Waking the Witch.
Sep. 5th, 2006 08:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seikilosTitle: Waking the Witch
Fandom: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Songfic; angst.
Rating: PG
Words: 1470; oneshot.
Disclaimer: I don't own Tales of Symphonia. "Waking the Witch" (c) Kate Bush. I'm only borrowing the lyrics.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
silvie_chan was the first one to associate Martel and her situation with this song. I simply elaborated on her theories.
Summary: The sleeping goddess tries to wake up.
Author's Notes: This is a very strange fic--probably the strangest thing I've written. I'm hoping it's strange in a good way, though.
Here is the song "Waking the Witch." If you listen to it, you should be able to understand the sounds of the voices better, and it'll add an extra dimension to the fic--especially the ending.
With that being said, I hope you enjoy!
She was drifting.
“Wake up!”
Where was she? Who was she? She could not remember. . . .
“A good morning, ma'am. Your early morning call.”
Wait.
I remember. I’m Martel Yggdrasill. Where’s my brother? Where are Yuan and Kratos?
She tried to open her eyes but she had none. She had no arms to stretch.
Her brother’s face swam before her (vanished) eyes from the left; another face, familiar but not, like her brother’s but not came from the right. The faces merged and spoke:
“You must wake up!”
She had gone to sleep. Gone to sleep years and years ago. So long. . . .
“Wake up!”
“Wake up, man!”
Who were those voices? She could only hear (though she had no ears). There were no faces to see.
“Wake up, child! Pay attention!”
But she could not pay attention. The voices were distracting her. She could not gather the pieces of her mind, her consciousness, together to think. . . . What had been going on?
Who was she?
The merged faces of her brother and another man appeared again, flickering.
“Come on, wake up!”
“Wake up, love!”
That last had been Yuan, her fiancé—but no, the voice was wrong. Had she just imagined it—was she imagining all this?
“We should make the night, / but see your little light's alive!”
A poem. Where was that from? She—she was Martel, yes—she had always liked that poem. How long ago was it since she had last heard it?
Two voices, riding over the top of one another, sudden, harsh:
“Stop that lyin' and a-sleepin' in bed—get up!”
“Ma needs a shower. Get out of bed!”
Martel tried to cringe away, but floating in space, she could not. She was trying to wake up, really, she was!
Silence for a while.
Then a song:
“Little light. . . .”
The poem from before.
“Can you not see that little light up there?”
That was the voice of the man reciting the poem—what was it called?
Where?
“There!”
She could not see the light.
Where?
“Over here!”
It was a whisper this time, followed by another voice.
“You still in bed?”
She was, but she was trying, she was trying to awaken. Why could she not do it?
The image of a body—whose? —lying still and dead on the ground.
“Wake up, sleepy-head!”
Kratos? It sounded like him, but no, Kratos would never say something like that. He was too solemn.
“We are of the going water and the gone. We are of water in the holy land of water.”
That—that was a priests’ chant, the priests of the god of water. Martel remembered now . . . praying at the shrine with her brother, her fiancé, and her friend. Praying . . . praying for peace.
They had found none.
More voices.
“Don't you know you've kept him waiting?”
“Look who's here to see you!”
Who was he? She was trying to go, but she could not wake up. She could not see, for—she had no eyes? . . . Oh gods and goddesses save her, she had no eyes!
A woman’s face appeared in front of her face, blue-eyed, swimming out of her panic.
“Listen to me, listen to me, baby.”
Desperation in her voice and face.
Spiritua?
“Listen, baby, help me, baby!”
Her eyes were changing colour.
Why that name?
“Help me, help me!”
From blue to empty red.
Where had it come from?
“Listen to me, talk to me!”
She faded away.
Yuan’s face replaced her. He smiled—but it was wrong. It was malicious.
Why?
“You won’t burn.”
(They drowned—not burned—half-elves for being witches not so long ago.)
His voice was wrong. It was like a monster’s!
“Red, red roses.”
A child’s chant from Heimdall, before she and Mithos were sent away for being half-elves. (Everything was coming clearer now.)
But she did not care about that. Why was Yuan so—
“You won't bleed.”
She could not bleed, not anymore, because she was—
The dead body had green hair, long, soft like
“Pinks and posies.”
The rhyme again. It was going painfully through her head (that she did not have); could someone not make it stop?
“Confess to me, girl.”
Confess what? She had done nothing. Nothing!
“Red, red roses, go down!”
Go down . . . into death? Was she—
“Spiritus sanctus in nominee. . . . Spiritus sanctus in nominee. . . . Spiritus sanctus in nominee. . . . Spiritus sanctus in nominee. . . .”
