I want to start out the story with being in the present and third person, and then move on into the rest of it, so this is pretty much what it'll be like
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Renidas sat on the floor outside the queen's chambers. He could barely hear over the rustling of his own fabric, but he struggled to listen for signs of life. The queen was sick; in a way she had been sick since the war, since pieces of her life began to fall away. Many saw it, but no one told her they saw. Maybe that was the problem.
The door opened and Renidas steadied himself before he fell back into the doorway.
"You are content to sit on the floor all day, listening to my soft sighs. If I were any other woman, I'd be flattered."
Renidas scrambled to his feet, saluted quickly, and cleared his throat. "My queen," he said. Her eyes misted up and he could almost see what she remembered– a husband, long dead, calling her that name every day of his short life.
Amanirenas shrugged off the memory, her heart heavy and tired in her chest. She beckoned Renidas to come inside, and together they sat by the window in her master chambers. "I want to tell you something very important, Renidas," she said to him, her voice still strong even in her body's weakness.
"Anything, my queen. I am here to listen."
"I am going to die soon. Of course, this isn't news to anyone, but with circumstances the way they are, I must choose a successor."
"I understand," he said, even though he didn't. Just forty-four, Amanirenas had years left in her rule, but her soul would not allow her more time.
"I have no more family, Renidas. That was one thing the Romans did take." He studied her when she said this, and wondered if this was the same woman he met fifteen years ago. "But," she added, "when I needed a son, you were that son. When I needed a soldier, you were that soldier. And, I believe, if I ever needed a husband it would have been you."
Renidas paled, confused. She laughed at his expression. "Don't worry, I have never loved another man but Teriteqas. I was simply stating you would have taken that punishment quite stoically."
He smiled. "No punishment, my queen."
"Amanirenas," she said, frustrated. Renidas saw a glimmer of what once was. "My name is Amanirenas. We will be equals soon, and that it was you shall call me."
"Equals?"
"Yes, Renidas. You are my successor, and now officially the crowned prince of all Kush."
The one-time palace guard and now almost king sat dumbstruck. She was not old enough for sickness that attacks the brain, he reasoned, but still he could not believe what she had said. "Why?" he managed to choke out.
"You were there," she stated simply. "You've heard the speeches, and seen the bloodshed. You were on that island during the treaty. There are many reasons."
"How can a low palace guard with no blood ties follow the greatest queen Kush has ever seen?" he whispered.
"I was far from great." Her voice was harsh and bitter. "Let me tell you what I was. Let me tell you my reign."
"Please," he said, softening the mood. "Start from the beginning."
Queen Amanirenas sighed, and began from the beginning. "The night was warm when my father died. . ."
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
writing adventure 32- Sad Songs
She is just a collection of sad songs. That's what the music industry tells her, anyway. She is just lyrics, just tears on sheet music. She is a simple chord in a simple song.
The magazine companies tell her she's something completely different. In their eyes, and in the eyes of her mirror, she is a collection of failed diet plans and too small bikinis. She is someone who is beautiful, but only until she flips to page forty and they tell her how to hide everything that makes her ugly.
In a book store, though, she's a collection of romance novels. She is soft sighs and softer kisses. She is filled by dreams of someone else, someone bigger than a life of sad songs, and despicable magazines. She means something, but only to a figment of her imagination.
She's not sure if she wants to be any of these things, but she knows that's what she is. At least, it's what they consider her to be. And maybe that's because she lets them, or maybe it's because they can't see past the thin skin she has on her body, but nevertheless she has been defined by these traits. They have made her bed, the bed she lies in now, thinking of those sad songs, and of those prettier girls, and of those imaginary boys.
She vows that one day she'll get up out of this damn bed, and she won't ever be those things again. She'll be something that she wants to be, she'll be bigger than just a collection. She'll be human. One day.
For now, the sad song will play, and it will make her cry over the fact that she is ugly in everyone else's eyes but that one boy's. Only he doesn't really exist.
At least, that's what they tell her.
The magazine companies tell her she's something completely different. In their eyes, and in the eyes of her mirror, she is a collection of failed diet plans and too small bikinis. She is someone who is beautiful, but only until she flips to page forty and they tell her how to hide everything that makes her ugly.
