For the Darkness challenge

[katallison.livejournal.com]

I feel rather sheepish posting this thing here, because it is a complete and total piece of self-indulgence--a coda to another story of mine, The End of the Road. (If you haven't waded through that one, the only background you need to know is Fraser and RayK try to make a life together in Inuvik after CotW, it doesn't work out, Ray goes back south, and Fraser transfers to a remote Arctic single-member detachment called Holman.) Anyway, this came into my head when I was thinking about the Darkness challenge, and it refused to go away. Um, it's over the word limit, too. Apologies all around. *g*


SOLSTICE

Every culture marks the winter solstice in its own way--the ceremonies of Inti Raymi and Soyal, the Christmas lights and Yule logs, Chanukah with its menorahs. For all their variety, these rituals run to a common theme: the longest night of the year is held sacred as a time to gather, share food and drink and warmth, light the candles and burn the fires--to wait together, in hope, for the return of the sun.

The Inuit, of course, know that they won't see the sun the next day, or the day after, not for many days, in fact. Their celebration is an act of faith, performed in the trust that the sun shall return, as indeed it must someday, bringing light and life back into the land.

The traditional Inuit rite of solstice is the Bladder Festival, during which the men, the hunters, undergo a purification ritual in the kashim hut, which is filled with the inflated bladders of all the animals they've killed that year. After five days, they cast the bladders into a hole cut in the sea ice, then leap through a bonfire, engage in contests of strength, and take a final sweat bath.

I realize that it sounds ridiculous; I know (though I try not to dwell on the thought) how preposterous Ray would have found it, how the very words "Bladder Festival" would have caused him to give me that sidelong squint of incredulity, that nasal derisive laugh.

The people of Holman are not entirely traditional, and their celebration this year was devoid of animal bladders, and more in the nature of a noisy and cheerful party, down at the town hall. I was in attendance, of course, making sure that the teenagers were being kept away from the liquor and that Joe Ullulaq was behaving himself. During the evening, several young women tried, with many giggles, to pull me into the dancing, and though it was a kind gesture, I was grateful when they abandoned the effort. I don't belong out there on the floor with the men in their tassled caribou dance coats, shuffling and leaping to the drumbeats. I know these people, I care for them, I will guard and defend them with my life, if need be. But I'm not one of them, and never shall be.

Instead, after a while, I deputized Carl and Gilbert to keep an eye on the proceedings, and slipped out the back door, into the night. I felt some guilt at leaving my post, but I'd learned, with difficulty, that I could trust others to help me in my job, that I needed at intervals to make time for myself and my own thoughts. I harnessed up Dief and the other dogs, and steered the sled away from the town, out between the bluffs, into the empty land. Thought the darkness was almost complete, the moon glowed faintly through the clouds, just enough that I could, eventually, see the inukshuk.

I pulled up next to it, halted, anchored the sled. I folded a blanket onto the snow, and sat down on it, pulling my legs close to me. It wasn't particularly cold out, for someone adequately dressed, and the dogs, warmed from their run, were comfortable enough.

For a long time I just sat, letting my mind settle, emptying itself of the bustle and cheer of the party, and refilling with silence. It's rare for me to get much unbroken time to myself these days; I hadn't quite anticipated the relentless busyness that would come with serving as the lone representative of the law in this town. For the most part, I welcome the distractions and the demands, and the friendly intrusions of the townspeople's sociability. It's a healthy corrective to any tendencies to brooding, and keeps me usefully occupied.

But each of us has our own particular holy days in the cycle of the year, to be observed in private, and winter solstice is mine. Every year, on this longest night, I take some time alone to think back on the year past, take stock of myself and my life. Last year it almost passed by without my noticing it. I'd just arrived here, my days were filled with getting settled, getting to know the town and the people, and my nights were filled with long hours ticking past, as I curled up alone on my narrow cot and strove do anything but reflect on myself and my life.