(Spiritua?)
Worshippers were chanting and praying to an icon while bells were clanging, clanging overhead. Who was in the icon?
“Poor little thing.”
Yuan could be mocking and cruel at times; Martel knew that. But never had she expected his sarcasm to be directed at her.
But no, it was not Yuan! It was not!
“Red, red roses.”
Somebody stop that rhyme!
“The blackbird!”
The blackbird? But Yuan had always called her his beautiful skylark when they were together!
“Pinks and posies.”
“Wings in the water.”
The blackbird was a bird of ill omen. Was . . . was that what Yuan—what not-Yuan—was accusing her of being?
Where were these voices coming from?
“Red, red roses, go down.”
“Go down.”
Yuan’s voice and the rhyme were melding together.
“Pinks and posies.”
Would somebody please stop that rhyme? It—hurt—
“Deus et dei domino. . . . Deus et dei domino. . . . Deus et dei domino. . . . Deus et dei domino. . . .”
The worshippers and those awful clanging bells. They were praying—to her? To her! She remembered, it was Mithos—
Stop I’m not a goddess don’t pray to me I’m just a half-elf
(A dead woman has no voice and cannot be heard.)
“What is it, child?”
A priest—of her religion.
“Bless me, father, bless me, father, for I have sinned.”
Another woman, on her knees, hands folded, green eyes tinting slowly red until she faded away like the one before.
“Red, red roses!”
It was not ending. It would not end. She was trapped.
“Help me, listen to me! Listen to me, help me! Help me, baby! Talk to. . . .”
Eyes faded to red.
I want to help but I can’t I’m trapped!
“Red, red rose!”
I’ve been trapped for four thousand years.
“I question your innocence!”
The not-Yuan again, speaking with his monster’s voice.
She was innocent. It was Mithos who was doing this to her, it was Mithos who was destroying the world! She was just an excuse!
Another blonde with blue eyes, this one just a girl. Her face wavered and shimmered in front of Martel. Her hands were clasped. She pleaded:
“Help this blackbird!”
At the same time, the monstrous Yuan whispered:
“She's a witch!”
(They used to drown witches, you know.)
“There's a stone around my leg.”
The girl had said that. Martel knew the stone was her, dragging the girl—the Chosen—down.
Martel feebly tried to lash out against the voices.
She had to wake up!
“Ugh! Damn you, woman!”
Was it working?
The man who looked like Yuan gave a shout. Triumphant? Pained?
“Help this blackbird!”
Yes, someone help!
“There's a stone around my leg.”
The stone’s name was Martel.
Yuan, in front of a mob. The mob’s faces were all a-blur with anger—the people hurt in her name?
“What say you, good people?”
And the mob cried:
“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”
In response, the girl pleaded:
“Help this—”
Skylark I’m a skylark
“blackbird!”
Yuan’s face swam a little closer. Martel could see tired lines around his eyes. His face was still young.
“I am responsible for your actions.”
His voice sounded a little less monstrous that time.
The girl moaned. The not-Yuan laughed. The girl’s eyes began to change.
“Not guilty!”
The mob changed its mind.
The girl gave one more plea—
“Help this blackbird!”
—before her eyes turned completely red and she began to blow away in a gentle breeze.
Yuan’s face appeared on the left, Mithos’ on the right. They drifted slowly toward each other before merging:
“Wake up the witch!”
(They used to drown witches, you know.)
Help me, Mithos, Yuan, get me out of here! Destroy my Exsphere I want out I want out!
Her vision was fading, blackening around the edges and blurring. The witch was being drowned in the seed of the tree of life.
One last face of a man swam into view—brown hair, a small beard, a large nose. He was shouting:
“Get out of the waves! Get out of the water!”
He was drowned in waves of blue.
Wait please don’t go who are you please save me please help—
The goddess drowned.
Fandom: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Songfic; angst.
Rating: PG
Words: 1470; oneshot.
Disclaimer: I don't own Tales of Symphonia. "Waking the Witch" (c) Kate Bush. I'm only borrowing the lyrics.
silvie_chan was the first one to associate Martel and her situation with this song. I simply elaborated on her theories.Summary: The sleeping goddess tries to wake up.
Author's Notes: This is a very strange fic--probably the strangest thing I've written. I'm hoping it's strange in a good way, though.
Here is the song "Waking the Witch." If you listen to it, you should be able to understand the sounds of the voices better, and it'll add an extra dimension to the fic--especially the ending.
With that being said, I hope you enjoy!
She was drifting.
“Wake up!”
