A short story.
I woke up today with this story in my head.
I heard a story, once, about a powerful man. This was a long time ago, a thousand years or more, after the fall of Rome. He may have been a sorceror, or something more, or even something less. Who's left to know? Much has been forgotten since those times, as much as has been learned, or so the story goes.
This powerful man was travelling one winter, forced to do so by one affair or another of the sort only the powerful are familiar with. It was a bitter winter, and he made many stops along the way, at inns or farmers' houses, whatever shelter he could purchase for the night to get out of the bitter winter wind. So it happened that he stayed one night in a small town, at a country inn much like the others he had passed along the way, but for the Innkeeper's daughter, who was the most beautiful woman the powerful man had ever seen. She had gold hair that fell in a honey cascade between perfect shoulders, lips dark red like frozen blood, and eyes so grey you could lose yourself as badly as in any blizzard.
The powerful man decided to take her as his wife, and that night, quietly and under the cover of darkness, he went to her, and pressed a kiss into her lips. “Come with me, my dear,” he said, “For I am a man of considerable power and stature. I will take you to see the world, and will make no small part of it yours.”
The girl, of course, was instantly besotted with him, with his worldly speech and his incredible promises, and said that she would come away with him and be his wife. And so they left that night.
The powerful man, using his power, caused it to snow for a time, thinking that the falling blanket of snow would cover their tracks. But it was a cold winter, as cold as only winters in old stories can be, and the snow only fell a short time before stopping. The powerful man's tracks, instead of being hidden, were frozen by the wind.
The bitter wind soon began to steal their strength. It cut through their clothes, the powerful man's too fancy to be of much help, the young girl's too simple, and seemed to strip the very flesh from their bones. It was not long before they were stumbling as if sleepwalking, with nerveless toes and fingers turning a deeper and deeper shade of blue. And so the powerful man used his power again, creating a small cave of ice, and laying his bride-to-be down among it with a kiss, arranging that they should sleep until the spring, and awake refreshed.
The Innkeeper awoke the next morning to find his daughter and his guest gone without paying. Livid, he roused the small town around himto help him search. It was not long until a hunter found the powerful man's tracks, not far from the inn, frozen into the wind-sculpted snow.
The country folk followed the tracks to the ice cave, where they found the Innkeeper's daughter in the powerful man's embrace, both asleep as if dead. Suspicious folk, the normally gentle country folk decapitated both sleepers, seperating the heads from the bodies and burning both. And so it was that the powerful man, despite his power, came to a very ignominious end.
My mother told me this story as a child, after some small but failed attempt at a childish lie. “Listen,” she said as she told the story, “For there is a meaning hidden inside.” When she was done, she looked me in the eye and said, “And now you see, that subterfuge, poorly executed, tells more about its master than it hides, and that it always makes sense to be polite.”
Of course, my mother had died long before she told me this story, but I had already taken her lesson to heart.
I heard a story, once, about a powerful man. This was a long time ago, a thousand years or more, after the fall of Rome. He may have been a sorceror, or something more, or even something less. Who's left to know? Much has been forgotten since those times, as much as has been learned, or so the story goes.
This powerful man was travelling one winter, forced to do so by one affair or another of the sort only the powerful are familiar with. It was a bitter winter, and he made many stops along the way, at inns or farmers' houses, whatever shelter he could purchase for the night to get out of the bitter winter wind. So it happened that he stayed one night in a small town, at a country inn much like the others he had passed along the way, but for the Innkeeper's daughter, who was the most beautiful woman the powerful man had ever seen. She had gold hair that fell in a honey cascade between perfect shoulders, lips dark red like frozen blood, and eyes so grey you could lose yourself as badly as in any blizzard.
The powerful man decided to take her as his wife, and that night, quietly and under the cover of darkness, he went to her, and pressed a kiss into her lips. “Come with me, my dear,” he said, “For I am a man of considerable power and stature. I will take you to see the world, and will make no small part of it yours.”
The girl, of course, was instantly besotted with him, with his worldly speech and his incredible promises, and said that she would come away with him and be his wife. And so they left that night.
The powerful man, using his power, caused it to snow for a time, thinking that the falling blanket of snow would cover their tracks. But it was a cold winter, as cold as only winters in old stories can be, and the snow only fell a short time before stopping. The powerful man's tracks, instead of being hidden, were frozen by the wind.
The bitter wind soon began to steal their strength. It cut through their clothes, the powerful man's too fancy to be of much help, the young girl's too simple, and seemed to strip the very flesh from their bones. It was not long before they were stumbling as if sleepwalking, with nerveless toes and fingers turning a deeper and deeper shade of blue. And so the powerful man used his power again, creating a small cave of ice, and laying his bride-to-be down among it with a kiss, arranging that they should sleep until the spring, and awake refreshed.
The Innkeeper awoke the next morning to find his daughter and his guest gone without paying. Livid, he roused the small town around himto help him search. It was not long until a hunter found the powerful man's tracks, not far from the inn, frozen into the wind-sculpted snow.
The country folk followed the tracks to the ice cave, where they found the Innkeeper's daughter in the powerful man's embrace, both asleep as if dead. Suspicious folk, the normally gentle country folk decapitated both sleepers, seperating the heads from the bodies and burning both. And so it was that the powerful man, despite his power, came to a very ignominious end.
My mother told me this story as a child, after some small but failed attempt at a childish lie. “Listen,” she said as she told the story, “For there is a meaning hidden inside.” When she was done, she looked me in the eye and said, “And now you see, that subterfuge, poorly executed, tells more about its master than it hides, and that it always makes sense to be polite.”
Of course, my mother had died long before she told me this story, but I had already taken her lesson to heart.