Dryad Eyes, part 29.
This entry comes in at 2,210 words.
I forget, sometimes, what a positive effect writing has on me. Days when I've written, and posted, seem to be generally better days. How weird is that?
Definately, definately visit my friend kingofheart again, and read the first entry of his new story ("My Latest Story"). He's taking a shot at daily posting, and, if you've read his work, you know why I'm looking forward to see what he comes up with.
Vy Miegga, the florist and former lover of the King, stalked back and forth, to and fro, through the snow in the Gateway Keep's courtyard. Her brown hair, normally perfectly styled to the latest fashion, hung in tangled clumps about her face. The normally immaculate make-up that often adorned her face was, presently, running and smeared. It was as if she had taken all of the deft skill with which she had cared for her appearance over the years, and applied it to looking as wretched as she possibly could. Impossibly, she wore it well. Vy was a lovely woman, and she remained quite eye-catching in her present condition. Her voice, normally quite deliberately calm and cultured, raised and became shrill as she screamed profanities at the Keep. She hurled insults next, directed at one specific individual inside, laying forth a siege as intense as anything seen during the Great Battle a little over a year before. Finally, spent of simple obscenities, she began to rant again. The florist spoke of her relationship with Geran, and all the 'perverse' things he had done to her, in a broken voice.
"He seduced me! Used me!" She wailed, her throat becoming hoarse. "He is everything they say, full of unnatural charm that he brings to bear as heartlessly as any Dryad woman ever did!"
The audience she had begun to draw, several dozen strong at this point, bristled. What had begun, in some cases, as idle curiosity, and in others as amused mockery of the apparently mad woman that had set up shop in front of the Keep, was slowly, steadily, changing forms. Their outrage was becoming palpable. High above them, inside the Keep, Geran could feel it hammering against him like the tide upon a rocky shore. On a matter such as this, the feelings of strangers did not affect him on a personal level. He had steeled himself against that sort of thing when he had openly embraced his mixed heritage before the people of Keeper's Gateway, and through them, all the people of the Free Kingdoms. Certainly, because of the intense winter storm that had swept across the mountains in the wake of his announcement, it would be months before his declaration reached every ear, but it would. Geran fully intended to send official messengers, runners, to every corner of every kingdom within his purview, and, with his beloved niece in mind, would not ever deny his blood again. Where he came from, he had come to realize, was as important as anything he had ever done.
While the anger and opinions of strangers had little effect on him, every word that spilled from Vy Miegga's mouth cut into him like the sharpest of knives. He did not even have to be able to hear all of them. Though their affair was over, and though he had always known that it would be over, he had enjoyed the time he had spent with her. She was, in his opinion, a truly wonderful, special person. Geran had hoped against hope that they could maintain a friendship of some sort. That, apparently, was out of the question. Her actions, her rage, had left him dumbfounded, in the wake of the conversation they had had a few days before. Stunned, stung, poor Vy had been, but this?
The door to his grand rooms opened, and closed again. So lost in thought was he, not to mention the scene below, that he did not notice. Geran, the mighty Battle King whose incredibly sharp ears could and had foiled the most skillful of assassins, could still be surprised. It was not impossible. His visitor was nearly within arms reach before he took note of her. Fortunately, for both of them, however, Charis' scent reached him first. As if a warm spring day had suddenly fallen upon him, his demeanor changed for the better as she joined him at the window. It was only a momentary improvement, however, as the first words out of her mouth caused the tension to return ten fold.
"Is it the truth?" Her voice was soft, just this side of a whisper.
Geran looked sharply at his bride-to-be, his broad shoulders tightening. "What?"
"The things she says." Charis turned her face toward him, looking up at him with big, blue eyes and an impenetrable expression. Her tone, still hushed, was distant, as if the words were but a formality. "The things you did together."
Anger flared in his chest. What was this, then? Whatever reaction he had expected of his bride-to-be, this was not it. "You do not really want me to answer that, Charis. But you know the answer, as intimately as that poor woman out there."
