milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

athelstan,
autor

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Athelstan steps into the bar today with a bulging pouch slung over his shoulder, heads for a table and starts unpacking it.

He quickly has an odd assortment of items spread on the table, from tree bark to scraps of rough-tanned pale leather, all covered with small cramped writing - mostly done in the best ink he could make, meaning soot mixed with animal fat, with a goose feather pen. There's even a few pieces of wood with the writing scratched directly into them.

He's soon absorbed in sorting them into a logical order, but would be quite willing to be interrupted.

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Autor drops off of his carpet near him. The boy clasps his fingers behind his back so as to curb the impulse to make grabby hands. "Ooh," he says softly, reverently. "Is this your book?"

"The start of it", he says, looking up with a smile. "One day I must put it onto better materials."

"You could do that here, where the materials are readily available," Autor says, looking over the materials with wonder. "Are these mostly notes, or do you write with a bit of narrative already? As narrative as a non-fiction account gets."

"A little narrative", Athelstan tells him. "Mostly notes, but... there was a slave girl, after the old Earl died. I've tried to tell her story."

"That's wonderful," Autor breathes, adjusting his glasses. "Ah--not that she died, or was a slave--but that you've chosen to tell her story. I wish you luck, as that might be difficult. How are you going about it? Interviews to people who know her or more of a fictionalization of her life?"

"I've spoken with the other slaves. I didn't even know her name, only that... they said she'd chosen to go with him. I've always wondered why she made that choice."

"Ah, that's truly unfortunate," Autor says, furrowing his brow. "And you'll open your book with her story?"

"I'm thinking about it. It would certainly get people's attention."

"Absolutely," Autor says, nodding. "It sounds gripping and poignant. Are you planning to describe the whole of the Northmen's society or just the point of view of the slaves?"

"I haven't seen the whole of their society. I'll describe the parts of it I know - now Ragnar has risen, I may have access to more, through him."

"Ah, point," Autor says, clasping his hands behind his back again. "Still, this will be a very useful resource when it's finished. How much of the book do you think you have completed?"

"It's hard to say. I've written down... perhaps a third to a half of what I know? But I expect it will grow longer with time."

"Naturally, and then once you have written all that you can, you cut everything down again," Autor says, smiling a little.

He may be a bit too excited about the editing process.

Athelstan chuckles. "No doubt, or it would take far too much time to arrange and recopy it all."

"Is there anything I can do to help with this process?" Autor says, giving into temptation by gesturing to the pieces of wood.

"Well... what I'm doing now is to put it into some sort of order. It's been rather a process of writing things as they occur to me, I'm afraid, and it's jumbled."

"I understand, and you have your other duties as well," Autor says, inclining his head. "When do you get time to write?"

"After the household has gone to bed, mostly. I'm used to working in poor light, a candle is enough for me - or even the moonlight through the window, if it's a clear night."

"Ah, yes, I know that state well," Autor says, nodding. "I, too, am used to working by candlelight and oil lamps. Not so much moonlight, though. Your dedication to the craft is impressive."

He smiles and glances down.

"It seems to me having the ability to do the work, I shouldn't neglect it."

"Absolutely," Autor says, inclining his head. "To do so would be a great waste, nearly a crime. I hope that you can exercise your calling. What is your favorite part of the society that you've observed?"

He thinks about that.

"I suppose it would be how they are with their children. You might think sons would be more prized, and in some ways they are, but daughters can be doted on."

"Ah, I see," Autor says, smiling a little. "It is good to love one's children. What about your least favorite?"

The smile vanishes.

"The attitude to life. There was something Bjorn said as the girl was being sacrificed. I found it hard to watch, and he said 'What's the matter with you? It's only death.' The boy is twelve years old."

"Good heavens, that's awful," Autor says, his eyes widening. "It seems odd to me that they can prize their children, and yet be so dismissive towards life in that manner."