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ineedmyfics2011-09-14 05:12 pm
ineedmymods) wrote in ineedmyfics2011-09-14 05:12 pm
Entry tags:
Under Construction
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ceitfianna
Fromlithiumlaughter
Title: Under Construction
Fandom: Abhorsen Chronicles
Rating: All Audiences
Author's Notes: My prompt was 'but why does he make things?'. Hopefully, ceitfianna, this answers your question to at least some degree.
Sabriel's work as the Abhorsen means her time at home is sporadic and cut short more often than not. It's become less the case now that she has Lirael aiding her, but she's never home as often or for as long as she'd like.
Still, Sabriel is not as young as she was. Death and time have worn at her. What has not changed is the fierce love she has for her family despite (perhaps even because of?) the demands of her role as Abhorsen.
This is one of the reasons why when Sabriel has the opportunity, she goes to Sam's workshop.
The workshop itself is a clever little place that Sam has truly made his own. The heavy door is simple in its construction. There are no etchings, no decorations, no adornments outside of a silver panel that sits at its centre. Sabriel knows the panel's purpose and has used it numerous times, but she never ceases to marvel at it.
She places her palm against it, and a brief warmth surges through her hand, the feeling akin to having her Charter mark tested. The silver panel flares, and Sabriel pushes the door open easily despite its great weight. She has opened the lock.
It's a truly clever mechanism. The ensorcelled panel ascertains the identity of the individual touching it, decides if they are welcome, and then activates either the Charter marks that lighten the door or the ones that weigh it down even further. Absolutely ingenious.
Sam wouldn't agree with that assessment, of course.
It's just a version of a lock I saw in Ancelstierre, Mother. All I did was adjust and change a couple things. Nothing special.
She's long since learned not to argue the point with him, because he will constantly deflect, diminish, and give credit to anyone and anything aside from himself.
After two paces in, the door shuts behind her. It's a couple more paces to the 'inner sanctum', as it were, and she takes the quick breath of awe she's come to expect once inside. Every single visit she sees something new and marvelous. Today, she sees versions of the wind flutes that the Abhorsens have constructed for aeons. Sam had, self-consciously, mentioned a while back that he was intrigued by them. She had no idea he was going to try anything like this was.
Row upon row of wind flutes hang across the ceiling. Charter marks swirl around each, through them and in them, glowing, the natural light that catches on their silver surfaces only compounding the effect. She doesn't think she sees one wind flute that's identical to another, and can sense no two with the exact same Charter magic makeup. It's incredible, and she knows she should expect no less from the man – because her son is a man now, Charter help her – who has constructed them.
The craftsmanship alone is worthy of attention. The flutes have been carefully smelted and cast, the metals shaped by a loving hand. They're all perfectly round whatever their diameter and Sabriel knows that takes skill to do, even with good moulds to work with.
Then there's the magic. That's got to be the most impressive part of all. She's fairly certain that the moulds for these flutes were formed with Charter marks, and the metal itself imbued with an incredible variety of Charter marks. From what she can tell, even more Charter marks are engraved in the flutes themselves, never mind the ones cast on them.
Sam's engaged in some delicate work with thin copper wire, and all Sabriel can think of is a cool summer night in his seventh year.
The family had been all together, and had managed to find a couple days to go to the seaside in Nestowe. It was hardly the vacation it ought to have been. The location had been selected not only because it would be a pleasant place to spend some time, but because it was within easy flying distance of the Abhorsen's house. The family had made the most of it though, and at least that one night they had some peace.
Touchstone and Sabriel sat on the sand, watching their children and the sunset as their guards stood sentinel around them.
Ellimere had gone running into the water, whooping as she threw herself into an awkward but passable backstroke.
Sam, on the other hand, was seated by a patch of reeds with his hands occupied.
"What are you doing?" Touchstone asked, honestly intrigued as he went and took a seat next to his son. Sabriel had joined them, sitting on Sam's other side.
