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The Upstairs Archives

~ A random repository of how-to-write and geekery, with an occasional snippet of accidental wisdom.

The Upstairs Archives

Monthly Archives: April 2014

Making Promises (And Breaking Them)

29 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Story Dynamics, Uncategorized

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

battlefield of the soul, c.s. lewis, fahrenheit 451, pet peeves, ray bradbury, the chronicles of narnia

Once more, Erin has returned to make her comments on writing, editing, and society in general. This time, I want to talk about the promises we make while writing. Liam of This Page Intentionally Left Blank commented on this in his posts Squids, on how if you do not keep the unspoken promises you make to a reader the reader will be mad at you, Chapter Promises, in which he states that every statement that ends a chapter is a promise (that the story will continue to follow along the line it takes at the end of the chapter), and Promises, about breaking faith with a reader. I am commenting on a similar phenomenon: unresolved promises. This is partly to address the phenomenon of unfinished, partially-posted fanfics that are then abandoned, temporarily or (gasp!) occasionally permanently (sadly, I’m partially guilty of this–I still haven’t worked on Battlefield of the Soul any time recently!), and partly to address the disturbingly common problem of loose ends in popular fiction.

It could only happen on the internet. A story is being posted serially. Maybe it’s not even fanfiction (though this occurrence is the bane of the fanfic realm.) It gets abandoned, or left on a permanent hiatus. This really, really annoys me when something like this happens, and even more so when it’s an original story that’s been left hanging. I can understand why someone would need to stop writing fanfiction for a time (maybe even permanently,) but I can’t get why someone would start posting an original story, poetry series, whatever, and then suddenly stop writing it.

I’m sorry, people, but this is majorly taboo. If you post something that’s a promise that you will continue to post it until it’s completed. (My bad on Battlefield of the Soul, people.) It’s not a spoken promise, it’s an implied one, but that doesn’t make it any less binding. So… FINISH WHAT YOU’VE BEGUN! If you’re just going to abandon it, why in the name of purple pickups did you start to post it?! People are just going to hate you for stopping.

And now, for the other problem.

Mystery promises resolution. To give any less would be to short-change one’s readers, alienating them in the process. Too often, authors leave ends untied and lying around. Untidy, and it bothers me.

For instance, there’s the matter of Clarisse in Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury. We never learn what really happen to her. The author stated in the commentary on the play and movie that he feels he should have specified in the book that she joined the refugees in the hills, as it was specified in the stage production.

And then there’s a similar instance in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis. Lewis noted that he had received many letters from his readers, wanting to know what happened to the party-goers whom the White Witch turned to stone. He wrote,

I assumed that my readers would think that Aslan changed them back, as he did with all the other stone animals. I guess I should have written it into the story.

Save yourself from regrets, my fellow writers, and check your writing for loose ends. Your audience will thank you in the long term, no matter how annoying this may be in the short.

Thanks for reading, and God Bless!

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TOTALLY NOT COOL!

28 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Uncategorized

≈ 11 Comments

Tags

bbc sherlock, cell phone use, cell phone use while driving, how to save a life, life or death situations, small rants, texting and driving, things that you really should listen to, warnings that I really mean this time

We interrupt our scheduled program tonight to bring you some breaking news and bring your attention to a very serious matter indeed.

Right now, my dear readers, I don’t know whether I’m more frightened, ashamed, angry, terrified, or irritated.

Why?

I just pulled out into a perfect gap in traffic, making a left turn at a two-way stop, only to find that the person who had been going the speed limit coming from my right had suddenly sped up and was going ten miles an hour faster.

Then, when she pulled past me in the other lane, I saw that she was texting! TEXTING! I could’ve died, and she was telling her BFF cya l8r! And then she honked at me as if the whole situation was my fault in the first place! Why are some idiots just selfish like that? Was it just that she was terminally stupid? Or had she never been in a hurry to get home herself and found herself in a similar situation!? She was starting to confirm the stereotype of the dumb blonde in my mind… and I was only just shaking it off after seeing Mrs. Watson in Sherlock!

I hate rush hour traffic. I hate drunk drivers (as a category, not as people) even more. But I hate people who text and drive the worst. Did you know that driving completely soused is not as bad as texting and driving? Well, you do now.

Seriously, people, cut back on the texting and driving. It’s illegal. And it can be the difference between life or death for an innocent child, pedestrian, or other driver.

I don’t mean to detract from this person’s character, but what she is doing isn’t right. It’s basically playing laser tag blindfolded with real bullets. Besides, I can’t exactly detract from her character… after all, I didn’t even get her license plate number (or I would have called the police instead of just blogging.) Cell phone use is another big one–while not as bad as texting and driving, it can still impair critical reaction time. (Yes, I did just quote the driver’s manual. Live with it.)

Just so you know, I don’t even look at my cell phone while driving. Even though I’m normally very good at multitasking. It’s just not worth it to me. Every time I reach for something on the seat beside me, even, I have a heart attack.

Okay. Rant over. But this is serious, so I won’t give you the normal “you can go on with your lives now” line. I can’t change your minds when it comes to morality, and controversial issues, but I can and should when it comes to matters that are illegal for good reason. So…

WHATEVER THE TEMPTATION, DON’T TEXT AND DRIVE! IT COULD MEAN ANOTHER PERSON’S LIFE!!!!

Bound to the Flame, Chapter II, Part VI

27 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Bound to the Flame, Living Life with Passion, Tales of a Wandering Bard, Uncategorized

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

bound to the flame, camp nanowrimo april 2014, minor annoyances, nanowrimo, national novel writing month, pet peeves, works in progress

Hello, my dear readers, and welcome to the next installment of Bound to the Flame. News from Camp Nanowrimo: I am currently having a slight bit of bother, due to being stuck in places on my novel. Hopefully this will resolve itself shortly. If anyone has any ideas what two rebel groups trying to contact other rebels might do in the process, then please, by all means, tell me your ideas!

[NB: I have had some trouble with getting the parts posted in order. It might help to go to the Bound to the Flame Chapters and Artwork page and re-read them in order! Apologies for the trouble, and please enjoy!]

Bound to the Flame

Chapter II

Part IV

Shortly after, a lesser herald came out to fetch them for the feast. The herald seated them in a somewhat confused jumble, near their parents, but not too near. The Elruun royalty had no children yet, so it was simply the Ertraian and Arethwyne children. Margery found herself sitting in between Julian, a charming, roguish young knight, and one of Rowan’s two adoptive brothers, and Rowan, with Fortaine, the eldest of the three Ertraians, sitting in the midst of the Arethwyne princes on Rowan’s other side. Margery decided she liked Rowan’s foster brother. He was fascinating, charming, and kind, the sort of person who is popular everywhere, and he had the same curious ability that Rowan seemed to possess of taking a boring topic, and by some strange alchemy, rendering it captivating. Margery wondered if Rowan had picked it up from him, or vice versa, via sibling osmosis.
Meanwhile, Rowan charmed and interested her brothers. He had enough knowledge of history, especially the wars, to thoroughly captivate Gareth, was willing to debate the finer points of falconry with Aaron, and shared a passion for philosophy and the art of studying people (and leading them) with Hamish. No one mentioned the topic of magic, but it didn’t seem awkward at all.
At last, the feast drew to an end. Margery was tired, but she felt sorry to leave. It had been a good evening.