Her face reddened in response to his statement. For a moment, Geran was unsure as to how to feel about that. His words had, of course, been intended to shame her, much as her strange inquiry had stung him. Picking a fight with his beloved, however, seemed a poor way to deal with the present situation. He watched as she worked her jaw, opening her mouth to speak and then closing it again. Finally, rather than respond, Charis changed the subject. Still, her voice maintained that same almost-detached quality.
"Did Treyp find you?"
"Treyp?" Surprised, he repeated the name. His niece, bedridden with grievous wounds for so many days, had not been in any condition to 'find' anyone in that time. Though she should certainly, barring further complication, soon be well enough to move about at will, still he had to worry. "I haven't seen her."
"She came here last night. Seemed worried. I would have told you about it last night when you came in, but I was so tired." It was almost the truth, what she said. The dryad girl had come looking for Geran, and Charis had sent her on her way rather abruptly after informing her that he was not in. When he had arrived back at their rooms, however, his bride-to-be had been feigning the sleep that had kept her from having to face him. She had felt sick, down to her very soul, and could not express why; not even to herself. It was as if someone had opened her up and poured some vile poison directly into her heart of hearts. To what end, she could not say.
"It is nothing to worry over, I am sure." Geran was saying. He took Charis by the hand and pulled her back from the window, away from the ongoing debacle below. "If it was important, she would have found me by now. Or somebody would have found her for me."
Charis resisted his maneuver, but only marginally. Why? She wondered. A day ago, she would have gladly followed when he had taken her by the hand. Perhaps it would have been her that had pulled him away. Was that not what she had wanted, for so long? That intimacy? Moreover, why did she feel some instinctive need to recoil when he drew her close? Desperately, she fought herself, and did not react thus. There was supposed to be shelter in his arms. There should have been comfort in his gesture, when he brushed his fingertips through her still-short hair. There should have been solace in his eyes, and in hers for him. What is wrong with me? Charis wailed into the silence of her soul. When Geran leaned his head forward, as she had known he would, and tried to kiss her, she turned her face away. She could not help herself.
"What...?" He seemed dumbfounded, then angry. It was the same anger, the same hurt that she had seen in his eyes in response to the foolish question she had felt moved to ask moments before. "Have I done something wrong?"
"It... it is in bad taste, at the moment." Charis answered with a meaningful nod to the window and the goings on beyond it. That was as good an excuse as any other, she thought. She hoped. Please, she silently begged him, do not be angry. I am not myself. She could no more say why than she could say these things at all. Something, almost but not quite like an external force, held her tongue in check.
"I see." His voice was flat.
"I'm sorry."
Without another word, Geran released her. He stepped away from her as smoothly as he had ever traversed any battlefield. There was no sound that reached his ears, from her silent pleading for him to stop and help her through whatever was happening to her. Perhaps, were he not wounded, confused and in need of aid himself, he would have seen it in her eyes. Though he had returned from whatever other realm he had been lost to a changed, wiser, more stable man, he was still near to a breaking point. Even the Battle King could take only so much. Charis knew that. From her vantage point, locked within herself and bound by actions and reactions that she did not quite understand, she could see it. As strong as he was, it took only a little of the right kind of pressure to push him so far.
"Where are you going?" She made herself ask, as he gathered his cloak and hefted his sword belt. So quick were his movements that he was already headed for the door before her question registered, and he paused. Silent and completely still, he stood for several moments. Charis had seen that stillness before. Always, immediately before throwing himself into improbable odds, whether it was combat against a mighty demon or leaping into combat alone against a hundred men, that stillness overtook him. In that moment, he would take measure of the situation, and then give himself over to the appropriate action.
"Somewhere else," he said, finally, in a voice as carefully controlled as hers had sounded. Her heart ached for him, even as his ached to understand her. "Where I can look out a window without having my eyes assaulted by that ridiculous business."
"Shouldn't you do something?" Charis asked, immediately hating the timidity that leaked through the distance between herself and her voice. It was born of the fear that writhed within her, that should she let him walk out that door without speaking to him, without telling him something of value, that she may be doing irreparable harm to the relationship that they had only just formed. However, for reasons that she did not understand, she could not say what she wished to say. She could not apologize. Instead, she could only ask a foolish question, which would receive, in turn, the response that she knew he would give her. Ask anyway, she decided, bewildered by her own state of mind, and hope for the best. "Make her leave the palace grounds, perhaps?"