Sam lifted the initial framework of a net, all made from the reeds of varying the thickness that grew near Nestowe's shores. There was a long handle, and a thick round hoop attached to its end through some clumsy, yet effective weaving. It was a simple construction, but solid nonetheless.
"It's lovely," Sabriel had told him. Sam had frowned at this.
"I want to catch some fish for our dinner," he explained, and neither parent had the heart to tell him that the only fish in the area were out in the deep. "But they would all go right through this. I want to find some of the really skinny plants. Like long grass or something. I could tie it up all nice so the fish can't get out."
Sabriel and Touchstone had taken the opportunity to look at one another with a strange sense of curiosity combined with surprise.
Sabriel only draws herself up and out of her thoughts when Sam looks up from his workbench and smiles bashfully upon noticing her. He wipes at his forehead and glances quickly towards the flutes before looking back at Sabriel.
"I'm just experimenting with some things," he shrugs.
"Some?" Sabriel laughs, walking up next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. "It looks like a little more than that, Sam."
His next words tumble quickly from his mouth in a seeming race to escape: a habit he has always had and has never quite lost.
"I know that the flutes have always been wooden and that the Abhorsens have always made them, but I was thinking that there might be a better way, is all. I'm trying different metals and combinations of Marks and the like. I thought maybe if they could be more durable, then maybe new ones wouldn't have to be made by each Abhorsen, and maybe the spells could even maintain themselves if I figured out the right combination of Marks for keeping and lasting and endurance, and I was going to ask you more about the enchantments that you put on them because I'm not really sure about if I can make this work, but I figured maybe I should try anyway because it could help you and Lirael and..."
Sam goes silent, trying to wipe off some of the black grease on his face, but really only making it worse.
"If anyone could do it," Sabriel says, taking the sleeve of her surcoat and wiping his cheek with it. "I think it would be you."
Sam blushes. "Mother..."
If it's rebuffing the compliment or mild annoyance at the maternal gesture, Sabriel doesn't know and doesn't care. She embraces him tightly. This man before her may be the Wallmaker, but he is also her son.
ceitfiannaFrom
lithiumlaughterTitle: Under Construction
Fandom: Abhorsen Chronicles
Rating: All Audiences
Author's Notes: My prompt was 'but why does he make things?'. Hopefully, ceitfianna, this answers your question to at least some degree.
Sabriel's work as the Abhorsen means her time at home is sporadic and cut short more often than not. It's become less the case now that she has Lirael aiding her, but she's never home as often or for as long as she'd like.
Still, Sabriel is not as young as she was. Death and time have worn at her. What has not changed is the fierce love she has for her family despite (perhaps even because of?) the demands of her role as Abhorsen.
This is one of the reasons why when Sabriel has the opportunity, she goes to Sam's workshop.
The workshop itself is a clever little place that Sam has truly made his own. The heavy door is simple in its construction. There are no etchings, no decorations, no adornments outside of a silver panel that sits at its centre. Sabriel knows the panel's purpose and has used it numerous times, but she never ceases to marvel at it.
She places her palm against it, and a brief warmth surges through her hand, the feeling akin to having her Charter mark tested. The silver panel flares, and Sabriel pushes the door open easily despite its great weight. She has opened the lock.
It's a truly clever mechanism. The ensorcelled panel ascertains the identity of the individual touching it, decides if they are welcome, and then activates either the Charter marks that lighten the door or the ones that weigh it down even further. Absolutely ingenious.
Sam wouldn't agree with that assessment, of course.
It's just a version of a lock I saw in Ancelstierre, Mother. All I did was adjust and change a couple things. Nothing special.
She's long since learned not to argue the point with him, because he will constantly deflect, diminish, and give credit to anyone and anything aside from himself.
After two paces in, the door shuts behind her. It's a couple more paces to the 'inner sanctum', as it were, and she takes the quick breath of awe she's come to expect once inside. Every single visit she sees something new and marvelous. Today, she sees versions of the wind flutes that the Abhorsens have constructed for aeons. Sam had, self-consciously, mentioned a while back that he was intrigued by them. She had no idea he was going to try anything like this was.