Rowan lay down on the pallet in the pavilion, thoroughly exhausted by the day’s adventures. Melilana came in, carrying a candle lantern and wearing a white dress; moving slowly, gently, like a drifting, beautiful moon moth or gliding white ship, glimmering faintly in the dusk. “How are you feeling, Rowan?” she asked, gently. Rowan sighed.
“I’m tired,” he admitted, truthfully. Melilana smiled sadly.
“It’s been a long and exhausting day. I would have been more astonished if you weren’t tired.” Melilana laid a long, slender, elegant hand on his forehead, gently. “You’re running a low fever again,” she commented, her voice mildly concerned. Rowan sighed.
“It’s just a stress response,” he demurred. “I’m starting to recognize the symptoms,” he continued, his voice sinking into a dull murmur. Melilana put her hand on his shoulder, slipping it down behind his back and lifting him slightly. She pressed him close.
“Sleep well,” she murmured, then she left the tent. Rowan sighed and turned over. His leg was aching, but it was a good kind of ache, he decided. He had met new friends, and had left Ertraia and seen new places for the first time in his seventeen years.
For tonight, life was good.

It was cold.
Rowan shivered, feeling the weight of quilts, blankets, and coverlet on top of himself. If he was so muffled in blankets, then why was he still so cold?
Slowly, Rowan slid out from under the covers and fell, with a soft, muffled cry of distress. His tentatively-healed broken leg would not carry his weight, not yet, anyway. Slowly, Rowan dragged himself upright, struggling to his feet by the aid of the bureau. Gripping it tightly, leaning on the table, and at last collapsing into the chair by the window, he stared out through the rain-smeared glass. It was raining outside, still, a harsh, cold downpour. Rowan stared bleakly out the window for several minutes, then he slid slowly out of the chair, onto the floor, with a low groan. He had never felt so alone before.

They were talking about him. Rowan could tell by the low tone of their voices. Melilana and Halbryn were discussing something urgently, quietly, outside his door. Rowan didn’t want to eavesdrop, but their conversation was carried perversely to his ears, against his will.
“Hal… what’s going to happen now?”
“He will get better, Mel. I know that much. He will overcome this. He’s like you.”
“But what if he doesn’t?” Their voices suddenly dropped, much quieter now, and they continued to converse in low tones.

He kept hearing them talking in the corridors outside his room. The servants whispered, thinking he would not hear, but he did. He couldn’t help it. “Broken.” “Damaged.” “Will he ever be able to serve the realm?” “Will he ever be able to walk again?” “He’ll never become a knight.” Rowan tried to close his mind to the hurtful rumors, but he was helpless to stop it. Day by day, he couldn’t help hearing them outside his room, when they thought he wouldn’t hear. Slowly, he began to doubt himself. Would he ever walk again? The question plagued him, nagged at him.
Would he ever be able to use magic again?

“Rowan, are you paying attention?” Fortaine asked, looking compassionately at his little brother, who was sitting, wrapped in a thick robe, in a chair, staring blankly out the window at the downpour outside. Never before had Ertraia seen such a rainy summer; it fitted the mood, perhaps.
Rowan sighed. “No. I don’t feel so good,” he groaned. Fortaine bundled him up in the robe and carried him up to his bedroom.
“I understand. Right now, you just need to rest, more than you need to further your studies of magic.” Fortaine set the boy down on the bed. Rowan lay perfectly still, his body stiffening as he drew up the sheets over himself. A rush of energy flitted through him. Rowan struggled to contain it. Fortaine paused at the door, and Rowan clenched his jaw, trying his hardest to tamp it down, to keep it from bursting out. He was fighting a losing battle, he knew.
“Shall I tell Mother you’re not feeling well?” Fortaine asked. Rowan drew in a struggling, scraggly breath.
“Please don’t bother her,” he whispered, fervently hoping his voice didn’t sound as stilted to Fortaine as it did to his own ears. Fortaine nodded, sympathetically, blessedly not picking up on his younger foster brother’s distress. He closed the door. Rowan gasped and threw the covers off. He gripped the bed post for support and cried out, silently, screaming in the blank vacuum beyond as the loose power that refused to be grounded exploded outwards in a chaotic whirlwind, picking up speed as it raced through the room. The storm crashed and jeered outside, as within the fierce swirling maelstrom howled, bursting its bonds and carrying the dam along with it like a river in flood.

Every magic user in the castle sensed the sudden burst of raw power surging outward. It flung several of those who were not gifted against the walls. In the solar, Melilana and Halbryn stared at each other in horror, speaking a single word.
“Rowan!”

Author’s note: Um, yeah. Cliffie. Sorry.

Anyway, is anyone else annoyed by the fact that when you c&p your work into the edit post it sometimes deletes your formatting?… ah well. At least I fixed it… mostly.

Father/Daughter Relationships in Fiction: Dysfunctionally Adorable

25 Friday Apr 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Story Dynamics

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

a swiftly tilting planet, a wind in the door, a wrinkle in time, brian jacques, characters, despicable me, disney, dreamworks, gru, madeleine l'engle, pixar, redwall, star wars, story dynamics, wreck-it ralph

On some level, every relationship is dysfunctional. I think this is because we’re all human and we all have a very human habit of making hash of things. Some relationships are just more dysfunctional than others. 😉

Today, I’m going to talk about Father/Daughter relationships in fiction. Why? BECAUSE IT’S JUST SO DARN CUTE!!!

First up, we have Gru and the girls from Despicable Me. Margo is street-smart. Edith is funny. And Agnes is just plain precious. Gru is defensive of all three. They were hesitant to accept each other at first, but by the time Despicable Me 2 rolls around, they’ve gained a healthy rapport, and the girls have turned into quite the little warriors (and ninja!), with their jelly guns and nunchucks. (Frankly, the part with little Agnes blasting jelly all over the place was my favorite part of the movie.)

This would have to be a case of little girls converting villain to superdad. It was also extremely cute. Especially with the ballet/modern dance… thing. ;-P And the wedding… *happy sigh*

Next up, we have Ralph and Penelope, from Wreck-it Ralph. Now, on some technical level, while this was not exactly a father/daughter relationship, I’m including it because they were adorable. (I’m also kind of curious as to whether Penelope was later able to leave her game, due to the fact that she’s technically not a glitch, even if she does actually glitch, because she’s been re-plugged into the coding.) While Ralph was at first unsure of what Penelope was up to (recurring theme here, as well as villainy! :-P), he later takes her under his wing, so to speak, and fights for her. What is it with me and these villain/little girl friendships? I’m not quite sure. Maybe I just like redemption stories?

And now, for Darth Vader and Leia, of Star Wars… *looks down at list and does a double take* Wait, Vader and Leia?! Who put this on my list, anyway?! They don’t have any relationship to speak of! Obi-Wan, help–I need to kick Vader out. Leia can stay. *pushes Vader out and locks the door on him, then makes faces at him through the glass* I heard that, Obi-Wan. I am not either immature!

Then we have Mr. Murry and Meg, of Madeleine L’Engle’s A Wrinkle in Time quartet. (Finally! A pair that doesn’t include villains–self-styled, labeled or otherwise!) Mr. Murry is very affectionate with Meg, despite being imprisoned on Camazotz for the last years of her middle schooling, and helps her through high school. Despite the fact that he only figures largely in two books out of the three (he is away at a conference during A Wind in the Door,) Mr. Murry’s relationship with Meg is an important part of the entire trilogy.

Next up, there is Janglur Swifteye and his daughter, Songbreeze, of Marlfox, by the late Brian Jacques. Song, partly due to her father’s influence, later goes on to become the Abbess of Redwall and a famous warrior.  Also in the Redwall series; Triss and her father, in the book named for the aforementioned swordmaid. While Triss did not have a lot of contact with her father, Roc Arrem, she did inherit his incredible skills with a sword, and she followed in her Father’s footsteps as a protector of the innocent.