Geran turned to stare at her. Something, he could tell, was out of place. It was his first inkling that something was wrong with her, but he had cause to doubt himself just then. He would spend hours turning these moments over in his mind, trying to put his finger on what it was that had just triggered an alarm bell in his mind. Perhaps, on some level, through the bonds of love that they shared, he had heard her silent pleas. His answer, when finally he gave it, was, again, very deliberate and spoken in a measured voice.
"I would not do that to her. If she believes what she is saying, perhaps even if she doesn't, she deserves the right to speak. If I took that away from her, I would not be a King. I would be a tyrant. And I would appear guilty."
Reaching over, Geran touched Charis' face again, a repeat of the same gesture he had made earlier. She forced herself to not flinch. Choosing to leave it at that, in desperate need of the time to think, Geran lowered his hand and turned away. Something inside his bride-to-be's breast deflated as he left, and tears began rolling down her face. She turned away as well, away from the hateful doorway through which he had just departed. Walking over to the window, she stared down at the scene Vy Miegga continued to make. It was at its climax, it appeared. The florist had ripped open her blouse, baring the red, swollen, and angry looking scratches that marred her bosom to her crowd of onlookers. Far from random, they appeared to form very specific lines and arcane symbols. 'He did this!' Charis knew what the woman was saying, though she could hear nothing at all from so far away. 'Look at his handiwork! Look how he bound me! Dryad power! Black magic!'
Understanding touched Charis then, but she lacked the ability to make even a coherent thought on the subject. Poor, poor, Vy, she repeated in her head like a mantra. Raising her hand, she drew it across her own chest, feeling the sting of the scratches beneath the cloth of her shirt.
"He is guilty. He is!" A harsh, hushed, angry voice barked softly into her ear.
"He is." Charis agreed readily, and then she broke down and began to sob.
I forget, sometimes, what a positive effect writing has on me. Days when I've written, and posted, seem to be generally better days. How weird is that?
Definately, definately visit my friend kingofheart again, and read the first entry of his new story ("My Latest Story"). He's taking a shot at daily posting, and, if you've read his work, you know why I'm looking forward to see what he comes up with.
Vy Miegga, the florist and former lover of the King, stalked back and forth, to and fro, through the snow in the Gateway Keep's courtyard. Her brown hair, normally perfectly styled to the latest fashion, hung in tangled clumps about her face. The normally immaculate make-up that often adorned her face was, presently, running and smeared. It was as if she had taken all of the deft skill with which she had cared for her appearance over the years, and applied it to looking as wretched as she possibly could. Impossibly, she wore it well. Vy was a lovely woman, and she remained quite eye-catching in her present condition. Her voice, normally quite deliberately calm and cultured, raised and became shrill as she screamed profanities at the Keep. She hurled insults next, directed at one specific individual inside, laying forth a siege as intense as anything seen during the Great Battle a little over a year before. Finally, spent of simple obscenities, she began to rant again. The florist spoke of her relationship with Geran, and all the 'perverse' things he had done to her, in a broken voice.
"He seduced me! Used me!" She wailed, her throat becoming hoarse. "He is everything they say, full of unnatural charm that he brings to bear as heartlessly as any Dryad woman ever did!"
The audience she had begun to draw, several dozen strong at this point, bristled. What had begun, in some cases, as idle curiosity, and in others as amused mockery of the apparently mad woman that had set up shop in front of the Keep, was slowly, steadily, changing forms. Their outrage was becoming palpable. High above them, inside the Keep, Geran could feel it hammering against him like the tide upon a rocky shore. On a matter such as this, the feelings of strangers did not affect him on a personal level. He had steeled himself against that sort of thing when he had openly embraced his mixed heritage before the people of Keeper's Gateway, and through them, all the people of the Free Kingdoms. Certainly, because of the intense winter storm that had swept across the mountains in the wake of his announcement, it would be months before his declaration reached every ear, but it would. Geran fully intended to send official messengers, runners, to every corner of every kingdom within his purview, and, with his beloved niece in mind, would not ever deny his blood again. Where he came from, he had come to realize, was as important as anything he had ever done.
