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Excerpt from Book 22 (lost) of The Noniad by Ortus Nigenad, Cavalier Secondary of the Ninth House

Summary:

Matthias hight Nonius his Deeds and Accomplishments, posthumous.

Notes:

Scanning the lines of The Noniad that appear in Harrow may be the most ridiculous thing I have ever done for yuletide, but I went with something that is vaguely dactylic enneameter operating badly under some basic epic poetry rules. Ortus is not a great poet, but he's very committed. Many thanks to epershand and Lilith, and to mistresscurvy for letting me whine at her about the garbage meter even though she hasn't read the book.

(See the end of the work for more notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

Notes on Archive File 127311.960/48 Vermillion Epsilon Ninth ?? (origin unknown): This is nonsense. Where did it even come from? Archivist Hexet claims it really is part of Ortus Nigenad's appalling verse epic about Matthias Nonius—and honestly, hard to say how it could be anything else, when anyone in their right mind would consign classical enneameter to the darkest pits of hell—but Nigenad died in a shuttle crash with only nineteen books completed. Not to say worse things haven't happened from beyond the grave, but how did it get here? Library rules would normally call for a spirit-talker, but since it appeared on hand-scribbled, bloody-edged sheets of something that seems to be real, actual vellum (??!!), we've locked it up tight down at level seventeen. Archeo want to get their grubby mitts on it, but Hexet says it's ours due to literary merit. (What literary merit??) Last thing I want to do is spend months trying to track down the origins of this terrible poem when there's not a single thanergetic signature on the thing that makes sense. King Undying save me. —Archivist (third class) Daniel Shisha