Where was she? Who was she? She could not remember. . . .
“A good morning, ma'am. Your early morning call.”
Wait.
I remember. I’m Martel Yggdrasill. Where’s my brother? Where are Yuan and Kratos?
She tried to open her eyes but she had none. She had no arms to stretch.
Her brother’s face swam before her (vanished) eyes from the left; another face, familiar but not, like her brother’s but not came from the right. The faces merged and spoke:
“You must wake up!”
She had gone to sleep. Gone to sleep years and years ago. So long. . . .
“Wake up!”
“Wake up, man!”
Who were those voices? She could only hear (though she had no ears). There were no faces to see.
“Wake up, child! Pay attention!”
But she could not pay attention. The voices were distracting her. She could not gather the pieces of her mind, her consciousness, together to think. . . . What had been going on?
Who was she?
The merged faces of her brother and another man appeared again, flickering.
“Come on, wake up!”
“Wake up, love!”
That last had been Yuan, her fiancé—but no, the voice was wrong. Had she just imagined it—was she imagining all this?
“We should make the night, / but see your little light's alive!”
A poem. Where was that from? She—she was Martel, yes—she had always liked that poem. How long ago was it since she had last heard it?
Two voices, riding over the top of one another, sudden, harsh:
“Stop that lyin' and a-sleepin' in bed—get up!”
“Ma needs a shower. Get out of bed!”
Martel tried to cringe away, but floating in space, she could not. She was trying to wake up, really, she was!
Silence for a while.
Then a song:
“Little light. . . .”
The poem from before.
“Can you not see that little light up there?”
That was the voice of the man reciting the poem—what was it called?
Where?
“There!”
She could not see the light.
Where?
“Over here!”
It was a whisper this time, followed by another voice.
“You still in bed?”
She was, but she was trying, she was trying to awaken. Why could she not do it?
The image of a body—whose? —lying still and dead on the ground.
“Wake up, sleepy-head!”
Kratos? It sounded like him, but no, Kratos would never say something like that. He was too solemn.
“We are of the going water and the gone. We are of water in the holy land of water.”
That—that was a priests’ chant, the priests of the god of water. Martel remembered now . . . praying at the shrine with her brother, her fiancé, and her friend. Praying . . . praying for peace.
They had found none.
More voices.
“Don't you know you've kept him waiting?”
“Look who's here to see you!”
Who was he? She was trying to go, but she could not wake up. She could not see, for—she had no eyes? . . . Oh gods and goddesses save her, she had no eyes!
A woman’s face appeared in front of her face, blue-eyed, swimming out of her panic.
“Listen to me, listen to me, baby.”
Desperation in her voice and face.
Spiritua?
“Listen, baby, help me, baby!”
Her eyes were changing colour.
Why that name?
“Help me, help me!”
From blue to empty red.
Where had it come from?
“Listen to me, talk to me!”
She faded away.
Yuan’s face replaced her. He smiled—but it was wrong. It was malicious.
Why?
“You won’t burn.”
(They drowned—not burned—half-elves for being witches not so long ago.)
His voice was wrong. It was like a monster’s!
“Red, red roses.”
A child’s chant from Heimdall, before she and Mithos were sent away for being half-elves. (Everything was coming clearer now.)
But she did not care about that. Why was Yuan so—
“You won't bleed.”
She could not bleed, not anymore, because she was—
The dead body had green hair, long, soft like
“Pinks and posies.”
The rhyme again. It was going painfully through her head (that she did not have); could someone not make it stop?
“Confess to me, girl.”
Confess what? She had done nothing. Nothing!
“Red, red roses, go down!”
Go down . . . into death? Was she—
“Spiritus sanctus in nominee. . . . Spiritus sanctus in nominee. . . . Spiritus sanctus in nominee. . . . Spiritus sanctus in nominee. . . .”
(Spiritua?)
Worshippers were chanting and praying to an icon while bells were clanging, clanging overhead. Who was in the icon?
“Poor little thing.”
Yuan could be mocking and cruel at times; Martel knew that. But never had she expected his sarcasm to be directed at her.
But no, it was not Yuan! It was not!
“Red, red roses.”
Somebody stop that rhyme!
“The blackbird!”
The blackbird? But Yuan had always called her his beautiful skylark when they were together!
“Pinks and posies.”
“Wings in the water.”
The blackbird was a bird of ill omen. Was . . . was that what Yuan—what not-Yuan—was accusing her of being?
Where were these voices coming from?
“Red, red roses, go down.”
“Go down.”
Yuan’s voice and the rhyme were melding together.
“Pinks and posies.”