In a book store, though, she's a collection of romance novels. She is soft sighs and softer kisses. She is filled by dreams of someone else, someone bigger than a life of sad songs, and despicable magazines. She means something, but only to a figment of her imagination.
She's not sure if she wants to be any of these things, but she knows that's what she is. At least, it's what they consider her to be. And maybe that's because she lets them, or maybe it's because they can't see past the thin skin she has on her body, but nevertheless she has been defined by these traits. They have made her bed, the bed she lies in now, thinking of those sad songs, and of those prettier girls, and of those imaginary boys.
She vows that one day she'll get up out of this damn bed, and she won't ever be those things again. She'll be something that she wants to be, she'll be bigger than just a collection. She'll be human. One day.
For now, the sad song will play, and it will make her cry over the fact that she is ugly in everyone else's eyes but that one boy's. Only he doesn't really exist.
At least, that's what they tell her.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
writing adventure 31- Remember
He loved a girl once, but he can't remember her name, so he pretends her name is Abigail. She had beautiful blue eyes, the type of blue that seems surreal the first time it's seen, like it should only exist in picture books or the bottom of the ocean.
He thinks he told her that, but he can't remember what her reaction was. The only thing he can remember are Abigail's eyes. They were beautiful, and a very deep blue. Had he remembered that already?
Anyway, Abigail was pretty, but he only remembers the vague sense of her beauty, like it left an afterimage in his mind that he can't shake. He sits very still so that it will never go away. The doctors ask him to explain why he can sit so still and so silently for days, but he can't tell them. What if he opens his mouth and it goes away?
He realizes the wall is a deep, gorgeous blue, and then he gets scared. He can't remember if her eyes were blue, or if it was just the wall that he's been imagining all this time.
He blinks. The wall is white again. He has a small sigh of relief before he closes his mouth and resumes staring at the wall.
This is how he remembers. He loved a girl once, but she's dead now. He thinks her name was Anna, or something with an "A" at the front. Anyway, it was a pretty name, and she had pretty eyes, and they were so blue, like the blue someone sees when they see spots in front of their eyes. He shakes his head, he wants to remember more than a color. Color doesn't matter, he thinks to himself.
But it does matter, and his eyes tear up from staring so long. Or was that from guilt? The tears come faster. Did he really forget a girl he loved?
The doctors come, and they ask him more questions, but he doesn't answer because the wall has turned blue again and that's scary. He doubts, and the doubting makes him want to scream, but the screaming makes him want to sit perfectly still and remember Amanda's calm blue eyes. They were calm, right until she died. He thinks she died in his arms, but he can't be certain.
The wall is red now. He blinks, but the wall remains red and the tears remain in his eyes. He knows it means something, but his brain has forgotten so much that he can't remember a connection. Did she die a bloody death? Did she have red curtains on the window by her bed, on the window he stared out of, watching the police surround her apartment?
The doctors blindfold him, but the red remains, and he knows now. He knows everything and nothing at the same time, and it frightens him how much he can recall. It frightens him how he killed her because he was different, because he had a disease, because she had to call the police on him when he stopped taking that medication.
It frightens him that he had the ability to murder a girl that had such pretty blue eyes.
The blindfold comes off. The doctors ask questions but retreat with empty notebooks. The wall is white again, and he remembers only that there was someone he knew who may have been named Alice. He can't remember why he cares.
He thinks he told her that, but he can't remember what her reaction was. The only thing he can remember are Abigail's eyes. They were beautiful, and a very deep blue. Had he remembered that already?
Anyway, Abigail was pretty, but he only remembers the vague sense of her beauty, like it left an afterimage in his mind that he can't shake. He sits very still so that it will never go away. The doctors ask him to explain why he can sit so still and so silently for days, but he can't tell them. What if he opens his mouth and it goes away?
He realizes the wall is a deep, gorgeous blue, and then he gets scared. He can't remember if her eyes were blue, or if it was just the wall that he's been imagining all this time.
He blinks. The wall is white again. He has a small sigh of relief before he closes his mouth and resumes staring at the wall.
This is how he remembers. He loved a girl once, but she's dead now. He thinks her name was Anna, or something with an "A" at the front. Anyway, it was a pretty name, and she had pretty eyes, and they were so blue, like the blue someone sees when they see spots in front of their eyes. He shakes his head, he wants to remember more than a color. Color doesn't matter, he thinks to himself.