Two years ago ... it seems impossible, but two years ago I was in Chicago, bruised and aching from my beating--but also, as I sat out the long night, filled with a fierce joy that Ray had stood by me, set aside his doubts and disagreements to back me up, had taken the wheel and called me to ride shotgun beside him. On that night, rather than contemplating the past, I was eager to move onward into the future, and I could almost feel the returning sun already glowing warm on me.

(But that was long ago, and in another country. I regather my thoughts, and glance up at the inukshuk, to remind myself of where and who I now am.)

Most rituals of solstice are about gathering together and making light; but what rituals I have I perform in solitude, in the darkness. I'd brought no paraphrenalia for a celebration--no candles, no log to burn through the night. The one thing I had thought of bringing with me was the single postcard I'd received, back in August, but that would have been silly. There's no way I could see it now, in the darkness, and in any event it's clearer in my mind's eye than it would be if I had it an inch in front of my face.

The card was a bit battered by the time it reached me, and had clearly gotten wet at some point in transit, so that certain words were smudged to illegibility. The front was a glossy photograph, a panomara of a desert city, with "Surprising Scottsdale!" embossed across it in florid script. On the reverse, the address was clear enough: "The Mountie, General Delivery, Holman, NWT Canada." The short message contained neither salutation nor signature: "I took down 3 [smudged word] robbers last week. [Smudged] another commen[smudge--"dation," I assumed]. It felt good. It's hot here, that feels good too."

After that was a line where a sentence had been written, and then scratched out with such ferocity that the pen had dug deep grooves into the cardstock. Beneath that, on a line of their own, a few last words: "I [smudge] you."

I'd often wondered what that final lost word was--"miss," perhaps? "hate"? "love"?

I'd like to think it might be "forgive," but that would be too long a word.

There had been no return address, and I took that as a sign; no matter how many times I'd found my hands moving for the telephone, for the computer keyboard, knowing that a few minutes' effort would locate him, I'd always pulled back. As much as I wanted to interpret the card as a reaching-out, I knew that to be wishful thinking.

The wind has picked up a bit, and I wrap my arms more tightly around myself. Though it might seem a bit melodramatic and pointless to be sitting out here in the night, alone--though Ray would certainly have found it so--still, it matters to me to sit vigil, to keep watch for that moment when we stop circling deeper into darkness and begin the long slow turn toward the light. It gives hope, through the deepest cold, that warmth will come again.

Strangely enough, Ray understood that central point about the solstice. I recall one time when we were sitting on stakeout on a chilly winter night, Ray shivering and complaining beside me, and I sought to console him by pointing out that at least the sun was rising earlier. I half-expected the comment to irk him, but instead he said, "Yeah. Y'know, it always seemed weird to me that it's--astrologically or whatever, it's supposed to be midwinter way back in December, which is when the bad part's just starting and you know you still got January and February to get through. And March too, most years. Like it's all out of whack." He made a gesture expressive of disjuncture, moving his hands in the cold darkness. "But then--upside is, even when you're freezing your nuts off, up to your ass in snow, you know the days are getting longer, so you got some reason not to just take a header off the bridge. It's like--you're still getting the crap kicked outta you, but you can hear the cavalry coming over the hill. Y'know?"

Understood, Ray. And though he would certainly have scoffed at the Bladder Festival, he perhaps would also understand . . . Well, of course bladders per se aren't the point, and as silly as its name may sound, the festival is rooted in deep and painful truths. It's a hunter's rite, a killer's ceremony of penance, to propitiate the souls of all that he's put to death. The Inuit are a pragmatic people; they know that death is necessary, for life to continue. And they know that in the time of darkness a man must make an accounting of the price paid. I like to think that Ray would understand that too.

The dogs are getting restless now, muttering and shifting in their harness. The clouds have covered over the moon, and it's fully dark, so black that even the inukshuk, that enduring guidepost, is lost to sight. I push back my coat sleeve, press the button on my watch, and the faint blue light springs up to illuminate the numbers.

12:37; solstice has passed, a new year has begun. There are many days of darkness still ahead, I know, but the earth has completed its cycle, and is turning slowly back toward the light. I rise, shake out the blanket, unstake the dogs, and wheel them back toward the town, and the life that awaits me there. The deepest cold is yet to come, but I move onward into it in faith that, somewhere out of my sight, the sun is beginning its return.

