Alone

A message of war

Carried on the winds of rumor

A world without peace

Joke. Leverage. Remedy.

The five of them rode in at dawn, galloping hard, their horses - more akin to a knight's destrier than one of our village's scrawny things, though they themselves hardly looked to be noble - panting hard, sweat illuminating the worn leather tack with an almost faerie glow.  Nonny, aptly named, the dolt, was on watch, and if it weren't for the hunting men just leaving we wouldn't have had any warning 'til the strangers were upon us.  I watched from the eaves of our barn as Myrcus strode out to meet them as they rode into the village.

"What business have you here?" roared Myrcus in the voice that forced confession from even the hardest of Will's gang.  Four of the riders dismounted, two sweeping elegant bows to Myrcus, as I'm sure no one else ever had before.  None of our lot cared much for him, only the fact his coin kept us from starvation every year.  The fifth remained astride his gorgeous beast.  All five were dressed in long hooded cloaks that obscured face and figure.  Even from here I could tell just one would buy a year's worth of bread and meat, even from the hoity-toity Merrytown folk.

The head rider, easily topping Myrcus's enormous frame by a good handswidth, stepped forward from the group.  He pulled the long hood back from his face, exposing a face harder than the rock most of our houses were hewn from.  He was exotic - not the type we usually get around here, with our blond Eloises and blue-eyed Jacks.  Black skin covered with pink scars and faded tattoos was stretched tautly over sharp bones and a wide, arched nose that had seen one too many breakings, though he was still handsome enough, I'd  be guessing, from the way all three of the miller's daughters were craning their necks through their front door.  His head was shaved bald, a luxury even the most sunned farmer couldn't afford, with our contrastingly pale skin.  Jann, the miller's oldest, sighed as the stranger placed his hands on his hips, revealing a broad chest and arms that were an army of themselves.  Three long tattoos wound their way up one arm, I committed to memory in case they were bandits or wanted by the bounty men that so often passed through, with countless others, monsters of every sort, covering every inch of his bare chest.

"We are in need of a Healer," proclaimed the dark man in a voice so deep and smooth, Jann practically fell through the doorway.  I grimaced in disgust.  Any Player could mimic that voice, simple; I could, too, for Jann, if I tried.  Deliberately, he reached for the fat purse at his side.  "One of the best sort, blessed by the Goddess herself at the temple doors, if you have it."

"We do," Mrycus replied, his voice still suspicious, but dripping with greed at the sight of the man's purse.

"Then allow me to introduce myself," he said.  "My name is Crow.  This is Dust," he continued, gesturing to the smaller figure close at his heels, "Flute," to the man who stood at the mounted rider's - "Dragon's" - side, and finally "Angel," the quiet, still one in the back.  "We have traveled a long ways, and I am afraid Dragon has not much time."  He spoke gravely, with all the concern of a king over his dying sole heir.  "Please bring your Healer."

Eloise the Elder and her daughter, the fair Lissie, hurried forward.  I was so distracted by the way the sun struck Lissie's pale hair, making it glow like moonlight, that I didn't notice that the fifth rider had not simply remained mounted.  I noticed now that he was slumped forward across the charger's neck, legs strapped to the saddle.  Eloise carefully unbuckled the stirrups and let the rider fall forward into her arms.  As he fell, his cloak fell open to reveal something far more startling than the fact "he", for all his stature, was really a woman.  No, what caught my attention and caused Eloise to drop her in the dust, gasping out a blessing and a curse, was the fact that she was as scaled as any serpent I'd ever seen.  Small horns curled up from either temple.  Her hair was cut shorter than mine, and dyed a thousand shades, held away from a scarred forehead with a gaudy silk cloth.  Easily as muscled as the dark-skinned man, she lie motionless at the foot of Myrcus.

"Do you suppose to take us for fools?" raged Myrcus, his already pale face white with shock, cheeks a livid purple.  "Is this some sort of joke?  If so, sir, do not think we find humor in your jest!  Your kind can only be the worst of criminals, the most savage of monsters!"  He kicked the woman on the ground once, hard, and raised his leg to do it again.  But before he could bring it forward, the second rider, Dust, this one a lad younger than I, leapt forward in a kick, bringing Myrcus to the ground even as Crow was arming his bow and leveling it at our Elder's heart.  The third rider, the one they called Flute, shorter but even thicker around than the first, was crouched protectively in front of the woman, growling with a menace the banker's hounds didn't have.