Last but not least, there’s Obi-Wan and Ahsoka, of Clone Wars fame. Why not? It is, in all respects, very like a father/daughter relationship. Or maybe an uncle/niece relationship? I have no idea. Family something. He’s sort of like another mentor to her.

That’s one thing we never saw enough of in the Clone Wars–Obi-Wan and Ahsoka working together as a team. Personally, I believe that Anakin’s comment “You never would have made it as Obi-Wan’s Padawan, but you might make it as mine” regarding Ahsoka was untrue. Obi-Wan works well with just about anyone, personal feelings aside.

Now, what do all these people have in common?

Remember that all relationships are dysfunctional on some level. Maybe they have some sort of trans-gender communication flop, or they just plain disagree on some things, or the kid has a chronic case of parental deafness. (For some reason, these kids are rare in fiction… HELLO! EQUAL REPRESENTATION OVER HERE PLEASE! These people happen in real life all the time! Yes, I just pulled a doublespeak on a liberal term. I’m so evil… Thy logic has turnethed against thee.) But in all relationships (unless they’re with someone who is truly evil and not just a rascally scamp like Erin), there is also some measure of affection.

All of these dad/daughter relationships have some form of affection or link to each other. All of them rub off on each other in the attempt to improve each other by their contact. And all of them are willing to fight for each other.

Family is important in fiction. It’s important enough to fight for. Betrayal by family makes an impact. And when the family comes around to help the hero, the bad guy is about to be bashed. Maybe even knocked off. (See Clarissa the hare vs. Zwilt the Shade, The Sable Quean by Brian Jacques.)

Every character needs emotional support of some kind, a hand up when they’re down. And who better to do that than family?

It makes for an interesting role reversal if the dad is the one who’s down and the daughter is doing the comforting… Hmm, neat thought that…

Fathers and Daughters in fiction: Sweet. Loving. Supportive. Adorable. Beautifully imperfect. On some level, dysfunctional, but still loving.

Thanks for reading, and God Bless!

Bound to the Flame, Chapter II, Part V

23 Wednesday Apr 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Bound to the Flame, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 34 Comments

Tags

bound to the flame, camp nanowrimo april 2014, nanowrimo, national novel writing month, stories in progress

Hello, everyone. I beg your pardon for the laconic author’s notes, but I’m busy with Nanowrimo… At least I spend most of the time writing, and I’m mostly caught up…

Enjoy the chapter!

Edit: I just realized something. I posted this part slightly out of order… You might want to go back and read Chap. II Part IV, then read this one, THEN read Chap. III Part I. My most sincere and abject apologies… I do try to avoid problems like this, but occasionally they do happen.

Bound to the Flame

Chapter II

Part V

They were almost back to the royal pavilion when Rowan gasped, clutching Rheadwyn’s arm, his fingers twisted in the hem of her cloak in a mute expression of pain. Rheadwyn gripped the boy’s arm, steadying him. She studied his face with calm, concerned eyes. “Is your leg troubling you again, Rowan?” she asked, collectedly. Rowan nodded wordlessly, biting his lip and drawing blood. Rheadwyn sighed. “I was afraid something like this would happen. You should not be so reckless, Rowan.” Rowan shot her a pained, angry, tearful look.
“I hate being a helpless cripple!” he exclaimed. Rheadwyn steadied him. “You’re far from helpless, Your Highness,” she reminded him. Rowan frowned.
“It’s still not the same thing,” he said. Rheadwyn sighed.
“I know it’s not,” she replied.
“Sometimes, I wonder why the wisps brought me back.” Rowan whispered. “I wonder why I even bothered to follow them. Sometimes, I even wish that I had died there, under that horse!” Rheadwyn sighed and lifted the boy, as close as she would ever willingly come to a full-fledged embrace.
“I know, Rowan. Believe me, I know.”
“Why am I like this, ‘Wyn?” Rowan snapped, his voice cracking, as if he was about to burst into tears of frustration.
“Sometimes, we don’t even know the reason,” Rheadwyn said. “I know this seems pointless to you, Rowan. But it’s just possible—just barely possible—that there is a point. You just can’t see it yet. God knows it, but you don’t. Ultimately, it’s your decision whether you are going to trust God to take charge of your destiny, or not.” Rheadwyn finished her speech by shoving Rowan’s face roughly, though not unkindly, up against her shoulder. Rowan smiled into her mahogany hair. This was why he trusted and loved Rheadwyn as confidante, friend, advisor, and loyal soldier; her lack of attempts to butter people up or influence their decisions, and her no-nonsense attitude were a breath of fresh air. Most of the nobles—even of Ertraia—unbiased as they all tried hard to be, they often had their own agendas or pet projects to further, though they tried to do so on their own time and with their own resources. Not so with Rheadwyn. She was completely loyal to the crown, and without bias or prejudice. Her suggestions were always balanced and well-rounded, but if they were rejected, she did not make undue fuss. While the other councilors and advisors sat in state at lengthy meetings, Rheadwyn served as a Ranger, protecting Ertraia and maintaining its borders, and Rowan privately hoped that he would have her advice, courage, honesty, and good sense to rely on for years after his coronation took place.
No one knew where Rheadwyn came from. She had arrived in Ertraia as a young child, a partially-trained warlock with no parents and no teacher. It was rumored that she had come from the far south of the island, far beyond the clans’ rocky, picturesque, mountainous, forested, starkly beautiful domain, from the fen country; the nation the lowlanders called Wales, but it was uncertain if this were the case, or a mere rumor perpetuated by gossip. Perhaps she had been in a shipwreck, and had alone made her way along the coasts until she turned inland. No one knew. Rheadwyn herself didn’t speak of it; indeed, she rarely talked about herself.
That had been many, many years ago. Like most of the Ertraian people, Rheadwyn did not show many signs of her age, like Melilana, who still appeared as she had in her late thirties, though she was now fifty-five years of age, and Halbyrn, who was five years older, but whose hair was only beginning to be streaked with gray. Rheadwyn herself appeared of indeterminate age, not particularly beautiful in a classic sense, but not unprepossessing, either. She was weather-beaten, with a determined aspect, a hard-edged blade of good sense and hard-earned wisdom, both an accomplished warrior and an able healer. Some of Rowan’s earliest memories were of learning the double arts of warfare and of healing by her side.
After a short while, apparently knowing that Rowan would object to being carried any further, Rheadwyn set him down. Gripping her hand like he normally would his staff, which he had left behind on a whim today, Rowan limped bravely along by her side. Rheadwyn made no comment. From long years of training and working with him, both before and after the accident, she knew both their limits—mental and physical—very well.
They arrived at the main pavilion—the gathering place of all the tribes and kingdoms—at last. Rowan moved to enter, but Rheadwyn stood as still as a stone, holding him back. The young man looked up at her, curiously, for a long moment. Rheadwyn sighed and took a deep breath. “I know you’re eager to see the world outside our borders, to meet new people, but you must be cautious, Rowan. You would do well to remember that some people here will not—and do not—welcome us. Some people here today would as soon stab you in the back as look at you, and you know how particular some of the nobles can be about the rules of primogeniture. You are the Queen’s only child, and were you killed, a named heir would most certainly be an unpopular choice with one group or another. It could mean civil war if an unfortunate so-called accident were to befall you.”
“I’m not defenseless, you know,” Rowan muttered rebelliously. Rheadwyn sighed.
“I know you’re not. That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” Rowan asked, defiantly. Rheadwyn’s eyes glittered angrily, dangerously, but Rowan was too riled up to care.
“For heaven’s sake, Rowan!” Rheadwyn burst out at last. “You fail to recognize your limits—you won’t listen to warnings. What does this rebellion arise from, Rowan? Is it pride? Is it impatience? I never would have taken you for being the type to harbor either! Then again, I never would have thought you a coward.”
“I am not a coward!” Rowan shouted back. Rheadwyn gripped his shoulder, painfully tight.
“Then why can’t you accept the fact that you are only human?” she demanded. Rowan stiffened, but willed himself to speak calmly.
“I don’t want anyone to think that I’m a helpless cripple,” he said.
“All the more reason why you should accept your limitations,” Rheadwyn said softly. “You can’t work around them until you have. I know you’re not weak; so do you. No one would blame you if you were to just give up, but they would pity you. I’m suggesting a slightly different channel for your energy.” Rowan nodded slowly.
“Why is it that, while Adyn can frustrate me, you’re the only one who can actually make me angry, ‘Wyn?”
“Only because you always get me angry first,” Rheadwyn grinned. “You’re quite the pesky little blighter for an Ertraian.”
“So, you get mad at people who aren’t Ertraian?” Rheadwyn laughed and ruffled his hair.
“All the time,” she grinned. “I don’t think you will, though. You only get mad at me—it’s a sign of mental resilience, I guess. Besides, you haven’t gone mad after teaching that rapscallion Adyn for two years, so I’d say you have a good chance of being a very good diplomat.”
“Why do you say that?” Rowan asked.
“Well,” Rheadwyn said, glancing sidelong at the boy, “the world is full of obnoxious bull-headed galoots who need some sense knocked into them, and you—you started at it young.” Rowan burst out laughing, a clear, rippling note like a brook leaping from stone to stone. Rheadwyn grinned and offered him her arm. “Well, shall we?” she asked.
“’Wyn, it’s supposed to go the other way around,” Rowan protested, leaning on the proffered arm nonetheless. Rheadwyn laughed silently.
“Oh, how silly of me,” she said.