While the anger and opinions of strangers had little effect on him, every word that spilled from Vy Miegga's mouth cut into him like the sharpest of knives. He did not even have to be able to hear all of them. Though their affair was over, and though he had always known that it would be over, he had enjoyed the time he had spent with her. She was, in his opinion, a truly wonderful, special person. Geran had hoped against hope that they could maintain a friendship of some sort. That, apparently, was out of the question. Her actions, her rage, had left him dumbfounded, in the wake of the conversation they had had a few days before. Stunned, stung, poor Vy had been, but this?
The door to his grand rooms opened, and closed again. So lost in thought was he, not to mention the scene below, that he did not notice. Geran, the mighty Battle King whose incredibly sharp ears could and had foiled the most skillful of assassins, could still be surprised. It was not impossible. His visitor was nearly within arms reach before he took note of her. Fortunately, for both of them, however, Charis' scent reached him first. As if a warm spring day had suddenly fallen upon him, his demeanor changed for the better as she joined him at the window. It was only a momentary improvement, however, as the first words out of her mouth caused the tension to return ten fold.
"Is it the truth?" Her voice was soft, just this side of a whisper.
Geran looked sharply at his bride-to-be, his broad shoulders tightening. "What?"
"The things she says." Charis turned her face toward him, looking up at him with big, blue eyes and an impenetrable expression. Her tone, still hushed, was distant, as if the words were but a formality. "The things you did together."
Anger flared in his chest. What was this, then? Whatever reaction he had expected of his bride-to-be, this was not it. "You do not really want me to answer that, Charis. But you know the answer, as intimately as that poor woman out there."
Her face reddened in response to his statement. For a moment, Geran was unsure as to how to feel about that. His words had, of course, been intended to shame her, much as her strange inquiry had stung him. Picking a fight with his beloved, however, seemed a poor way to deal with the present situation. He watched as she worked her jaw, opening her mouth to speak and then closing it again. Finally, rather than respond, Charis changed the subject. Still, her voice maintained that same almost-detached quality.
"Did Treyp find you?"
"Treyp?" Surprised, he repeated the name. His niece, bedridden with grievous wounds for so many days, had not been in any condition to 'find' anyone in that time. Though she should certainly, barring further complication, soon be well enough to move about at will, still he had to worry. "I haven't seen her."
"She came here last night. Seemed worried. I would have told you about it last night when you came in, but I was so tired." It was almost the truth, what she said. The dryad girl had come looking for Geran, and Charis had sent her on her way rather abruptly after informing her that he was not in. When he had arrived back at their rooms, however, his bride-to-be had been feigning the sleep that had kept her from having to face him. She had felt sick, down to her very soul, and could not express why; not even to herself. It was as if someone had opened her up and poured some vile poison directly into her heart of hearts. To what end, she could not say.
"It is nothing to worry over, I am sure." Geran was saying. He took Charis by the hand and pulled her back from the window, away from the ongoing debacle below. "If it was important, she would have found me by now. Or somebody would have found her for me."
Charis resisted his maneuver, but only marginally. Why? She wondered. A day ago, she would have gladly followed when he had taken her by the hand. Perhaps it would have been her that had pulled him away. Was that not what she had wanted, for so long? That intimacy? Moreover, why did she feel some instinctive need to recoil when he drew her close? Desperately, she fought herself, and did not react thus. There was supposed to be shelter in his arms. There should have been comfort in his gesture, when he brushed his fingertips through her still-short hair. There should have been solace in his eyes, and in hers for him. What is wrong with me? Charis wailed into the silence of her soul. When Geran leaned his head forward, as she had known he would, and tried to kiss her, she turned her face away. She could not help herself.
"What...?" He seemed dumbfounded, then angry. It was the same anger, the same hurt that she had seen in his eyes in response to the foolish question she had felt moved to ask moments before. "Have I done something wrong?"