Angel strode forward.  He seemed to be a hunchback by the way his cloak bunched awkwardly at the back, resting over a large lump.  He was almost as tall as the bear of a man whose weapon was still pointed at Myrcus's chest, but far slighter, startlingly so in this group.

Myrcus lay, cowering on the ground.  "And will you treat our companion?"  She hesitated now, looking wide eyed up at the hunchback.  It was Lissie - beautiful, brave Lissie - who stepped forward and said in a voice that barely shook, "Of course we will."

The boy finally let Myrcus up, and though the dark man's bow remained drawn, he pointed it now at the ground.  Only Flute remained, bent over the woman's body.  Angel tugged him back gently by an arm as big around as a tree trunk.  Lissie stepped forward cautiously, than more bravely, at a nod from the Angel.

She knelt down by the fallen woman's side, practiced fingers moving very gently over her body, checking for wounds or broken bones; I knew from experience.  I would gladly break both legs to have those hands on me now, I thought wistfully, as Lissie reached to the back of her belt and drew a small knife.

So quickly my distracted mind missed it, Lissie was up against the wall, held there by her throat.  Numb with shock, I practically tumbled down the ladder and raced from my barn door.  "Let her go!" I roared.  Or rather, if I am to be honest, thought to roar, for my husky growl was nothing compared to Crow's deep voice.  But my intentions were clear as I flung myself at the man holding Lissie up, not even thinking it foolish to attacked such armed, and obviously capable, people.  I fought hard to gain some leverage against his steel grip, attempting to pry his hands away.  My only thought was for Lissie, who was struggling wildly even as I punched the cloaked man viciously.

He dropped her quickly - too quickly, and carefully, really, to have been any of my doing, but I continued to batter at him.  He grabbed both wrists with one hand and held up my face with the other.  Without surprise I realized it was Flute.  He stared at me in shock, and I back at him.  In the excitement, his hood had fallen back, and it revealed a face so scarred, so wounded, full of so much history and unspeakable horrors and torture I could cry.

"She pulled a knife," he explained hoarsely.  "She pulled a knife, and I thought...I thought..." he dropped me quickly, ashamedly, and started to reach out to touch Lissie, my Lissie, but before he could he was hauled back by Angel.  By now, all the men in the village had gathered with their weapons, and many women too, armed with kitchen knives and broom handles.

"You are not welcome here!" shrilled Eloise, her cry echoed by Myrcus and most of the village.  "Your kind were cursed by the Hunter for a reason, and should not bring the God's vengeance on us as well by pestering us!"  She pulled Lissie to her feet.  Luckily enough, she did not seem to be honestly hurt, only shocked.

"Leave now and never return to this place!" ordered Myrcus.  His voice had regained it's usual timber.  Surrounded by the angry-faced townspeople, at all the sound of Mrycus's command, I would have fled with my tail low between my legs.  But then, I was hardly the warrior any of these men were.  But still, the chances seemed slim of them getting away without at least one of their kind killed.  Crow and Dust, looking resigned, turned to mount their noble steeds, and Flute stood still with a stricken expression on his broken face, but Angel stepped forward.  This surprised me - he seemed the most calm to me, the most level-headed, and judging by his slight stature, not the most skilled in a fight.  But he was the one to rip his shoulder from Crow's cautious hand.

"Please," he begged.  "As Crow said, we have travelled a long ways - from beyond the furthest mountain, beyond the setting sun, even.  And this woman..." he trailed off, casting his eyes to the side to look at the last rider, crumpled on the ground.  This close, I could see her dusky skin was even more scarred than Crows, especially around the neck.  She was dressed in head to toe in black, the marks of two or three dozen knives, easy, showing under the fabric.  A flame was branded onto her forehead, and it looked like she'd tried to cut it out at some point - thick scars traced the brand.  I looked back up at Angel, who was still studying the woman.  "She is more important than us all," he finished quietly.

When no one jumped forward to attack him right off, he gained confidence.  Turning towards where Eloise clutched Lissie, he said, "She was been poisoned by the Giving Serpent the first night of harvest.  Though the sacrifice was made -" he paused long enough to show how uncomfortable he was with the fact an innocent must have been slain for her to have survived this long "- she has been growing weaker.  You are Goddess trained, and you, Goddess born," he nodded to Lissie.  Dropping to his knees, head bowed forward, he whispered, "I beg of you to take my life, any of ours, if you would only save hers."