They entered the tent to see Halbryn and Melilana already seated at the dais at the opposite end. The queen rose as her faithful retainer appeared, leading her errant son. “You found him,” she murmured in relief.
“Aye, and gave him the scolding that was due,” Rheadwyn replied, winking at Rowan.
“Please don’t do that again, Rowan,” Melilana said, nonetheless. “If anyone had recognized you, realized who you were… I don’t know what would have happened.”
“I don’t think anyone noticed my tartan colors,” Rowan offered helpfully.
“Good,” Melilana replied repressively. “I know our precautions must seem harsh and constricting to you, but you must remember that you are our responsibility and our son. We love you very much, Rowan.” The boy looked down.
“I know,” he muttered, shame-faced.
“I’m just glad to see you’re all right,” Melilana murmured.
“What’s going on, now?” asked Rowan.
“We’re going to be formally introduced to the Elruunian and Arethwyne nobility.” Melilana explained, giving her son an once-over. She slid the catch of his cloak off to one side, straightened his kilt, and sighed. “There. You’re at least halfway presentable. Now, where did you leave your circlet this time?”
“It’s in my luggage,” Rowan muttered. Melilana sighed and sent one of the servants to get it. Once the maid came back, the queen carefully brushed Rowan’s overly-long bangs back from his brow, carding her fingers quickly through the thick waves, then she set the circlet on his head. It immediately slid down to one side, and Melilana pushed it back up, sliding it back until it was satisfactorily still. Rowan stood huffily, arms crossed, through the whole performance.
“That thing hates me,” he said, stone-faced. Melilana carefully centered the filigreed decoration and sighed.
“It’s inanimate, Rowan. It doesn’t have preferences.”
“I don’t like it, then,” Rowan muttered. Melilana sighed.
“I know you don’t,” she said. “Unfortunately, it’s necessary. Come on.” She led Rowan up to the dais. For a while, as they waited, Rowan was distracted by one loosely curling, dark lock that had slipped out from behind his ear, but it did not last long enough to prevent acute boredom from settling in.
At last, there was a fanfare, a brisk beat of drums, and the representatives of the other kingdoms marched in. The heralds followed them in and they seated themselves on the dais, under the banners of their respective kingdoms; the stooping falcon argent on a field verdant for Ertraia, a unicorn rampant argent on a red field for Elruun, and a gold crowned bear on a field argent for Arethwyne. As the herald announced them, the leaders of each nation stood in turn and bowed to the assembly.
“King Archibald and Queen Alana Maroch of Elruun!” the herald cried. The king and queen, an older man and a much younger woman with a faintly worried, peaked face that, had it not held an expression of slight discomfort, unease, and nervousness, would have appeared extremely beautiful, stood. The queen curtsied, and the king bowed gravely. Newly married, Rowan thought. The queen is not quite sure yet of her new station. Most likely an arranged marriage.
“King Seamus and Queen Marena of Arethwyne, and their children Princess Marena Margaret and Princes Gareth, Aaron, and Hamish Dun Fayr!” I didn’t know she had brothers… Lucky lass.
“Queen Melilana Caerlen, King Halbryn Jaentyr, and Prince Rowan Jaentyr Caerlen of Ertraia!”
With a slight struggle, Rowan rose from his seat and made his own bow. He fell back down into the high seat with a tiny sigh of relief. Melilana gave him a concerned glance. Rowan smiled back reassuringly, mouthing “I’m fine.” Halbryn remained standing.
“We are gathered here for the purpose of deciding the future of our kingdoms,” he announced in his fine baritone voice. “Ertraia is here for the first time in over four decades, in the hopes of forming an alliance with the kingdoms of Arethwyne and Elruun.” Melilana stood.
“We also come with a warning. We have kept our borders closed for forty-two years, but even we have felt the repercussions of events in the outside world. We have defended our shores for the past forty-two years against attacks by sea robbers; within, we have faced treason on a scale far higher than ever before in my memory. Our guard on our borders is becoming increasingly strained. In the past week, we received no less than three refugees, none of them magic users. They would not say exactly what they were fleeing from, or where they had come from. We could see the terror in their eyes.
“I remember a time, my lords, when all the nobles of our kingdoms trusted the seers of Ertraia to predict the future, and today I come before you with not only visions, but with material evidence of the dangers that lie ahead. Will you join us in defending our lands?” There was silence for a moment, then Melilana continued, “I do not say that the danger is imminent. I am merely advocating further caution. My lords, our chief reasons in attending this gathering were first, to deliver this warning, and second, to gain the friendship of Arethwyne and Elruun. We are not strong enough to fight these foes on our own, but together we are strong enough to overcome them. Will you join us in the defense? Will you fight with us?”

