks only when his arms began to give out, it seemed to last at least a year before he reached the end of the thick branches and leaves and burst out into the cool, morning air.
Not much wall left above him, and there were handholds and footholds scattered into the weathered stone, so still, he dragged himself upward until, at last, he placed his hands on the very edge of the roof, and with one last grunt of effort, slid his body upwards and on top of it.
He lay there panting, his eyes closed and his face pressed to the cool stone, and inwardly laughed.
No more ovens blasting heat onto his skin. No more scavenging for scraps left behind before the grey scrubbers scrubbed them clean. No more apprentices, no more burned fingers, no more Swelter. He was free.
“Free,” he muttered, and then laughed aloud. He pushed himself up to his knees, eyes still shut as he basked in the fresh breeze and stretched out his arms. “Freeeeeeee!”
In the kitchen, where the ovens burned day in and day out, Abiatha Swelter, head cook, was holding a sort of court of his own, all his apprentices gathered about his massive girth as he guzzled wine and offered them song. All but one.
Steerpike held back, as he always did, watching the celebrations with disgust and hatred. He cowered, wishing for and planning his escape from Swelter and the other kitchen slugs and dreaming of sunlight and cool air. It was not until Swelter called him by name (though he managed to slur it thoroughly) that he was dragged over to join his fellow apprentices and noticed that Mr. Flay, the Earl’s manservant, was also present.
Mr. Flay, who glared at Swelter with even more disgust and hatred than Steerpike himself.
An opportunity, then. A plan began to hatch. This, perhaps, would be Steerpike’s way out.
As Swelter collapsed finally into a drunken heap and the other apprentices pranced and nattered about the kitchen, Steerpike slipped away, after the departing Flay, following the odd crack of the older man’s knees as he strode out of the kitchen and into the long, dark stone lanes.
He was not silent enough. Flay noticed him, caught him, and Steerpike offered every insult at his disposal towards Swelter and his kitchen scum, hoping to win the favor of the upper ranks. Flay was not easily flattered or distracted, however. Though Steerpike was treated to a view of the cat room, and through a whole placed in its wall, the Earl himself, and privy to the Earl’s conversation with the court doctor, his attempts to use his new information, that the heir was hideously ugly, to his advantage backfired, and he was dragged by Flay to the tower dungeons and locked into a tiny, dark room.
But there was sunlight. And there was cool air. And Steerpike wanted more.
The window was tiny, and it was a tight fit for Steerpike to squeeze his lean body through, but he was determined. The window was high, and surrounded by sheer rock for several feet on every side, but Steerpike wouldn’t be stopped. He pushed through, and, with some difficulty, finally grasped the thick carpet of vines that covered the wall of the tower, and with a backward glance to the glory of Gormenghast spread out before and below him, he began to climb.
It was a strange thing, climbing through the greenery so thick that only the barest glimmers of sunlight shone through. It was hard work, but as a kitchen boy, he was used to hard work. It was long, and tiring, and it seemed to go on for ever, dragging himself ever upwards, and soon, Steerpike had the oddest sensation that the vines were leading him through space and time itself. Though the climb took less than an hour, with his infrequent breaks only when his arms began to give out, it seemed to last at least a year before he reached the end of the thick branches and leaves and burst out into the cool, morning air.
Not much wall left above him, and there were handholds and footholds scattered into the weathered stone, so still, he dragged himself upward until, at last, he placed his hands on the very edge of the roof, and with one last grunt of effort, slid his body upwards and on top of it.
He lay there panting, his eyes closed and his face pressed to the cool stone, and inwardly laughed.
No more ovens blasting heat onto his skin. No more scavenging for scraps left behind before the grey scrubbers scrubbed them clean. No more apprentices, no more burned fingers, no more Swelter. He was free.
“Free,” he muttered, and then laughed aloud. He pushed himself up to his knees, eyes still shut as he basked in the fresh breeze and stretched out his arms. “Freeeeeeee!”
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"Hey Walter... what's so free, huh?"
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This was very strange.
"What? What part of Gormenghast is this?"
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But there wasn't any water near Gormenghast. Not of that size, not that he knew of.
"Where's the library? The blue dome?"
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Those vines had taken him a bit farther than just the roof of the tower, it seemed.
"No. I don't know any Walter. My name is Steerpike." Another bow. "At your service. And you, my lady?"
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Good to know.
And . . . student? A step up, at least, from kitchen boy.
He'd have to tread carefully.
"It would . . . certainly seem that way, Cally. I'm a little bit . . . lost, though."
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Steerpike was lost by the references to flightless birds and words he would generally associate with small, furry creatures.
This was a strange place, indeed.
"You would do me great honor, Cally." He bowed again, just a little, this time. She didn't rank above him, but she did know a great deal more than he did, right now. He had to stay on her good side.
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"To be escorted, and, may I hope, befriended by a vision of loveliness such as yourself, Cally, would be a great honor, indeed. One that I am surely not worthy of, but will do my utmost to respect."
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Like he cared if she was "dating" someone.
"Then that is a great loss to single boys everywhere."
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"I . . . see. And . . . superheros?"
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"My dear Cally, I'm sure you're being too modest."
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"You're waaaay too kind," she said. "I hope everything gets settled okay for ya and stuff."
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