You could hear the cows baying in the far background, angry at being forgotten by their keepers.  The only other sound was Flute's heavy breathing and Angel's stifled sobs.  I was almost embarrassed for him when Eloise spoke, her voice cracked with age.  "I cannot guarantee the remedy will be able to be found here," she said slowly, stroking Lissie's hair absently.  Though the thought was completely inappropriate considering the circumstances I couldn't help but wish she were in my arms instead of her mother's.  There was another long silence.  "But if she means so much to you, to you all -" at this the three others nodded, affirming her statement "- then I will do my best.  I swear she will live for you to see Celasia, where you will find someone whose craft is better than mine."

"Thank you," gasped Angel, rising fluidly.  By now, the sun was warming the valley - it was still hot though late in the season.  "We will not forget this debt," he added, even as he reached up to undo the fastenings of the cloak.  His movements had caused his hood to fall away from his face, and even from the side where I stood, and my limited knowledge of these things, I knew Crow could never dream of being as handsome as this one.  He pulled free the strings of his cloak and it fell to the ground, and suddenly, every girl was able to tear their eyes away from his face to see an oddity as startling as Dragon, but where as she was sickening to look at, and so obviously dangerous you could almost cut yourself just thinking of those blades she carried, Angel's strangeness was beautiful to behold.  Heart-wrenching.  It was one of those moments that stand alone, that you tell your grandbabies on your knee, the kind the grand musicians write of.  Angel was dressed as simply as I for all the finery of his cloak and horse.  A plain sheath and the unadorned hilt of a sword hung at one hip; at the other, a purse not nearly so full at Crow's.  And behind him, fluttering ever so slightly in the breeze of the harvest season, were a pair of brilliant white wings unstained and untouched by the hardness that marked all five of the newcomers.  As I stared, I realized something - these two, the Dragon and the Angel, the darkness and the light, were not simply a Player's poem, or a story for my babies and theirs after that.  Somehow, I knew, that this was bigger than that.  Bigger than Lissie, or the uncommonly small harvest, or even the rumors of a war between the Moors and the Islands.  No.  This was destiny.

The five riders are the main characters of a fantasy story I have been writing about a Colosseum-type place where a sadistic emperor forces people with "Differents", such as these five, to fight each other to the death.  It told in third-person perspective, focusing on Dragon.  For this week's Three Word Wednesday, I decided to write a part of that story told from the view of an outsider.  This was really fun, although I think next week I will try to focus more on the actual words than just a story...

Ocean's Song

The sounds of the sea, of the waves rushing over rocks, was a sound I has grown up to.  It was my lullaby as an infant, the only constant in my ever changing world.  It seemed fitting that it would be the last thing I heard as my life ebbed away with the tide.

Salty water splashed up below me, close enough that if I had the strength, I would have been able to reach out and touch the affirming life-essence with long, slender fingers - they looked almost to be human now, their blue faerie glow dimmed to a sandy brown, the once scaled skin now as rough and worn as the hands of one of the washer women whose gossip carried from river to sea.  My ears, shortened and chapped by the wind, could still make out those faint whispers - a thousand conversations carried on the ocean like wind on a gull's wing.  Poetry, those words were to me.  My dry throat burned as I opened my cracked lips to croak out passable English, learned from the chatter of dolphins and the whisper of white foam as the splashed from land to sea.  "Peter," I crooned, like a mother to her baby, a thousand years of living being reborn in his name, his face, his touch.

I would never blame Peter for where I was now.  No, it was the moonlight, drying me out even as it coaxed the sea, my sea, my whole world, away from where my helpless body lay in the sand, chained the to beach by my own carelessness.  It was I who had left the safety of my own kind out of wanting to belong to him.  It was I who, driven by the madness reflected from the deep black of my eyes to the most taboo parts of the ocean, had risen from my frosted palace in order to feel the fire of his eyes on my skin once more.