Row upon row of wind flutes hang across the ceiling. Charter marks swirl around each, through them and in them, glowing, the natural light that catches on their silver surfaces only compounding the effect. She doesn't think she sees one wind flute that's identical to another, and can sense no two with the exact same Charter magic makeup. It's incredible, and she knows she should expect no less from the man – because her son is a man now, Charter help her – who has constructed them.
The craftsmanship alone is worthy of attention. The flutes have been carefully smelted and cast, the metals shaped by a loving hand. They're all perfectly round whatever their diameter and Sabriel knows that takes skill to do, even with good moulds to work with.
Then there's the magic. That's got to be the most impressive part of all. She's fairly certain that the moulds for these flutes were formed with Charter marks, and the metal itself imbued with an incredible variety of Charter marks. From what she can tell, even more Charter marks are engraved in the flutes themselves, never mind the ones cast on them.
Sam's engaged in some delicate work with thin copper wire, and all Sabriel can think of is a cool summer night in his seventh year.
The family had been all together, and had managed to find a couple days to go to the seaside in Nestowe. It was hardly the vacation it ought to have been. The location had been selected not only because it would be a pleasant place to spend some time, but because it was within easy flying distance of the Abhorsen's house. The family had made the most of it though, and at least that one night they had some peace.
Touchstone and Sabriel sat on the sand, watching their children and the sunset as their guards stood sentinel around them.
Ellimere had gone running into the water, whooping as she threw herself into an awkward but passable backstroke.
Sam, on the other hand, was seated by a patch of reeds with his hands occupied.
"What are you doing?" Touchstone asked, honestly intrigued as he went and took a seat next to his son. Sabriel had joined them, sitting on Sam's other side.
Sam lifted the initial framework of a net, all made from the reeds of varying the thickness that grew near Nestowe's shores. There was a long handle, and a thick round hoop attached to its end through some clumsy, yet effective weaving. It was a simple construction, but solid nonetheless.
"It's lovely," Sabriel had told him. Sam had frowned at this.
"I want to catch some fish for our dinner," he explained, and neither parent had the heart to tell him that the only fish in the area were out in the deep. "But they would all go right through this. I want to find some of the really skinny plants. Like long grass or something. I could tie it up all nice so the fish can't get out."
Sabriel and Touchstone had taken the opportunity to look at one another with a strange sense of curiosity combined with surprise.
Sabriel only draws herself up and out of her thoughts when Sam looks up from his workbench and smiles bashfully upon noticing her. He wipes at his forehead and glances quickly towards the flutes before looking back at Sabriel.
"I'm just experimenting with some things," he shrugs.
"Some?" Sabriel laughs, walking up next to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. "It looks like a little more than that, Sam."
His next words tumble quickly from his mouth in a seeming race to escape: a habit he has always had and has never quite lost.
"I know that the flutes have always been wooden and that the Abhorsens have always made them, but I was thinking that there might be a better way, is all. I'm trying different metals and combinations of Marks and the like. I thought maybe if they could be more durable, then maybe new ones wouldn't have to be made by each Abhorsen, and maybe the spells could even maintain themselves if I figured out the right combination of Marks for keeping and lasting and endurance, and I was going to ask you more about the enchantments that you put on them because I'm not really sure about if I can make this work, but I figured maybe I should try anyway because it could help you and Lirael and..."
Sam goes silent, trying to wipe off some of the black grease on his face, but really only making it worse.
"If anyone could do it," Sabriel says, taking the sleeve of her surcoat and wiping his cheek with it. "I think it would be you."
Sam blushes. "Mother..."
If it's rebuffing the compliment or mild annoyance at the maternal gesture, Sabriel doesn't know and doesn't care. She embraces him tightly. This man before her may be the Wallmaker, but he is also her son.