Into the darkness he led them, his newfound companions of
     honour; the River rose up around them, a tomb.
"Come, my brave fellows," spake Nonius, unquenchable sword of the
     Ninth. "We will conquer this beast together,
"Even speaking in meter." Battered but unbowed by death,
     he launched himself into the River.
Following, bloody and torn, holding the rapier of Drearburh,
     came I, Ortus the unworthy.
Striding beside me was Dyas, stern cavalier of the Second,
     clear-eyed and deadly as her sword's edge,
Honed in the Emperor's service to sever bones from ligaments
     and heads from beastly shoulders,
White wore she for the Cohort and her lost lady,
     smeared with the blood of revenge.
"Judith's alive," said she, frowning at Nigenad. "Vengeance seems
     a bit much; wouldn't you call it a quest,
"Seeking out valour and glory beyond the unknown, so we died
     taking some fucking monsters with us?"
Angrily added Dyas, "Goddamnit now you've got me doing it;
     a pox on your poetry, Nigenad."
Hard on our heels, courageously keeping the rear guard,
     Protesilaus the Seventh opened his lips,
"Golden is Poetry, immortal truth of the Soul, all that
     remains when we lie in our coffins unmourned,
"Star-like is Poetry, burning above like Dominicus,
     rising in grace upon Roses Unblown,
"Fallible flesh is, but verses and bones are eternal." Thus
     spake the bastion of the Seventh House.
"O my true comrade," I cried, "though once doubtful I found thee,
     perceiving a poetic rival with no
"Comprehension of verse forms, now I see clearly: tributes are
     due to thy wisdom and thy great mettle,
"Bold as the heroes of old and robust as the wall of a
     palace, with sinews of iron and stone!
"None could now doubt thee, O staunchest of cavaliers primary,
     golden as Saints everlasting who serve our most
"Worshipful God." Gravely rang out my voice in the Riverine
     gloaming, disturbing the blood-black waters.
Then from above us, clear as the ice-caps of Erebus
     rang a great clanging reverberation
Calling each soldier and servant, each warrior, poet, and
     priestess, each speaker to souls of the dead,
Bells of the dead lands awaking an army of ghosts; but none
     answered the summons but our meagre band.
Swords at the ready and off-handeds primed, we stood back to
     back and awaited the coming of monsters.
Out of the shadows and night-black gloom shone bright the
     light of a Lyctoral power, refracted like candles
Seen through a watery pool, in all colours prismatic, a
     rainbow of lustrous white, incandescent.
Tall was the Lyctor and lean as a skeleton left for too
     long in the sun of a scorchéd-black field,
Flames at his fingertips flickered and danced, though
     bloody and worn was his craggy and ascetic face;
Tattered his robe was and spattered with viscera, each of his
     limbs ichor-streaked, yet he stood fast despite peril;
Leant on his powerful spear, huge and bone-handled, scourge of his
     enemies, weapon of dangerous might,
He turned to face us, his rapier leveléd, ready to
     strike if we made one wrong move, showing ourselves
Undeserving. "Who the fuck are you people?" demanded the
     Lyctor known for his unbroken duty.
Then spake Matthias, the greatest of swordsmen ever to
     grace the Ninth House: "Long ago did we
"Battle, my friend and adversary, facing the threats of our
     foes, but though myriad past not forgotten, a
"Debt I thought never to fill, for my bones may be scatteréd,
     never interred in their Anastasian home,
"But Ortus Nigenad, cavalier of my House, spoke with the
     voice of the Tomb shut forever and called
"Back my soul with his verse everlasting,
     a power unknown to me living or dead;
"Nigenad's art brought me forth to do battle, discharging my
     debts with my sword, and thus must I charge thee,
"Saint that is naméd for Duty, thy cavalry answers thy
     call; do not dismiss us back to our graveyards,
"When there is glory awaiting us here at thy side! Cavaliers
     all—Ninth, Second, and Seventh—we fight
"For our Houses and hearths; honour is all we desire before
     we are banished beyond resurrection."
Grimly he smiled and offered the hilt of his rapier,
     knucklebones counting out each urgent prayer.
Gravely the Lyctor took hold of the black blade, receiving the
     vow of the Hero of Drearburh with honour
Meet to his valour. "How could I forget thee, O Matthias
     Nonius, dreaded by all of thy foes?
"No mortal since thee has run me so ragged nor held me so
     bravely at bay; but ghost you are still,
"And your companions, the prey of the beast that I fight; it will
     devour you, shatter your blades and your hearts;
"Here have I fought it alone and abandoned, my comrades
     deserting the field, but though I welcome you
"Know that the danger is grievous for shades such as thee; I
     cannot prevent Number Seven from eating
"Its fill; and worse I must tell you, for soon my own fortitude,
     tried beyond limit and broken by time,
"Even that strength given to me by God and my cavalier
     falls at last to the beast of this dead planet's
"Soul; will you speak truly and tell me thy will, for doubtful our
     victory and none left after to praise us."
"I may yet praise us," I cried, perceiving my moment to
     speak, "for though I fight beside each of you, I also
"Chronicle all of your glorious deeds! My duty is plain,
     my service to Nonius, regardless of
"The place or time; should we be blasted, burned, or annihilated,
     still will poetry rise to the skies."
"Well spoken," said Protesilaus. "Just for the record, said
     Marta the Second, "I'm not afraid of
"Some ravenous beast. Let it come test my mettle and see for
     itself that the Second is feared for a reason."
Green-eyed and luminous gazéd the Lyctor on Dyas the
     sword of his House; with a small smile he spake,
"Chicken-shits do not get beer." He stood tall in the River's
     perpetual twilight and hefted his spear,
Casting a glimmer of osseous light, "Come my unlooked for
     warriors, Second and Seventh, I'll
"Show you the tricks that I know; the beast returns presently and
     ready must find us, making our very last stand."
Of the Ninth said he nothing, but clasped hands with Nonius
     prior to leading the others away.
Then Nonius looked to me, standing beside him, bloodied by
     ink from my sword; uncertain I waited,
A poet from stone made, guardian of the Black Gate, until
     I could no longer bear to be still. "O
"Hero of all the Nine Houses," I cried, "none but thee have I
     idolized, all the long years of my life,
"Only thy voice could I record in verses and only thy
     deeds could I praise to the meter of home;
"None but brave Nonius could I have imagined striding
     forth from the grave to protect us when my might
"Failed the Reverend Daughter; I owe thee not only my
     life after death but also my honour unbent.
"Thou art my Captain in death as when living, and thine is my
     heart's adoration for all that remains
"Of our time in the River, though monsters may rend our souls from
     our corpses and leave me with nothing but words."
"Words are thy power," said Matthias Nonius, taking my
     hands in his own. "For without thy poem,
"My soul would lie frozen, far from my homeland and lost to the
     dark; but you, Ortus Nigenad, have made me
"Greater than ever I was when I lived—for thou truly art
     Ortus the Ninth and the Soul of our House."
So saying he kissed me; startled I stumbled and Matthias
     caught me in arms hard as gauntlets of iron,
Bloody our lips were, but nothing could stop me from tasting that
     belovéd mouth; I kissed him again and
Again I poured reverence into each press of my lips; and
     though I was taller, Nonius held me,
Fast in the strength of his arms; with bloody fingers he touched
     my skull paint, sacramental in feeling at last.
I would not have halted but for one reason: the shadows
     around us grew sharper than sword-points and light
Like the heart of a blue candle flame shimmered ghost-like
     and treacherous, calling us forth to the fight.
"It comes," said the Lyctor, surveying his forces. "Eternal
     torments will soon be our comrades in arms."
Cheerful his tone was, as he looked around him. "But
     I suppose there are worse ways to go out in the end.
"You always did like them big, squashy, and soft-hearted,"
     said he to Nonius with a skull's green-eyed grin.
"Brave are my fellows," spake Matthias Nonius, hefting his
     sword in his hand, "though few our number, we shall
"Be remembered long after we depart these shores for the
     country unknown; no others would I choose to
"Battle beside me in any world or time, for these are the
     stalwart, the constant, the res—

Here the parchment ends in a jagged tear, likely rescuing us all from a great deal more misery; Nonius is famous for his speechifying. —Archivist D.S.

Notes:

With apologies to Abigail Pent. Ortus will probably write The Pentiad in the belly of the Resurrection Beast.