But it does matter, and his eyes tear up from staring so long. Or was that from guilt? The tears come faster. Did he really forget a girl he loved?
The doctors come, and they ask him more questions, but he doesn't answer because the wall has turned blue again and that's scary. He doubts, and the doubting makes him want to scream, but the screaming makes him want to sit perfectly still and remember Amanda's calm blue eyes. They were calm, right until she died. He thinks she died in his arms, but he can't be certain.
The wall is red now. He blinks, but the wall remains red and the tears remain in his eyes. He knows it means something, but his brain has forgotten so much that he can't remember a connection. Did she die a bloody death? Did she have red curtains on the window by her bed, on the window he stared out of, watching the police surround her apartment?
The doctors blindfold him, but the red remains, and he knows now. He knows everything and nothing at the same time, and it frightens him how much he can recall. It frightens him how he killed her because he was different, because he had a disease, because she had to call the police on him when he stopped taking that medication.
It frightens him that he had the ability to murder a girl that had such pretty blue eyes.
The blindfold comes off. The doctors ask questions but retreat with empty notebooks. The wall is white again, and he remembers only that there was someone he knew who may have been named Alice. He can't remember why he cares.
Monday, September 19, 2011
writing adventure notice 2
So I'm going to attempt to start a new project soon.
It'll hopefully be pretty big, like Climbing Out of the Pit status (to those who know what that means) so it won't end up on the blog for a while because I'm going to write it all out first, and not do parts like I've done with some other stuff. Granted, Writing Adventure will still have little stories every once in a while like now, but I wanted to say that I'm trying something bigger so that I can be held accountable.
Here's my idea: a historical fiction piece about Amanirenas, told in first person from her point of view. In case you're not aware of who she is (I call her the greatest queen the world will never remember, which hints that not many people are aware), Amanirenas was queen of a country called Kush around 24 BCE. She was a warrior queen, and led her people against Augustus and the Roman Army, a very powerful force in that time.
I'm doing this for a couple of reasons: 1) I'm not really into first person, so it would be good to get some experience, and 2) I've never seen anyone try and write her story in a historical fiction novel or short story, and she has a tremendous story to tell.
Considering how long ago that was, there's next to nothing out there about her. So most of this story will be fiction. But, from what little information there is, one can see the tragedy that she went through. She's an inspiration, and she's inspiring me to do this. So if you see me, tell me to work on this story, because I must accomplish this!
Also, if anyone wants to Google her, you should! Then, you should get back to me with some titles!!! (I'm quite terrible at them.)
It'll hopefully be pretty big, like Climbing Out of the Pit status (to those who know what that means) so it won't end up on the blog for a while because I'm going to write it all out first, and not do parts like I've done with some other stuff. Granted, Writing Adventure will still have little stories every once in a while like now, but I wanted to say that I'm trying something bigger so that I can be held accountable.
Here's my idea: a historical fiction piece about Amanirenas, told in first person from her point of view. In case you're not aware of who she is (I call her the greatest queen the world will never remember, which hints that not many people are aware), Amanirenas was queen of a country called Kush around 24 BCE. She was a warrior queen, and led her people against Augustus and the Roman Army, a very powerful force in that time.
I'm doing this for a couple of reasons: 1) I'm not really into first person, so it would be good to get some experience, and 2) I've never seen anyone try and write her story in a historical fiction novel or short story, and she has a tremendous story to tell.
Considering how long ago that was, there's next to nothing out there about her. So most of this story will be fiction. But, from what little information there is, one can see the tragedy that she went through. She's an inspiration, and she's inspiring me to do this. So if you see me, tell me to work on this story, because I must accomplish this!
Also, if anyone wants to Google her, you should! Then, you should get back to me with some titles!!! (I'm quite terrible at them.)
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
writing adventure 30- Man
Life moved slowly, for a while. When no one was there to witness her, Life wandered aimlessly. No direction, no hurry. Time was a concept that had not been perfected by the Beasts that roamed to plains of Mother Earth, and so they were content with her lazy indifference. They let her be, let her walk in her comprehensible form in their realm, and so she, in turn, gave them eternity.
But something happened when Man fell out of the sky. He was brazen, a menacingly curious creature that constantly wrestled with itself and its true, innocent nature. "What Beast is this, Mother?" she whispered to the winds. "Why do you allow a Beast in your realm that seeks only to destroy it?"