Comments

[bethbethbeth.livejournal.com]

Ah! Another cheerful Kat Allison story to brighten up the holidays! *g*

But seriously (folks), this is beautiful, Kat - and hopeful (notwithstanding the fact that I still have the secret urge to shake Fraser repeatedly until he learns how much a pound of nails weighs on Pluto).

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Another cheerful Kat Allison story to brighten up the holidays! *g*

Hee! Actually, I just remembered that I posted Executor almost exactly three years ago today. Clearly, the holidays bring out my cheery side. *g*

But I'm really happy you like it, Beth. (And believe me, I share the urge to shake Fraser repeatedly. I just doubt it would faze him much.)

[imkalena.livejournal.com]

whimper

She's right -- it is, as is all your work, beautiful. And I do appreciate the hope.

I won't ever be able to read End Of The Road, but in my mind (and you've just cemented it with this), even after all that's happened between them [yeah, I've read *about* EOTR], they'll come to their senses and find a way to be together.

People change every day. They change their beliefs, their ways of doing things, and they change their lives. People change and grow, and I know that sometime soon, both of these men will see the light.

[katallison.livejournal.com]

::nodding:: Totally in agreement with you about change, and I do concur that even after all this, they could someday find themselves back together. (I mean, I probably won't be writing that particular story, though anyone who wants to is warmly welcome. *g*)

I'm really, really thrilled you liked this, Karen; I wasn't really expecting you to read it, and I feel very honored you did. Thanks so much for your comments!

[imkalena.livejournal.com]

Don't be too honored -- if it had been terribly bleak or distressing, I'd be kicking myself in the ass for reading it. *sigh* It's the curse of reading writers who are Really Good At It. :)

[lynnmonster.livejournal.com]

Auuuugh!

*pulls hair*

I hate you for being masterful and realistic and difficult. I, too, want a "happy" payoff ... but this was lovely and all-too-believable.

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much! Even though I don't set out to cause people hair-pulling auuuughism, it still remains the greatest and most amazing gift of my life to get feedback that lets me know this stuff connects with other people emotionally. So--thanks again!

[chesamus.livejournal.com]

I'm glad I'm not the only one who hasn't been able to bring themselves to read that story. I'm still holding out hope that somewhere down that road is a happier ending.

Beautifully done, anyway, even if it re-inforces my unwillingness to read the rest!

[katallison.livejournal.com]

*g* I certainly don't expect anyone to read that monster, but I'm very glad you were willing to read this, and am delighted that you think it was well done! And as I said in reply to Karen's comment above, there may indeed be a happier ending eventually, though I'm not the one to write it (I'm just very grateful that there are other people out there who'll write the happier stories!). Thanks very much!

why you make me cry?

[kormantic.livejournal.com]

*snif* It was... brilliant. In its darkest-before-dawn, always-apart melancholy solitary way.

[katallison.livejournal.com]

::hugging you lovingly and passing tissues:: Thanks so much, sweetie!

[cesperanza.livejournal.com]

*glare*

Actually, I like this better than EOTR, and I like it for much the same reasons as Roots Rain, which is that--while sad and depressing, it at least acknowledges a world in flux, where surprises are possible. And while we tend to remember the bad surprises, delight is possible, too.

[katallison.livejournal.com]

You know, the whole time I was writing this I was remembering something you said in your comments on EotR, about how the story really *is* never over, while they're both alive, and their lives will be full of many other experiences and changes. One of which could certainly be that somewhere down the line they'd reconnect, as somewhat different people, with different expectations and priorities.

You also said, very justly, that in EotR I'd really sort of stacked the deck against them--in the context of the sled trip, but I think also in terms of them succeeding together. This story is a sort of deck-unstacking, in a sense; you're right that it's a more open and mutable world here. And actually, a more realistic one, I think, more balanced, acknowledging both the descent into cold/darkness and the return back to sun and warmth. In EotR, I really wanted to build in a sense of inexorability, a narrow claustrophobic corridor with only one exit and all the other doors locked, and I think I succeeded at that, but man, I kind of had to cook the books to make it work. So this is, like, a little gesture of apology, to Fraser and to readers, and a letting-in of at least a whiff of fresh air.