Would somebody please stop that rhyme? It—hurt—
“Deus et dei domino. . . . Deus et dei domino. . . . Deus et dei domino. . . . Deus et dei domino. . . .”
The worshippers and those awful clanging bells. They were praying—to her? To her! She remembered, it was Mithos—
Stop I’m not a goddess don’t pray to me I’m just a half-elf
(A dead woman has no voice and cannot be heard.)
“What is it, child?”
A priest—of her religion.
“Bless me, father, bless me, father, for I have sinned.”
Another woman, on her knees, hands folded, green eyes tinting slowly red until she faded away like the one before.
“Red, red roses!”
It was not ending. It would not end. She was trapped.
“Help me, listen to me! Listen to me, help me! Help me, baby! Talk to. . . .”
Eyes faded to red.
I want to help but I can’t I’m trapped!
“Red, red rose!”
I’ve been trapped for four thousand years.
“I question your innocence!”
The not-Yuan again, speaking with his monster’s voice.
She was innocent. It was Mithos who was doing this to her, it was Mithos who was destroying the world! She was just an excuse!
Another blonde with blue eyes, this one just a girl. Her face wavered and shimmered in front of Martel. Her hands were clasped. She pleaded:
“Help this blackbird!”
At the same time, the monstrous Yuan whispered:
“She's a witch!”
(They used to drown witches, you know.)
“There's a stone around my leg.”
The girl had said that. Martel knew the stone was her, dragging the girl—the Chosen—down.
Martel feebly tried to lash out against the voices.
She had to wake up!
“Ugh! Damn you, woman!”
Was it working?
The man who looked like Yuan gave a shout. Triumphant? Pained?
“Help this blackbird!”
Yes, someone help!
“There's a stone around my leg.”
The stone’s name was Martel.
Yuan, in front of a mob. The mob’s faces were all a-blur with anger—the people hurt in her name?
“What say you, good people?”
And the mob cried:
“Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”
In response, the girl pleaded:
“Help this—”
Skylark I’m a skylark
“blackbird!”
Yuan’s face swam a little closer. Martel could see tired lines around his eyes. His face was still young.
“I am responsible for your actions.”
His voice sounded a little less monstrous that time.
The girl moaned. The not-Yuan laughed. The girl’s eyes began to change.
“Not guilty!”
The mob changed its mind.
The girl gave one more plea—
“Help this blackbird!”
—before her eyes turned completely red and she began to blow away in a gentle breeze.
Yuan’s face appeared on the left, Mithos’ on the right. They drifted slowly toward each other before merging:
“Wake up the witch!”
(They used to drown witches, you know.)
Help me, Mithos, Yuan, get me out of here! Destroy my Exsphere I want out I want out!
Her vision was fading, blackening around the edges and blurring. The witch was being drowned in the seed of the tree of life.
One last face of a man swam into view—brown hair, a small beard, a large nose. He was shouting:
“Get out of the waves! Get out of the water!”
He was drowned in waves of blue.
Wait please don’t go who are you please save me please help—
The goddess drowned.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-09-06 12:49 am (UTC)Hooo yeah, strangest fic you ever written, but I think it's awesome. The whole disjointed feeling to it and everything.
Very cryptic, but regardlessly wins on many levels.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-06 01:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-06 01:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-06 02:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 02:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-06 12:58 am (UTC)I am, however, confused as to why Yuan behaved the way he did here. Was it actually Yuan, or some figment of Martel's nightmare?
no subject
Date: 2006-09-06 01:10 am (UTC)So to answer your question, the Yuan she heard was not actually Yuan, but more along the lines of the Yuan her subconscious feelings of betrayal had created.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-09 11:30 pm (UTC)Like you said, I'm sure Martel wouldn't want to remain in limbo for eternity if it meant everyone would suffer.
And anyway, it turned out she joined into the being of the Great Tree, from what I gathered. So I guess she's a goddess, after all.
Anyway, that's one way of looking at it.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-06 03:21 am (UTC)We need more experimental fic like this. This wins so hard. I just love the disjointedness of it, the jumble of thoughts...it's wonderfully put together.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-06 01:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-07 07:44 pm (UTC)One of my favorite parts about it is how you tied in the theme of drowning. "They used to drown witches, you know." <-- That particular line really resonated throughout the whole work. I like how you incorporated the lyrics in the fic as dialogue... because, really, the whole fic was dialogue. Sometimes it seemed a bit jarring, but it flows better on the second and a half read.
Very neat. ♥ (Sorry I didn't comment earlier; I forgot to hit the "Post Comment" button, oops~)