"Not I," the waves of the oceans replied, crashing harmoniously against the untainted shore. The Beast of Flight fretted and took to the sky, a cowardly animal. "Man is not my Beast, not my creation. He comes from above this realm, from a place that is not my own. This is why he wrestles with the days and nights, hoping to control them."
Life didn't understand. Beasts not mothered by the Earth? How, then, would they know what precious treasures lie before them? She walked farther from the shore to investigate. "I will see for myself," she reasoned, and almost thought she heard regret in the chaotic waves she left behind.
But something happened when Man fell out of the sky. He was brazen, a menacingly curious creature that constantly wrestled with itself and its true, innocent nature. "What Beast is this, Mother?" she whispered to the winds. "Why do you allow a Beast in your realm that seeks only to destroy it?"
"Not I," the waves of the oceans replied, crashing harmoniously against the untainted shore. The Beast of Flight fretted and took to the sky, a cowardly animal. "Man is not my Beast, not my creation. He comes from above this realm, from a place that is not my own. This is why he wrestles with the days and nights, hoping to control them."
Life didn't understand. Beasts not mothered by the Earth? How, then, would they know what precious treasures lie before them? She walked farther from the shore to investigate. "I will see for myself," she reasoned, and almost thought she heard regret in the chaotic waves she left behind.
~
Man's camp was in the middle of a forest he had not appreciated. She met Fox, a Beast of Land, as she neared the edge of a clearing. He seemed. . .
. . . older. His face was weathered, his hair was thinned, and his paws were heavy and slow in the soft grass. She picked up the Beast, and he sunk breathlessly in her arms. "Who did this to you, my companion? Who has sped up time without my knowledge?"
He did not respond, but chose to close his eyes and nestle deeper into her hold. She was now frightened. "Was it Mother? Did she take the power of time from me?"
Fox lifted his head, and shook it as a response. Life put the frail body down, and charged deeper into the woods.
After a short time, she saw Man's camp. It looked dreadful; weaker branches had been ripped off of the smallest trees, and used to make some sort of shelter. "Does he not know the Mother Earth shelters all?" she cried to herself, too far from camp to be heard. "I must speak to this Beast from Nowhere!"
As soon as she arrived in Man's camp, he emerged from his shelter, and regarded her curiously. The glint in his eye did not fade, and she tensed with apprehension. "Do you know who I am?" she asked him, her voice failing to hold steady.
"You are Life, personified. While the Earth created this realm, you tend to it. You control its time, its animals. This is the form you take because it is the form that looks most like," he paused, and it drew her closer to him.
"me."
The trance was broken, and she looked up at his taller frame, puzzled. "I don't know what you are, but I am fashioned after no one. Mother Earth created me to rule her lands."
"You will never again rule these lands. I come from a place higher than Earth. I will conquer time, and then I will conquer you." His rich voice frightened her, and she was reminded of Fox. This is what had happened, she thought to herself, her eyes taking in his large body. Man had tried to harness time, and it had aged the world around him.
She narrowed her gaze. Peace, a peace she had meticulously created, had generously given to the lands of her Mother, was now ruined. "I control time, I control what happens to your soul. You will never rule these lands. You are the slowest Beast here. You can not fly, like Bird, or swim, like Whale. You question all that is around you, but not to come up with answers, just to know what questions need to be asked. You are a selfish, aggressive Beast. One that will, eventually, die."
The air around Life grew hot then, and she began to fade. "One cannot control what one cannot comprehend," she whispered to him, and the leaves rattled her praises.
Man felt old in that moment, and sat down to rest, wary of his sore muscles and tired eyes.
~
Fox still sat at the edge of the clearing, hearing with his keen ears what transpired between Man and his ruler. The other Beasts wouldn't realize what he knew until it was already too late, but he was clever. Fox knew what was going to happen, what was going to change. In order for Man to be punished, time had to run as it was created to run. Meaning their bodies would no longer walk Mother Earth's plains forever.
Fox shook his head and laid down. Too much for today, he thought. Too tired to understand.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
writing adventure 29- Silence (prologue)
It started small, his attack against the regime. He hadn't even been thinking of taking it on, really. He had just been there, had just seen the Training Center for the first time, just needed to say something to make it more real in his confused and frightened mind.