Thanks for your comments, Ces, and I willingly accept the glare. *g*

[cesperanza.livejournal.com]

This story is a sort of deck-unstacking, in a sense; you're right that it's a more open and mutable world here. And actually, a more realistic one, I think, more balanced, acknowledging both the descent into cold/darkness and the return back to sun and warmth.
Yes, that's it exactly; you've said exactly what I was trying to say better than I said it. The real thing about "real life" is the total mutability of it--it's why biography is so damn difficult, because we always want to structure people's lives in terms of climaxes and yet real lives tend not to work that way, either way.

In EotR, I really wanted to build in a sense of inexorability, a narrow claustrophobic corridor with only one exit and all the other doors locked, and I think I succeeded at that, but man, I kind of had to cook the books to make it work.
Laughing--because, duh, we all cook the books, that's what writing is in a lot of ways. Just, I cook the books positively where you cook them negatively--but the thing is that neither of us in that regard have dibs on "the real." The real is, as we've been saying, the constantly changing--actually, I love Executor for that, because it's real--not because of the death in it, but because of the balance between joy and sorrow in the story. There's a lot of life and love in Executor and then whoops, one slip, blam. But life works the other way too, and my whole "grace" thing is about remembering that part as well--a million times I've seen someone with crap luck, crap luck, crap luck in every way and then, like, a year passes and they're in love or promoted or they get a new house or some just amazing nice thing happens to them that sends them on a positive spiral. It can work that way, too, is all I'm saying!

[theodosia.livejournal.com]

I thought Ray at the end of "The End of the Road" would be taking away some good lessons on relationships and self-worth, and have a real shot at making a happier life for himself somewhere, but that your Fraser was 'doomed'. This shows me that I may have been wrong about that after all....

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Well, Fraser's a pretty resilient guy (he survived his upbringing, and Victoria). And while he can be a bit dense about human emotions, relationships, etc., I think that if he could frame them in metaphors of the natural world (cycle of the seasons, etc.), he'd do better at getting a grip on them than when he's right in the middle of them, so to speak. I do kind of see him as "doomed" in the sense of not being cut out to live a life of ordinary human happiness; but I think he can find his own kind of happiness in gaining a better understanding of the ways he's failed at that, and in seeing the inevitability of change and growth.

Thanks for your comments, Theodosia!

[byob-kenobi.livejournal.com]

(But that was long ago, and in another country. I regather my thoughts, and glance up at the inukshuk, to remind myself of where and who I now am.)

This is my favorite part of the story- even though I want the happy ending, I can appreciate how much growth Fraser has gone through to get to this point. (I haven't read EOTR yet, so I am not sure of the exact backstory.) It's so hard to let go of things we once wanted desperately; and it can be difficult to see that not-wanting them is actually a sign of maturity- gaining something, not losing it.

That was a horrendously punctuated sentence, but you get my drift. :)

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Yes, and that's a cool point. One of the central themes in EotR (in almost all my stories, actually) is the importance of getting clear on the difference between what you *want* and what you *need*. And a big part of life, to me, is learning how to handle situations where those two conflict, or lead in very different directions. So I'm delighted that that came through here for you, and thanks very much for your comments!

[the-star-fish.livejournal.com]

I love you deeply; this should not come as a surprise to you. I also love this story, for the hope in it -- the postcard, with all its smudges, was a beautiful thing. And also the hope implied in Fraser going on with his life, even after "failing" at love once again.

I'm all verklempt.

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Awww, Deb! {{{bighugs}}} Thank you so much--I'm just thrilled that you liked it!

[auburnnothenna.livejournal.com]

The deepest cold is yet to come, but I move onward into it in faith that, somewhere out of my sight, the sun is beginning its return.