"It... it is in bad taste, at the moment." Charis answered with a meaningful nod to the window and the goings on beyond it. That was as good an excuse as any other, she thought. She hoped. Please, she silently begged him, do not be angry. I am not myself. She could no more say why than she could say these things at all. Something, almost but not quite like an external force, held her tongue in check.
"I see." His voice was flat.
"I'm sorry."
Without another word, Geran released her. He stepped away from her as smoothly as he had ever traversed any battlefield. There was no sound that reached his ears, from her silent pleading for him to stop and help her through whatever was happening to her. Perhaps, were he not wounded, confused and in need of aid himself, he would have seen it in her eyes. Though he had returned from whatever other realm he had been lost to a changed, wiser, more stable man, he was still near to a breaking point. Even the Battle King could take only so much. Charis knew that. From her vantage point, locked within herself and bound by actions and reactions that she did not quite understand, she could see it. As strong as he was, it took only a little of the right kind of pressure to push him so far.
"Where are you going?" She made herself ask, as he gathered his cloak and hefted his sword belt. So quick were his movements that he was already headed for the door before her question registered, and he paused. Silent and completely still, he stood for several moments. Charis had seen that stillness before. Always, immediately before throwing himself into improbable odds, whether it was combat against a mighty demon or leaping into combat alone against a hundred men, that stillness overtook him. In that moment, he would take measure of the situation, and then give himself over to the appropriate action.
"Somewhere else," he said, finally, in a voice as carefully controlled as hers had sounded. Her heart ached for him, even as his ached to understand her. "Where I can look out a window without having my eyes assaulted by that ridiculous business."
"Shouldn't you do something?" Charis asked, immediately hating the timidity that leaked through the distance between herself and her voice. It was born of the fear that writhed within her, that should she let him walk out that door without speaking to him, without telling him something of value, that she may be doing irreparable harm to the relationship that they had only just formed. However, for reasons that she did not understand, she could not say what she wished to say. She could not apologize. Instead, she could only ask a foolish question, which would receive, in turn, the response that she knew he would give her. Ask anyway, she decided, bewildered by her own state of mind, and hope for the best. "Make her leave the palace grounds, perhaps?"
Geran turned to stare at her. Something, he could tell, was out of place. It was his first inkling that something was wrong with her, but he had cause to doubt himself just then. He would spend hours turning these moments over in his mind, trying to put his finger on what it was that had just triggered an alarm bell in his mind. Perhaps, on some level, through the bonds of love that they shared, he had heard her silent pleas. His answer, when finally he gave it, was, again, very deliberate and spoken in a measured voice.
"I would not do that to her. If she believes what she is saying, perhaps even if she doesn't, she deserves the right to speak. If I took that away from her, I would not be a King. I would be a tyrant. And I would appear guilty."
Reaching over, Geran touched Charis' face again, a repeat of the same gesture he had made earlier. She forced herself to not flinch. Choosing to leave it at that, in desperate need of the time to think, Geran lowered his hand and turned away. Something inside his bride-to-be's breast deflated as he left, and tears began rolling down her face. She turned away as well, away from the hateful doorway through which he had just departed. Walking over to the window, she stared down at the scene Vy Miegga continued to make. It was at its climax, it appeared. The florist had ripped open her blouse, baring the red, swollen, and angry looking scratches that marred her bosom to her crowd of onlookers. Far from random, they appeared to form very specific lines and arcane symbols. 'He did this!' Charis knew what the woman was saying, though she could hear nothing at all from so far away. 'Look at his handiwork! Look how he bound me! Dryad power! Black magic!'
Understanding touched Charis then, but she lacked the ability to make even a coherent thought on the subject. Poor, poor, Vy, she repeated in her head like a mantra. Raising her hand, she drew it across her own chest, feeling the sting of the scratches beneath the cloth of her shirt.
"He is guilty. He is!" A harsh, hushed, angry voice barked softly into her ear.
"He is." Charis agreed readily, and then she broke down and began to sob.