He and his classmates (he was only fifteen at the time, a boy in a time where men lived to be over a hundred) had just been paraded around the center of the city on a field trip no one cared about. Thinking himself safe, Abbot turned to one of the others cramped beside him and said, "I think they're training us to be sheep. Look, they're leading us to slaughter right now!"
They were supposed to giggle quietly, like they usually did when he said something funny. Instead, the girl (he'll never remember her name, but that face is seared into his memory until he dies in the same place he said those first words) turned and opened her eyes as wide as possible. She was afraid. His smile quickly faded, and he immediately looked around at the Training Center guards.
One already had him by the arm. "Abbot Preacher," the looming figure stated, the gravelly voice solidifying Abbot's fear, "you need to come with me." He complied and let the man take him behind the stage and away from the crowd.
(This is the first moment Abbot believes whole-heartedly he is going to die for something he said.)
The guard shoved roughly and told him, "You will never speak ill of your homeland again. Do you understand?"
Abbot's fear increased exponentially, but he was a boy of fifteen and so he held his ground. "It was a joke. This country has survived worse."
The guard's helmet came off then, and it revealed a scar on the left side of his face, running from the top of his head down to his chin. Abbot sobered once again. "You're right," the guard said. "And I've survived a lot more than some dumb kid trying to prove something."
"I was just saying what I thought. You're telling me we can't even think for ourselves? How are we supposed to be human if we can't think for ourselves?" (Funny how his mind jumped to this argument, that they needed to be human, when seconds before his death he realizes that this meaning of the word doesn't exist anymore.)
The guard smiled at him. Abbot subconsciously shied away from the giant and towards the wooden stage. Even as he looked frantically around him, he knew there was no one there to save him, and, even if there were, they wouldn't hesitate to run the opposite direction.
"Oh, you can think whatever you like. Anarchy, violence, the world falling around you in the shadow of your iron fist. It's when you say it out loud, when you put those thoughts into someone else's head, that's when I'll hunt you down. Just say one more thing, and I'll hang you from that rope."
Something glazed over in the boy's heart at that moment. (Something that could have kept him alive, something that could have given him years of happiness and life.) The guard knew this had happened as well, and added to his speech, "I have a feeling this won't be the last time you're here, so just wait and see. You can talk all you want, but you can't cover up the silence."
(Maybe if Abbot had believed that guard, he would have lived, but fifteen year old boys don't believe anyone, and Abbot died at the hands of that same guard only ten years later.)
He and his classmates (he was only fifteen at the time, a boy in a time where men lived to be over a hundred) had just been paraded around the center of the city on a field trip no one cared about. Thinking himself safe, Abbot turned to one of the others cramped beside him and said, "I think they're training us to be sheep. Look, they're leading us to slaughter right now!"
They were supposed to giggle quietly, like they usually did when he said something funny. Instead, the girl (he'll never remember her name, but that face is seared into his memory until he dies in the same place he said those first words) turned and opened her eyes as wide as possible. She was afraid. His smile quickly faded, and he immediately looked around at the Training Center guards.
One already had him by the arm. "Abbot Preacher," the looming figure stated, the gravelly voice solidifying Abbot's fear, "you need to come with me." He complied and let the man take him behind the stage and away from the crowd.
(This is the first moment Abbot believes whole-heartedly he is going to die for something he said.)
The guard shoved roughly and told him, "You will never speak ill of your homeland again. Do you understand?"
Abbot's fear increased exponentially, but he was a boy of fifteen and so he held his ground. "It was a joke. This country has survived worse."
The guard's helmet came off then, and it revealed a scar on the left side of his face, running from the top of his head down to his chin. Abbot sobered once again. "You're right," the guard said. "And I've survived a lot more than some dumb kid trying to prove something."
"I was just saying what I thought. You're telling me we can't even think for ourselves? How are we supposed to be human if we can't think for ourselves?" (Funny how his mind jumped to this argument, that they needed to be human, when seconds before his death he realizes that this meaning of the word doesn't exist anymore.)
The guard smiled at him. Abbot subconsciously shied away from the giant and towards the wooden stage. Even as he looked frantically around him, he knew there was no one there to save him, and, even if there were, they wouldn't hesitate to run the opposite direction.