As someone who did read EOTR (And, yes, I'm a shit for not sending feedback on it, but it was sort like being hit between the eyes with a hammer - in a good way - I was too stunned to respond coherently.) can I thank you for this? Because, everything changes, and this shows Fraser and Ray both survived. There is joy still to be had for both of them and even if one thing is over, what they had isn't a memory of pain. Maybe they'll never see each other again, but that doesn't devalue what they shared.

Life isn't 'and they lived happily ever after', it isn't that static. This is more 'and they lived and were sometimes happy after'. Which I like a lot.

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Well, hey, this is EotR feedback, and you just sent it, and thanks so much! (Believe me, I am the world's worst about sending fb, especially on stories that really affect me emotionally, so I totally get it.)

This is more 'and they lived and were sometimes happy after'.

Yay! I'm so glad that came across successfully. Because really, our life stories never end until we die, and stuff keeps on happening and changing (and changing us in the process). I think one thing that draws me to fanfiction is that I'm always more interested in "So what happened next?" than in the tidy resolution of canonical story arcs. Because hey, life is *never* as tidy as it looks on TV. *g*

Thanks so much--I'm really glad you liked it!

Sorry, sorry, sorry: babbling ahead.

[galilei.livejournal.com]

Something I've wondered about your Frasers -- "Roots Rain", a bit; "End of the Road", more so; and here, pointedly, mostly particularly Fraser as he is now: does he see the North as something he moves toward, because it has something he needs, or is it something he moves into because he has to move away from something else? Fraser goes through such elaborate steps to exile himself wherever he is, and I can't be convinced that it's because he's happiest like that. It seems more to me that he feels that these are the only circumstances where he can be guaranteed success. I was wondering how you saw it: Does Fraser want Holman, want to place himself on the outside of this community, this far to the north, because of where it is, or because of where it isn't?

I sense that your Fraser (and Lord, do I love your Fraser) isn't cut out for joy, and doesn't feel capable of negotiating it. Happiness seems to make him insecure, seems to, in and of itself, make him unhappy, while pain and disappointment and unhappiness, in turn, seem to make him content -- or at the very least, comfortable. It felt familiar; it felt like home, and this seems true, in every way, for your Fraser.

I am sure I had a point here, but I've lost it in my rambling. But: This is gorgeous, Kat, and I know this isn't a popular opinion, but I kind of hope you don't fix this for them -- at least not in a way that ends with them together happily ever after. The emotional territory you've covered, painful as it is, is so authentic that I almost feel that such a happy ending, or happy turning, even, would by necessity lessen it.

Anyway. Thank you. This was lovely.

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Wow, these are fascinating questions/points, and I hope you don't mind if I babble in reply. *g*

My take on Fraser is a lot like what you say in your second paragraph; he doesn't have any vocation for normal human happiness, and he doesn't really *need* (though he may at times want) the things that usually make people happy--physical comfort, fulfilled love, domestic contentment, material possessions.

This sets him apart from most of us. His differentness is, of course, a running theme in the show, and for all that it's often played for humor, there's a real core of truth in there; he's Not Like Us. And there's some amout of pain in that truth, and I think people sense that pain, and try to reach out across the gap, connect with him. "People" here not just being characters on the show; a *whole* lot of dS fanfic, obviously, is all about breaking Fraser out of that shell of difference/apartness and connecting him well and truly with the rest of us humans, and with one human in particular. *g* Most writers are, in effect, trying to fix him.

Except--I don't really think it's a fixable thing, his differentness; he needs to be who he is. And the movement that you mention in your first paragraph, his going into the far North to this isolated little community, is a very concrete way of representing that need. He's not only removing himself from the temptation to lapse back into seeking ordinary happiness, but also putting himself into a situation where his differentness will be even more clear and unambiguous.

I think Fraser *does* know joy, but it comes through his work, in the larger sense of being able to act on his ideals of justice and rightness. Holman is a rather small canvas, in some ways, for enacting those ideals, but it gives him a lot of freedom. And I think the North itself gives him something he needs--I find myself thinking of Lawrence of Arabia, where some guy asks him why he likes the desert, and he says, "Because it's *clean*." There's a purity and inexorability and clarity about the Arctic that I think really speaks to him, gives him joy.