Margery had stopped listening to the golden-haired queen of Ertraia after she had mentioned the hope for friendship between the kingdoms, to aid in the defense of the land. Her eyes were fixed on the young prince of Ertraia. How had she not guessed that he was not as he seemed? It seemed so blatant, so obvious, now. The prince had been hiding in plain sight. Then, another thought struck her. She knew now why Rowan’s voice had sounded so familiar. It was the voice of the young man who had ordered her to be set at liberty after she had been caught trespassing beyond the Ertraian border. She put her chin on her hand and gazed at him curiously. She had heard time and time again that the royal family of Ertraia had magical powers; she wondered, now, if her friend Rowan was a wizard. He wasn’t at all like she would have imagined a sorcerer to be. She wasn’t offended at all that he had concealed his high birth; if everyone in Arethwyne and Elruun hadn’t known her identity anyway, she would have taken every chance that she could to abandon it, as well. In fact, she had been doing the same thing to him not even an hour ago, though she knew now that he had seen right through her, as he had at their anonymous first meeting.
Eventually, the adults withdrew to one side to continue their discussion of politics and policy, while the young people drew off and out into the open air to allow the servers to prepare the dais and tables for the feast that evening. Margery walked over to Rowan, who was sitting on a tree stump just outside the tent. “Hello again,” she said. Rowan smiled wanly.
“Hello.” he said. “You’ll have to forgive me for not getting up.” Margery shrugged.
“Oh, it doesn’t bother me,” she said. She sat down beside him and studied him for a moment. “So it was you…”
“Yes. But it’s better if we don’t speak of it. Officially, it never even happened.” Margery nodded in understanding.
“So that’s how you knew you’d see me again tonight?” she asked. Rowan grimaced.
“Don’t tell me I forgot to tell you who I was. For one thing, I despise fanfare. For another, my mother would’ve been furious. Besides, I think it’s better not to take who you were born as for granted, don’t you? I’d rather earn my birthright, prove my ability to rule.” Margery was a little startled. Apparently, Rowan took his inheritance much more seriously than she ever had.
“I never thought of it like that,” she remarked. “I… well, mostly I just hate grovelers.” Rowan burst out laughing. He had a nice laugh, Margery thought.
“So, you’re really named after your mother?” he asked.
“Yes. Everyone calls me just Margery, for short. It’s kind of a joke, you see. Mar is short for Marena, while Margery is short for Margaret. So, two birds with one stone.” Rowan gave an odd little smile and said nothing on the subject.
“Marena is a beautiful name,” he said, taking a completely different tack.
“Thank you,” Margery said uncertainly.
“It suits you, too.” Rowan said, looking at her with a critical though not judgmental eye.
“Excuse me?” she said, confused.
“It means ‘maid of the sea.’ You are very like the sea… I think water must be your element.”
“My… element?” Rowan sighed.
“Sorry. Magic theory. Air is my element. I’ve always been able to control the winds,” he explained.
“Can you tell me more about magic?” Margery asked, curious and excited. Rowan thought for a moment.
“Well, I’m currently teaching a five-year-old named Adyn… just the theory for the moment. We don’t want any trouble. No one is allowed to use magic at the accord. But… you could maybe sit in on Adyn’s classes.”
“Sounds like fun!” Margery said excitedly. Rowan shrugged, resignedly.
“Adyn doesn’t think so,” he muttered, then rallied, looking her with a piercing glance that was decidedly disconcerting. “But mind, you’ll be learning things that not many people care to know. You’ll have to be discreet… I’m not even sure I should be teaching you. But… I have a feeling. It doesn’t feel wrong.”
“I can do that,” Margery said, somewhat confused by the boy’s uncanny intuition. He seemed to be able to follow her emotions with startling, even frightening, accuracy. She paused. “So, it’s true that the Caerlen ruling line is made up of wizards?”
“Most have been Wielders,” Rowan replied softly, “and those who were not had the potential to be. They merely chose other paths.” He gave Margery a questioning look. “Something wrong, your highness?”
“Well, no…” Margery stammered. “I just thought… anyone could be a magician.” Rowan looked shocked.
“Well, not everyone has a good singing voice,” he said, as if that were the explanation.
“What has that got to do with it?” Margery asked. Rowan sighed, obviously preparing to give a full explanation.
“You remember how Saint Paul says that different gifts are given to different people, don’t you?”
“Right…”
“And he also said that our responsibilities are in proportion to our gifts?”
“Yes…”
“Thus, those with a magical gift have a responsibility to protect and preserve those who don’t. Also, Saint Paul said that we shouldn’t be envious of others’ gifts, since all of us have different ones. Magic is just another gift, just like anything else. People who don’t have it shouldn’t seek it out. It’s forbidden. It’s dark.” He shuddered. “Let’s talk about something else, please.”
“I never thought of it quite like that before,” Margery admitted. “But isn’t everyone who could be—I mean, who has the potential to be—a magician, trained? I mean, don’t they want to be trained?”
“There are other things than magic,” Rowan replied, “other ways of life. No, not everyone is trained. It’s partly due to resources, and partly because of personal preferences. Some people who could have been powerful Wielders choose to develop their other talents, rather than their natural aptitude for magic. There have been great musicians and healers and bards who could have all been Wielders, but they chose to pursue another path.”
Margery thought this through, then asked, “So, your mother is the ruler?” Rowan nodded.
“Yes. She married my father during the third year of her reign.” Margery looked thoughtful.
“What does your father do, then?”
“He acts as my mother’s chief advisor, is considered the highest diplomat and authority in the realm aside from my mother, deputizes for her, and he’s the commander of the knights and Rangers. He is also the chieftain of Clan Jaentyr, but since I’m the crown prince, he has a named heir, rather than a blood one. Technically, I’m part of my mother’s clan, rather than my father’s. I hope that’s not too confusing,” he added, noting the look on Margery’s face.
“Not really,” Margery said.
“You have three brothers, then?” Rowan asked. “Lucky! I have two foster brothers, and they’re both much older than me.” Margery shrugged.
“You wouldn’t be so enamored of the idea if you had to live with them,” she said. Just then, a tall, handsome young man stepped out of the pavilion and walked across to them.
“Prince Rowan?” he said, bowing, then flashed a charming smile at Margery as he straightened up.
“Tamnar, please, don’t call me by my title. It isn’t necessary,” Rowan said.
“The banquet is ready, your highnesses. They’ll be calling you back in in a few minutes.”
“Thanks for telling me, Tamnar,” Rowan said, grimacing and fiddling with the coronet he now obviously wished he had taken off for a few minutes while they waited for their elders to complete their business. Tamnar swatted his hand away.
“Queen Melilana would have your hide if she knew you were at that again,” he said. Rowan shrugged.
“It wouldn’t make me hate that thing any less.” he said. Turning to Margery, he continued, “Margery, this is Tamnar MacConnor. He’s almost a knight.”
“Not nearly a knight yet,” Tamnar said, bowing gallantly over Margery’s hand and kissing it. “Merely a humble squire.” Margery could feel herself blushing. Tamnar met her eyes; his eyes were large, liquid brown, enchanting. “Rarely does royalty go with such loveliness,” he said. Turning to Rowan, he teased, “You’re not among that number, your highness.” Rowan shrugged indifferently.
“That’s better,” Rowan declared. “I don’t particularly care,” he continued. “It doesn’t bother me.” Tamnar grinned, flashing a line of white teeth.
“Shall I take it further? Take your unprepossessing face out of here, my lord, you’re scaring the babes.”
“Go execute yourself for high treason, Tamnar. I’m too lazy to bother,” Rowan said, obviously trying to keep from laughing, and failing. Margery, somewhat unsettled, tugged Rowan’s sleeve.
“Is everyone in Ertraia like this?” Rowan shrugged.
“Tamnar teases everyone and everything. I once saw him trading insults with a rock. In my opinion, the rock had better comebacks.” He glanced sidelong at Tamnar, who acted as if he had been deeply wounded. Rowan promptly ignored him. “I don’t know why he does it,” he confided. “He just always has. It’s something that not a lot of our people do. Not even Julian teases like that. But you still get used to it, after a while.” Margery nodded, slowly.

Bound to the Flame, Chapter III, Part I

23 Wednesday Apr 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Bound to the Flame, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 34 Comments

Tags

bound to the flame, works in progress

Finally, we’re on to Chapter III! A big thank you to everyone who’s been following and reading these so far, and sorry for the big gap in posting a while back… “I got lazy” is the only excuse I have. Because c&p is easy. Anyway, here you go!