"Oh, you can think whatever you like. Anarchy, violence, the world falling around you in the shadow of your iron fist. It's when you say it out loud, when you put those thoughts into someone else's head, that's when I'll hunt you down. Just say one more thing, and I'll hang you from that rope."
Something glazed over in the boy's heart at that moment. (Something that could have kept him alive, something that could have given him years of happiness and life.) The guard knew this had happened as well, and added to his speech, "I have a feeling this won't be the last time you're here, so just wait and see. You can talk all you want, but you can't cover up the silence."
(Maybe if Abbot had believed that guard, he would have lived, but fifteen year old boys don't believe anyone, and Abbot died at the hands of that same guard only ten years later.)
Thursday, September 1, 2011
writing adventure 28- Silence
The rope looks almost pristine to him as he stands just inches behind it. It should, he thinks bitterly to himself, it hasn't been used in half a century.
The crowd around his final stage had gathered there in the morning, before the criminal had even arrived. They didn't know his crime, or even his name, but they were indifferent to details. They were trained to be indifferent to details. All they knew was that the alarm bell had sounded thirteen times at seven in the morning, and that meant to get up and go towards a place most of them have never gone.
It is called the Training Center, and it is where the man will take his last steps of protest.
He surveys the crowd, taking the time to stare into the eyes of anyone bold enough to glance at his. He must try to get someone to see how wrong this is, he must get one out of the huddled masses to carry on. He desperately searches for that person, but anyone who has any intelligence knows what will happen if they're caught staring back, and anyone who doesn't can sense they're not supposed to look up at a dead man walking. The crowd is silent. He regards them in his mind as if they are children, and it keeps him from being ashamed at them.
Instead, he focuses his attention back to the rope. Once the men on either side of him, the men he barely noticed before, believe that the crowd is large enough, they push him forward. He stumbles across the plank, and curses his feet. Of course his last steps on this earth would be weak.
It is at this moment he realizes he feels fear. The sweat drips down his face and he sees the rope and where his neck will be and the fear he has suppressed through riots and speeches and government interrogations and–
Oh God in mere minutes I will be dead.
He looks out the crowd once more, pleadingly this time, and sees a few at the front of the group watching his feet at least. His mind, sensing such an abrupt end, takes this as his only chance.
"If you learn anything from me," he yells, and the men beside him step back to release the platform underneath him. "If you learn anything from my standing before you here, learn to never be silent. Always speak, always be a presence."
The crowd, nervous and trained against all he preaches about, think that the man is delirious. The prisoner must surely be joking, and so they begin to laugh.
They laugh him to the gates of Hell.
The crowd around his final stage had gathered there in the morning, before the criminal had even arrived. They didn't know his crime, or even his name, but they were indifferent to details. They were trained to be indifferent to details. All they knew was that the alarm bell had sounded thirteen times at seven in the morning, and that meant to get up and go towards a place most of them have never gone.
It is called the Training Center, and it is where the man will take his last steps of protest.
He surveys the crowd, taking the time to stare into the eyes of anyone bold enough to glance at his. He must try to get someone to see how wrong this is, he must get one out of the huddled masses to carry on. He desperately searches for that person, but anyone who has any intelligence knows what will happen if they're caught staring back, and anyone who doesn't can sense they're not supposed to look up at a dead man walking. The crowd is silent. He regards them in his mind as if they are children, and it keeps him from being ashamed at them.
Instead, he focuses his attention back to the rope. Once the men on either side of him, the men he barely noticed before, believe that the crowd is large enough, they push him forward. He stumbles across the plank, and curses his feet. Of course his last steps on this earth would be weak.
It is at this moment he realizes he feels fear. The sweat drips down his face and he sees the rope and where his neck will be and the fear he has suppressed through riots and speeches and government interrogations and–
Oh God in mere minutes I will be dead.
He looks out the crowd once more, pleadingly this time, and sees a few at the front of the group watching his feet at least. His mind, sensing such an abrupt end, takes this as his only chance.
"If you learn anything from me," he yells, and the men beside him step back to release the platform underneath him. "If you learn anything from my standing before you here, learn to never be silent. Always speak, always be a presence."
The crowd, nervous and trained against all he preaches about, think that the man is delirious. The prisoner must surely be joking, and so they begin to laugh.
They laugh him to the gates of Hell.
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