So, anyway (good *god* am I longwinded) I think it's both a moving-away-from and a moving-toward. He seeks out a way of life that brings him pain/discomfort/unhappiness not because he's a masochist, but because they're clarifying, they remind him of who he really is, what his purpose in life is all about; and also because they come with the territory where he feels he really belongs.

Um. Not sure if this is making a whole lot of sense, but thanks so much for wonderfully thought-provoking comments! (And I'm really glad you liked the story!)

At this point, I should probably be taking this to email.

[galilei.livejournal.com]

My work schedule makes conversations entirely impossible.

That made excellent sense. Thank you for taking the time to answer me, especially considering how incoherent my questions were.

I love the Lawrence quote. I think "clean" sums it up perfectly. I think I would argue with you about Fraser and joy, if only because I think of joy as being wilder, sloppier than I would associate with Fraser (and to inadequately feedback yet another of your stories, I loved that about "Heavy Bag": that joy is scary, almost nauseating, out of control), but I do think that Fraser experiences profound pleasure, happiness, satisfaction from his work and his inner life. And I truly don't mean to suggest that these things are somehow less than joy, or that Fraser's life is poorer for it. You're right: it's just different, and it isn't something that necessarily needs to be fixed.

Whether it is fixable, or changeable, though -- well, I think that opinions vary on that quite rightly. I suppose it all comes down to how much Fraser wants to change it. I don't have much trouble seeing Fraser as someone who wants to reach out, break out, but doesn't know how to do it, and the fork in the road is how determined he is to make it work. My stepdad's something of a Fraser, I think, and at 44 he did break out and open up; in my experience, though, I think that someone who's "different" like that is more likely to prefer life the way they're living it.

(Another aside about "End of the Road": when I finished reading it, I was a bit angry with you. I felt that Fraser gave up too easily, that he could have fought harder, could have made it work -- Ray was willing to do whatever it took; why was Fraser throwing in the towel so unexpectedly and so readily? Why then? But when I stepped down from my HAPPILY EVER AFTER 4EVAH! perch, I realised that that's exactly how it happens, isn't it?)

Babbling again, I know. It was the temptation that you mentioned that I suppose I wondered about the most: if part of the reason he set himself so glaringly apart from his surroundings as a forcible reminder of how things worked best for him, and of how he didn't just hurt himself when he tried to go about it another way.

It's painful emotional ground that you cover, but you do it so honestly and unflinchingly and -- this will sound dumb, I think -- responsibly. On top of that, you do it beautifully. So, again, really really, thank you.

[jenboo.livejournal.com]

what a beautiful response to that challenge! While it is sad, it isn't depressing to me. Fraser has faith that the sun will return, that things will improve (even if it isn't with Ray) and yet he also acknowledges the debit side of his balance sheet (pardon the accounting reference...I'm at work. *g*)
I love stories that acknowledge Fraser as a spiritual person. This is quiet and peaceful; a very fitting way to spend the solstice.

[dracostella.livejournal.com]

I *love* your language. I always have. It's wonderfully polished and poetic without being purple. But your stories makes me so depressed generally speaking, I just can't get myself to send comments. (I'm a horrible horrible person, I know). I, too, can never read 'The End of the Road' even though I've read all your other stories. You have an ability to make me believe whatever happens in your stories is what actually happens to the characters. And in my mixed up little head, if any fictional characters can have a happy ending, it's Fraser and RayK. BTW, September Song, is my favorite HL stories. (OT, I know, but since I've never sent you any comments).

I realize that it sounds ridiculous; I know (though I try not to dwell on the thought) how preposterous Ray would have found it, how the very words "Bladder Festival" would have caused him to give me that sidelong squint of incredulity, that nasal derisive laugh.

This, right here, demonstrate exactly why I can't read "The End of the Road", because you get these characters so well.

[aerye.livejournal.com]

How the ever-loving fuck did I miss this? I am smiling and crying and so very much in love with Fraser right at this moment. I kiss your feet!