Bound to the Flame

Chapter III

Part I

Rowan sobbed painfully for breath, drawing in shallow, agonized gasps of sweet air as he sank to the floor, completely spent by the wild outburst. He sprawled on the floor, tears running down his face. Beyond his small bedchamber, doors slammed and feet ran, thundering down the hallways of the castle. The corridors and passages echoed to the banging of doors and the rumble of people dashing this way and that. Fists banged on his door. “Rowan!” “Your highness, are you all right?” “Rowan!”
Rowan slowly lifted his head, not knowing where he found the energy to do it. The air was oppressive in the room, weighing heavily on him. The guttering fire in the hearth gave up the ghost, plunging the room into deep gloom. Still clutching the bed post, Rowan gazed, half-stunned and dazed, across the room, at the door. A heavy bench had been knocked down and hurled across the room by the maelstrom. It was set hard against the door, preventing anyone from opening it, and blocking the entrance. He lifted his hand, distantly, wearily, attempting to summon the strands of loose magic that were still reverberating around the room, but they evaded his grasp. An upsurge of vital, instinctive, animalistic panic welled up in his stomach, but he suppressed it savagely. It didn’t go away entirely, however, and churned nauseatingly, tying his insides into knots, despite his best efforts to control it. He reached down into the magical undercurrent that under-ran the entire visible world, but it, too, was unresponsive, and eluded his grip. Taking a deep breath, Rowan called, “There’s a bench blocking the door on this side. I can’t move it.”
“Don’t try to, then. Don’t over-exert yourself, Rowan!” came Fortaine’s voice from the other side of the door. “Stay where you are. We’ll unblock the door from this side. Don’t try to help. Don’t move, Rowan. Don’t move.” The young knight shouted out a word in a strange language—Rowan recognized it, distantly, vaguely, as a telekinesis spell—and there was a soft but assertive thud as the door shuddered slightly. Tremors radiated outward through the room as pale bluish sparks flickered through the air in myriad bright, yet soft, radials. Rowan shuddered as he felt the magical energy pass through him, as if he wasn’t even there, touching him, but not affecting him. And he was as good as blind to it. He could not touch or manipulate it. With a soft sob, the boy curled up on the floor, withdrawing into himself. He was lost, beyond hope. He was broken.
Ponderously, the hefty bench slowly rolled—rather than floated—over, back into its own right place in the correct corner, righted itself, and thudded down, perfectly still. Melilana and Fortaine rushed in. “Rowan, are you all right? What happened?” Fortaine asked.
“Rowan?” Melilana whispered. Rowan drew his one good leg up under himself, wishing he could hide. His slender form shook. Melilana rushed forward in alarm. She lifted him gently from the floor. “Rowan? What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Are you ill?”
“I can’t touch it,” Rowan whispered, shaking. “I lost control, and now I can’t even touch it!” He sobbed silently, head bent and shoulders shaking. Melilana almost gasped, but by a supreme act of will, she retained her composure.
“Oh, Rowan,” she whispered, softly, desperately wishing she could take the pain away, make it better, with the same ease that she had when he was smaller.
Never again. She could no longer kiss it and make it better. Melilana could feel the tears running down her face. Her sweet son was, for all intents and purposes, crippled, and possibly magic-blind for the rest of his days, as well.
There was no way in the ways of the Wielder or healer that she could fix this.

Rowan snapped awake, fighting for breath, sitting up, his dark hair falling lankly about his face. Rowan gasped, momentarily panicking as he realized that he wasn’t in his room. Then he remembered that they were at the kingdoms’ accord. He lay back on the mat, exhausted. It was only a dream. Only a dream.

Whirling like the storm within, confused, muddy eddies whipped past him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, didn’t know what to say or do. He was held immobile, as if viewing a far-off battle on some broad scrying pool.
Ships washed up against ghostly shores, broken, their gutted hulls burned, charred. Ancient kingdoms grew and fell, cities were built, and atrophied. It was almost as if all of history was playing out on that unlikely stage. And faster—faster—the tales rushed by at a breakneck pace. The world was spinning far too fast. Rowan’s grip on reality was slipping. Then, the vision stilled, steadied, balanced. Rowan found that he could breathe again. Cautiously, he looked down once more.
Hovering over a yellowed parchment map of all the lands Rowan knew—Ertraia, Elruun, Arethwyne, even Savenera and the wild realm of the northern crags—was a dark pall, something like a cloud, something like a heavy veil, part mist and part phantom. The darkness grew until it was overwhelming. He could feel empty, blank shapes, darker than mere shadow, stalking in the dark, the cold breath of wraiths echoing down the darkened corridors of his mind. He shuddered and pulled away. Distantly, he could see himself walking a narrow, dangerous path along a Cliffside, above a yawning void, along the edge of a precipice. He followed the narrow path through trees that seemed to be closing in; fleshless hands caught and clawed at his clothing and hair, ripping the soft, worn green cloak. Suddenly a net dropped upon him, unimpeded somehow by the thick brush of the woodlands, which seemed to draw away fearfully from its touch. The net weighed him to the ground, and thousands of black crows descended on his head, pecking, attacking, clawing at his face, his eyes…
A black snowstorm of bats whirled up, obscuring his vision, and he fell, his head hitting something hard, painfully hard—stars exploded in his skull, pain roaring behind his eyes…
Rowan snapped upright, panting, startled awake for the second time that night. He was lying on the floor, tangled in the bedclothes, having tumbled off his cot while still in the throes of his nightmare. Rowan swallowed hard, willing his racing heart to slow. The first pale fingers of dawn had not yet begun to drift over the horizon—at least, not just yet—but the night was late, and growing old. The moon had already set, melding its burnished after-glow with the bare gray predawn light of the unborn sun that had not quite begun to peep over the horizon, herald to its glorious source. Rowan took his staff from the place where it had leaned against the tent’s cloth walls in a trembling hand, and went to find Melilana.

He found her sitting by the tiny waterfall at the head of the stream that ran through the camping grounds, praying, before anyone else could get up and the day begin. Rowan often did the same himself. He loved the soft light that shone out just before dawn, the coolness of the air, the soft movements of the wind, the beautiful sweet smells, the hushed twitter of the birds. It was peaceful, and one could pray without having to worry about the day’s interruptions. Before dawn, the world was a whole other place.
Rowan advanced to his mother’s side. Taryn, one of the royal family’s attendants, moved forward to keep him from disturbing her mistress, but he shot her a pleading look and she subsided, letting him go to Melilana’s side.
Laying his staff down on the sward beside him, Rowan knelt by his mother’s side to wait, and silently began his own prayers, closing his eyes and at least attempting to relax. Finally, after some time, Melilana opened her eyes. Rowan, sensing it, did the same. Melilana looked down at her son, concern in her eyes. “What is it, Rowan? Are you unwell?” Rowan sighed and shook his head. Melilana wrapped one arm—unexpectedly strong—about the boy’s slim shoulders. “You’re troubled, sweetheart,” she observed, voice quiet, and charged with faint alarm. Rowan sighed. Melilana bent her head to look him in the eeys. “What is it, love?” Rowan took a deep breath.
“I had… a dream.” he began, his voice disconcerted—and disconcerting, even to his own ears. “A strange dream,” he continued, his voice growing stronger as he spoke. “A vision? Maybe? I don’t know.” He wrapped his arms around himself in an unconscious gesture that, he realized a moment later, must have made him seem much younger than his seventeen years.
“What did you see?” Melilana prompted. Rowan shook his head.
“I don’t know. I didn’t understand most of it. A pall—a dark pall—sinking over the kingdoms. A snare—a net? And crows, or bats. I don’t know which.” Melilana exhaled, slowly.
“If only I could have spared you this,” she murmured, sorrowfully. “I have feared it for a long time, but I prayed that you would not have to bear this burden.”
“Mother?” Rowan asked, uncomprehending, his voice faintly distressed. Melilana drew in a long, deep breath.
“You are a seer,” she said softly. “A prophet. One to whom our good God reveals parts of the future in dreams and visions. He sends them to us as His gift in times of danger and impending doom. They are our bulwark against attack. They are His messengers, His warning.”
“Then there is danger in the future,” Rowan said, half to himself. “But what… what did I see?” he murmured softly. Melilana sighed.
“I do not know,” she admitted softly. “Whether your visions are past, present or future, or a future that will never come to pass, I do not know. God sends us visions for two reasons—to avert a future that should not happen, or to prepare for one that must.”
Rowan would not have admitted it, except, perhaps, to himself, but these words were more ominous to him than he would have allowed any living creature—or person—to think.

