Hexwood filk: Mordion in isolation, before the events of the book.

All of my regular Harry Potter stories are on hold at the moment, as I have spent most of the year attempting to move house because our landlady wants to sell the one I'm currently living in, resulting in a long and ridiculous saga involving a collapsing ceiling and a house with so many holes in the interior walls that it looked as if it had been savaged by giant beavers. As I was packing books I was reminded of my passion for Diana Wynne Jones's 1993 novel Hexwood. I looked it up and discovered that there were remarkably few Hexwood fanfics out there, so even though I don't have much time or effort to spend on writing new stories at present, I decided to upload a set of four Hexwood filks which I wrote about twenty years ago. This one is decidedly ose, on the traditional fannish scale of ose, morose and more morose.

For those of you who are reading this because I'm on your favorites list as a writer, rather than because you are fen of Hexwood, if you haven't read it you really should – even though it's so complicated that the first couple of readings will make you feel as if your eyeballs have been pulled out on stalks and then plaited. For those who just want to understand the filk without having read the book, I've included a summary of the background to the story at the bottom of the accompanying filk called Killing Joke, q.v..

Disclaimer: this is a not-for-profit tribute to the work of the late Diana Wynne Jones.

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HOUSE OF FLINT
Tune and about 40% of the words: traditional, from the nonsense-song Nottamun Town

On the world of my birth that I'd call my own,
Not a soul would look up, not a soul would look down;
Not a soul would look up, not a soul would look down
To show me my way to the house of the stone.

And when I got there the folk I did see,
They all stood around just a-looking at me.
I longed for a word to drive madness away
To stifle my pain – not a word would they say.

My father a slave, who never was free;
My mother was killed for the bearing of me.
My kind by machines from our mothers are torn –
A thousand years' Servants who never were born.

I was raised in fear, in a service unkind
That tearéd my hide, and tortured my mind.
Though I mean no man harm, I am bound to obey;
I'm dressed up in scarlet and sent out to slay.

And my lords in their power, and the company more
Come a-riding behind, and a-walking before.
In my heart is defiance and mocking and hate;
I bow and I crawl and I speak them all sweet.

Sat down to rest in the house of cold stone:
Though many stood round me yet I was alone.
Took my heart in my hand for to keep myself warm:
So many I've killed – would that I'd not been formed.

On the world of my birth that I'd call my own,
Not a soul would look up, not a soul would look down;
Not a soul would look up, not a soul would look down
To show me my way to the house of the stone.

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