Desperation filled me, overpowering the quiet resignation I'd found hours before, as the horizon flushed pale gold against the black night.  My beautiful tail had long since surrendered it's scales to the ebbing tide and the white skin beneath had been slowly crumbling into sand, slowly, slowly, slowly, but I would endure the pain of a thousand nights on this shore than die the death of the sun's rays.  I could already feel them, so weak the earliest riser would still be in nightclothes, crumbling my hair into ashes, baking the tattooed nape of my neck.  I struggled wildly, wriggling towards the ever elusive water, gasping in ragged breaths of air that smelled of home but tasted of death.  The sun crept closer, ever closer, as I fought to return to the home I'd scorned only hours before.  Higher and higher it rose until there was no escape.

"Peter," I choked out, the alien syllables still on my tongue as it too crumbled to sand.  The water finally swept in, sweeping up the word, pulling my last shred of consciousness back to the sea.

Inspired by Mermaid by Woodland

The Lyricist

She sat alone on the staircase, the keys click-clacking, her foot tip-tapping to an unheard beat.  Though it was late summer, and a hot one at that, she wore a long, thick knitted cardigan, it's sleeves bunched up to free her hands for typing.  Impatiently shoving too-long bangs back from a pretty face, she studied the screen intensely.  Director's cut: romance in Paris.  Balcony scenes, roses and speeches.  She paused, looked up, gazing at the ancient piano in front of her.  The evening's sunlight streamed in through the windows, bathing the dark wood, alighting the stained gold detail with a faerie glow.  Tell her you love her, wine on the terrace.  With emotion now!  Sunsets and beaches.  If she closed her eyes she could almost make out the strains of a song that eluded her grasp.  Duh, duh, dum...a short burst of laughter from behind startled her from the music.  Frustrated, she slammed a hand down on the keys, taking pleasure in the jumbled mess that followed neat rows of poetry.  She shifted position, leaning back against the railing, laptop balancing precariously on splayed out legs.  This story's been scripted and you know your lines.  Same old beginning, time after time.  Gotta follow the plot, gotta face the truth.  Somehow still wishing for a different ending with you.  The words sprang from buried emotion, long hidden but yet to be forgotten.  Unbidden, the boy's face rose in her mind, chasing all other thoughts from her head.  Tan, freckled skin, eyes as deep and blue and pure as rain...  Director's cut: confessions in London.  Rain on the sidewalk, nowhere to run.  The words flowed easily now, directed by a year of memories.  She leaned forward, intent on her work, oblivious to the bustle of the world around her.  Big Ben, Buckingham, guards in fur hats and - cue the symphony now - march along to thunder drums.  The chorus again, then a comma added, a word changed.  She frowned at the neat red squiggles framing every third word and impatiently clicked them into submission.  She thought back, sorting through memories of the last year.  She remembered her theatre teacher, explaining every part of a performance.  Triple threat act.  She remembered the boy, of his sweet words - sweet nothings, really.  No more looking back.  She remembered a different set of hands on a different set of keys, these ones gleaming black and white, of hands holding bow and instrument, crooning out a melody that hurt to remember, notes overlapping wildly to escape the cupboard they had been locked in for months.  Cacophony of symphony.  Curtain call, cue applause.  She remembered.  Director's cut: heartbreak in Rome.  Easier to be empty, so far from home.  Easier for us, when we are alone.  Dim the lights now.  C'mon baby, take us home.

She sat back and read the verses, again, then again.  Tugging the sleeves down to cover her hands, she pulled her cardigan closely around her.  The light bathing the room was now red, the sun nearly disappeared under the mountains.  It was quiet everywhere now; around her, and in her head.  Inhaling deeply, tasting the new carpet on the stairs and the eggs cooking around the corner, she read the song one last time before opening her email.  She copied it into the message box, then typed in a familiar address - the guitarist of the band she wrote for had been asking for another song for ages.  She hesitated, her fingers already poised over the keys - quickly, she entered an even more familiar address.  The boy's name alone had the power to pierce her heart, to cut her deeper than any knife could.  Before she had time to think it over she had clicked send.  The band's reply came quickly.  "Sweet!" she read, scanning over the words, reluctant to admit to herself they weren't from who she wanted.  "That's so real - real emotion.  Good stuff.  Thanks!"  The boy's reply came slower - slower, and slower still.  The waiting seemed to stop time, but still, the time never came when his name flashed on her screen again.  She waited, years it seemed, for the words she was afraid to read yet yearned to hear.  Words that never came.

This story's been scripted and you read your lines.  Same old beginning, time after time.  Should've followed the plot, should've faced the truth.  I knew better than to wish for a different ending with you.