Bound to the Flame, Chapter II, Part IV

21 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Bound to the Flame, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

bound to the flame, stories in progress

Hello!

Sorry I’ve been remiss in posting this part… Anyway, on with the show!

Bound to the Flame

Chapter II

Part IV

The next morning, the Arethwyne contingent began their ride to the Cremlegged. They were forced to move slowly, to allow the wains to keep up, but Margery did not mind. She enjoyed the scenery as they slowly traveled across the mountains toward the wild no-man’s-land north of Ertraia.
Once, Cremlegged had been within Ertraia, but in the great wars the common folk had wrested it from the magicians, and then, under mysterious circumstances, had fled. No one knew quite why, but there were whispers of a secret fear that no one dared name. It had traditionally been used as a meeting place; after a decade, the terror was forgotten and the people returned to hold their gatherings there.
The Cremlegged itself was an ancient circle of standing stones in the center of a forest, with a single flat stone in the center. No one knew how long it had been there, or who had built it, and no one dared to enter the center of the circle itself. It was thought to be forbidden. Only the fields around it were ever used.
The gathering place at the Cremlegged was crowded, and noisy. Margery looked excitedly about at all the tartan patterns, the heraldry, the hawkers standing about here and there, shouting out the merits of their goods at the tops of their voices; the venders selling hot buns and pies and candy; the minstrels, bards, and wandering troubadours who stood at intervals, singing popular ballads or telling stories from the histories of the various clans. Tents were pitched everywhere in haphazard sprawls, except on the fields specifically kept clear for the games. Indeed, the games were going on right at that moment, interrupted by some half-witted wastrel who was attempting to pitch a tent, smack dab in the center of the field. Margery paused, staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed in disbelief. A moment later, the foolish fellow’s pavilion was summarily flattened by a stray hammer from the hammer throw, and the varlet issued forth in wrath to protect his little castle in the clouds. A loud argument started and turned into a fistfight, which turned into a pitched battle, with the vagrant attempting to hold his own against all comers. Unfortunately, as the fool defended his shelter, two of the games’ marshals crept up behind him, removed his tent, and walked off to one side with it, where they dumped it in a sorry heap of loose canvas and poles on the ground, in a similar state to its dazed master, who, despite all his valiant efforts, had been bested, and now was lying in the middle of the field, alone, dazed, and apparently wondering where his pavilion had vanished to. Margery burst into a hearty laugh. “What an idiot galoot!” she exclaimed, then looked up to notice Marena staring in the same direction, an expression of surprise, amazement, distaste, and perhaps just the tiniest bit of amusement on her face. Margery looked up innocently at her. “A princess does not stare?” she offered, and they both burst out laughing.
“She doesnae chortle,” they chorused, then laughed again. They followed the rest of the clan off, toward their allotted area.
The most organization that was ever done at a gathering was to assign a kingdom an allotment of space to camp in, to keep kingdoms from becoming mixed up and national pride from starting minor wars. Once that was accomplished, the royalty of the kingdom, working with the great lords, would split that assigned area up into clan territories, again, to prevent minor-scale wars and internecine strife. Everyone belonging to a given clan was expected to encamp in their clan’s area, under pain of censure by the marshals and heralds, who were assigned to make sure that everything was kept in a reasonable state of order and running smoothly, and preventing aforesaid minor wars.
As the Arethwyne contingent made its way to its assigned spot, Margery could not stop glancing around in unconcealed excitement and awe. A whole troop of young people her age dashed by, and Margery shot Marena a pleading look. The tall woman smiled in reply. “Go,” she said. Handing Celad’s reins to the nearest servant, Margery raced off into the crowd.

As soon as the Ertraian contingent had settled in, Rowan slipped off into the crowd. He moved briskly, to hide his limp, gazing around in excited wonder at his surroundings. He had never witnessed such an excited bustle in his life before. He wandered among the peddlers and minstrels, the sheer crowdedness and wild panoply of different tartan designs and coats of arms, completely happy. No one looked amiss at his presence; no one seemed to think twice of the fact that there was another person among them. No one noticed that his tartan was the dusky green-and-heather-gold of the Caerlen clan—then again, that might have been due to the cloak he was wearing, the serviceable plain green cloak of the Ertraian nobility. He wandered slowly through the crowd, thoroughly enjoying the sights and sounds.
Suddenly, he found himself very near to the ancient circle beyond the edge of the campgrounds. The woods had enclosed it, hidden it from prying eyes. He had, in fact, wandered further into the woods than he had thought. So afraid seemed all the others of it, that no one else had even entered the virgin forest on that edge of the encampment. It repelled them, but strangely enough, it seemed to call him in; he could not resist its beckoning siren call.
It stood on the crest of a hill, a huge circle of ancient, moss-covered, mouldering gray stones, open to the blue sky above. In the center, a single, flat, black stone rested. It was strangely chilly, even though he was no longer under the canopy of the trees. The sounds of the encampment died away into a chilled hush, a distant murmur; he slowly moved toward one of the stones, his hands raised to it. There was an odd hum in the air. He shuddered, suddenly. All around, there were shapes… moving, coalescing, evaporating, shining faintly in the sudden twilight. These visions had a meaning, he realized hazily, but he could not tell quite what it was, not yet. The sky was suddenly overcast, thunderous, ominous. A chill washed over him and suddenly he was back in his own world, with a cold thrill still running down his back. He realized that he was much closer to the standing stones than any other person had been in a long time, and he slipped back through the forest to melt back into the crowd, slightly embarrassed by his own strange attraction to the place, and wondering what it was that he had seen.
The chill was gone, but not forgotten, a faint memory on the edge of the nimbus of his mind, faintly nagging, clinging to him, calling him back, but he was strong enough to resist the call, though he determined that some time he would have to investigate further. A soft breath of warm spring wind lifted his thick, wavy dark hair, playing with it. He trailed slowly after a group of young people around his own age, content just to watch, not quite yet comfortable with joining in with them.
Suddenly, a young woman bumped into him from behind, accidentally knocking him to the ground. Rowan sprawled ungracefully on the trampled grass, looking blankly up at the few fluffy white clouds in the sky. The young woman offered him a hand up. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. Rowan was a bit startled. It was the young princess of Arethwyne; he recognized her instantly. Regaining his wits, he took her hand and pulled himself to his feet.

Margery could not believe what had just happened. She had physically knocked someone down. She turned, offering him a hand up and an apologetic grin. “I’m sorry,” she apologized. “Are you all right?” He took her hand and stood, albeit somewhat slowly and warily. His grip was stronger than she had expected. Margery sized him up thoughtfully. He was somewhat smaller than most, slim, pale, with thick, wavy dark hair and large, wise, kind hazel eyes. His face was long and somewhat narrow, its sharp lines full of character, with almost elfin features; high cheekbones, a straight, small nose, sharp chin, and an expressive, delicate mouth that gave a vague impression of fragility; yet Margery imagined that he could be very firm. All in all, an interesting if not handsome face. The young man gave her a crooked smile.
“I’ve been hurt worse,” he said. His voice seemed oddly familiar, but she couldn’t place where she had heard it before—soft, yet with a hard edge to it, underneath. Margery offered a quick handshake.
“I’m Margery,” she introduced herself.
“My name is Rowan,” he replied. Yes, Margery thought, he did remind her, vaguely, of a slender tree, raising its humble branches to the sky. His appearance was curiously otherworldly, eerie, ethereal, yet solid, grounded. She studied him, thoughtfully, for a long moment.
“Have you ever been to a Gathering before?” she asked.
“No,” Rowan said. Margery smiled.
“Me neither.” She smiled again. “Are you as excited as I am?” Rowan shrugged.
“I don’t know. How excited are you?” he asked, in all seriousness. Margery burst out laughing. Rowan smiled, a little. “I just wanted to get away from everyone for a bit,” he confessed. Margery sighed.
“Same here. It’s going to be crazy until they get the tents and pavilions all set up.”
“I wish we could slip away into the woods,” Rowan remarked. Margery stared at him oddly.
“Why do you say that?” she asked. Rowan shrugged.
“Well, it’s just that… well, the crowd and the noise—it’s all a bit… overwhelming.” Rowan peered hesitantly from under thick, unruly dark bangs at her, as if he was wondering if she would laugh at him. Margery gave him a sympathetic look.
“Not used to all the commotion?” she asked. Rowan shook his head. Margery smiled. “They are making quite the racket, aren’t they?” she asked. Rowan laughed.
They passed a minstrel, who was relating the deeds of some of the clans in the wars, and paused to listen. After a few minutes, Rowan said, “This is the first time he’s told this story in public, and he’s not quite confident that he’s telling it correctly, not just yet. He shouldn’t worry. He’s doing just fine.” Margery turned to him, astonished.
“How could you tell that? Are you training to be a bard?” Rowan half-grimaced.
“Not really, but I know all the stories very well,” he said.
A tall woman with gray eyes and mahogany hair, wearing a green cloak similar to Rowan’s and tall boots and carrying a long claymore at her side, walked up and put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Rowan, we’ve been looking for you,” she said in a tone of quiet reproach. Rowan hung his head. The woman gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m sorry, Rheadwyn,” he apologized. Rheadwyn smiled, amused.
“Couldn’t resist the pull of the crowd, could you?” she said. Rowan smiled, sheepishly. He followed Rheadwyn as she led him off toward the eastern area, turning for a moment to wave to Margery, his tawny eyes alight, joyful.
“I’ll see you later this evening, Margery. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” Margery called before turning to head back to her own family. What had he meant, “I’ll see you this evening”? Margery shrugged and put the thought out of her mind. If he had known something she didn’t, she could ask him herself, later on.

Thoughts of An Easter’s Day

20 Sunday Apr 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Living Life with Passion, Tales of a Wandering Bard, Uncategorized

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being christian, catholic culture, crucifixion, easter, lent, living life unexpectedly, resurrection, roman catholic

Redemption–salvation–is a pretty big idea.

I mean, it’s God putting aside His throne in heaven and taking on a human nature, then dying on a cross (so not romantic!) to atone for the sins of other men, while He Himself remained blameless. If it was one of us, we’d be terrified to death–or worse, complaining like no one’s business. After all, we grumble quite a bit when someone just accuses us of not taking the trash out when we just did. (And don’t pull the ‘that’s just a little thing, I’d be much more holy when I was doing the real thing!’ with God. “He who is faithful in small things is faithful in much, and he who is unfaithful in small things is unfaithful in much.” Hate to break it to you, but that’s a double standard, which really does not work. Besides, the way we act in minor things is the same way we’ll act in the big ones. Don’t worry, though–your humble blogger is the same way, and she knows it too.)

Sometimes, the course of history changes when a small event happens to shift it slightly, into a new course, and as often as not then begins to repeat itself again. There is a tiny jar, a hiccup–the galaxy hiccups!–and then things rolls slowly on once more, as if they had never changed, though the path itself is not quite the same.

And sometimes, something earth-shattering, something tectonic dances when there is a crash and a roar, and suddenly everything is right again and everyone stares bewildered at each other, wondering what in Heaven’s name just happened, anyway!?

And what did just happen?

A truly unprecedented event.

An act of true love.

An act of selfless sacrifice.

An act that seems simple, even meaninglessness, at the time, but it shakes the foundations of the universe.

It is so simple, yet so perfect, it is the ultimate poem–without needing words.

That is what the Crucifixion was. It was the event that permanently changed history.

And in the same vein, every act that is completely selfless is also a novel happening, unprecedented, shocking. Worthwhile for its own sake.

Shock the world, and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised yourself.

Thanks for reading, and God Bless!

Poetry for Holy Week #6: Joseph of Arimathea

19 Saturday Apr 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Living Life with Passion, Tales of a Wandering Bard, Uncategorized

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catholic culture, easter triduum, holy saturday, lent, poetry, roman catholic, st. joseph of arimathea

Well, here it is, the last poem of the “Poetry for Holy Week” series.

Enjoy!

Joseph of Arimathea
Holy Saturday
They gave Thee to Thy Mother’s arms
And then they laid Thee in a tomb;
Still in Thy face was beauty,
To be sealed away in that deathly room.
Huddled in a locked, closed room,
The Saturday vigil long to keep
Not for sorrow, but for fear
With Thy friends I wee;

Yet at the third day’s dawning,
Thou would arise again,
To go before to Galilee
And meet with human kin!
No message of sorrow there will be
Without the light of joy
Now Death itself lies dying,
And Fear is but a ploy;

Not face to Face, yet heart to Heart,
My heart will rest with Thee,
And when my words all are useless,
Then come, humility.
Not to death will my path lead,
But through it, and then on;
Ever since You opened the gates
I will trust Thee till all is over and done!

And let me keep before me
Thy Passion’s bitter pain
All my life send on me
Thy lifeblood’s healing rain!
Let me bear my little cross
In unison with Thine,
And let me live with Thee forever,
As a saintly sign.
Amen.

Poetry for Holy Week #5: Veronica

18 Friday Apr 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Living Life with Passion, Tales of a Wandering Bard, Uncategorized

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Tags

catholic culture, easter triduum, good friday, lent, poetry, roman catholic, veronica

My personal favorite of all my Holy Week/Passion poems. Enjoy!

Veronica
Good Friday
I was walking down a road one day
Chatting, laughing with my friends
Then I saw a Stranger standing there
And I knew His story was about to end
No one else even seemed to see
And I still looked, and suddenly
I was ashamed of being me

He stood there with a heavy cross
Upon His shoulder, bloody, bare
Soldiers, mocking, all around
Yet in His face was peace, even there.
And I was ashamed for my naivety,
Ashamed, for never knowing Him
Ashamed; He was dying for my sin

I dropped my head and took my veil
I couldn’t even meet His eyes
Hastily, I wiped his bruised face.
I turned away; I was going to cry.
And I was tired of all the lies.
It was pity, and apology,
And I was weak and cowardly,
Yet there in the road, He forgave—and blessed me.

There are many roads, they say,
That lead to Calvary.
Only one end there, they say.
Yet what I saw was no ending.
“It is begun, then,” the thought came,
“The great work, the saving, comes in His name.
This is no end, but a beginning to the Day!
For to this Story, there is no end;
Eternity awaits. Amen.”

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