Post by Judas D'arc on Nov 27, 2013 11:20:27 GMT -5
He walked alone. Footprints dancing through blankets of snow. Vague impressions soon to vanish. An early morning wandering through the forest lands between Vesper and Minoc, with no purpose except the promise of distraction from the despair of an empty bed and a sleepless night. The myriad of thoughts that plagued him -- which was more often as of late than not -- of friends dead or gone, of a kingdom and its endless troubles, of the little trading company that barely could.
All of these, and Jolicia most of all.
A lost love was not an unfamiliar sentiment for the bard called Judas D'arc, yet never had he lost love for reasons such as this. Most often, it was death or the timing of circumstance. Sometimes even the indifference that came from the fading of that initial spark. Yet none of these were at work here. His passion for the woman that he had spent nearly two of his thirty years had never lapsed; it was their differences that became too much. While the dark-haired mage struggled to see the good in things, the fair-haired mage seemed to uncover the worst. For Judas, survival was always secondary; but for Jolicia, it was always worth the cost. And the bard's choices consistently brought this to light. A path he could not abandon, not even for her.
As he stumbled further into the woods, the cold of late autumn somehow penetrating his layers of clothing, Judas quietly recited the first verse of a song both old and favored:
Young woman share your fire with me;
My heart is cold, my soul is free;
I am a stranger in your land;
A wandering man, call me sand.
Had he truly lived thirty years already? He quickly marked the days and realized that indeed, the anniversary of his birth had just passed, unnoticed and uncelebrated. Or at least that was the date used to commemorate the occasion; the only one who knew for certain was the mother he had never encountered. The single fact about her that could be claimed with any certainty was her womanhood, and that he had once traveled down the canal between her thighs tumbled out into the world of Sosaria. A bloody mess, the bard imagined, and that also seemed an accurate description of the life that followed.
A second verse played from his memories:
Oh sir my fire is very small;
It will not warm thy heart at all;
But thee may take me by the hand;
Hold me and I'll call thee sand.
But for Judas, there was no warmth waiting. No sand either, only snow and dying leaves. He struggled to recall what Brother Finlay, a monk of Empath Abbey responsible for raising orphans and foundlings, had taught about the seasons and their ever-changing natures. However, he could scarcely remember the lessons, only that his upbringing at the Keep of Love was something he never appreciated until years later. The bard wanted the same for Elendome, but she could only hate him for it. Judas missed Brother Finlay. And Claudia. And Stower. And Cubbins. And Shelley. And Paine. And Aingeal. And all the others he had lost in recent years. Mostly though, he missed Jolicia. The rest were dead, nothing could be done. She was not, and nothing could be done about that either.
A third verse, quite different than the first:
At night when stars light up the sky;
Oh sir I dream my fire is high;
Oh taste these lips sir if you can;
Wandering man, I call thee sand.
He walked alone. Footprints dancing through blankets of snow. Vague impressions soon to vanish. An early morning wandering through the forest lands between Vesper and Minoc, with no purpose except the promise of distraction from the despair of an empty bed and a sleepless night. The myriad of thoughts that plagued him -- which was more often than not as of late -- of present friends, of a kingdom that would survive, and of the little trading company that eventually would.
All of these, and solitude most of all.
********
Note: All italicized portions of the above liberally adapted and stolen from Sand by Lee Hazelwood.
All of these, and Jolicia most of all.
A lost love was not an unfamiliar sentiment for the bard called Judas D'arc, yet never had he lost love for reasons such as this. Most often, it was death or the timing of circumstance. Sometimes even the indifference that came from the fading of that initial spark. Yet none of these were at work here. His passion for the woman that he had spent nearly two of his thirty years had never lapsed; it was their differences that became too much. While the dark-haired mage struggled to see the good in things, the fair-haired mage seemed to uncover the worst. For Judas, survival was always secondary; but for Jolicia, it was always worth the cost. And the bard's choices consistently brought this to light. A path he could not abandon, not even for her.
As he stumbled further into the woods, the cold of late autumn somehow penetrating his layers of clothing, Judas quietly recited the first verse of a song both old and favored:
Young woman share your fire with me;
My heart is cold, my soul is free;
I am a stranger in your land;
A wandering man, call me sand.
Had he truly lived thirty years already? He quickly marked the days and realized that indeed, the anniversary of his birth had just passed, unnoticed and uncelebrated. Or at least that was the date used to commemorate the occasion; the only one who knew for certain was the mother he had never encountered. The single fact about her that could be claimed with any certainty was her womanhood, and that he had once traveled down the canal between her thighs tumbled out into the world of Sosaria. A bloody mess, the bard imagined, and that also seemed an accurate description of the life that followed.
A second verse played from his memories:
Oh sir my fire is very small;
It will not warm thy heart at all;
But thee may take me by the hand;
Hold me and I'll call thee sand.
But for Judas, there was no warmth waiting. No sand either, only snow and dying leaves. He struggled to recall what Brother Finlay, a monk of Empath Abbey responsible for raising orphans and foundlings, had taught about the seasons and their ever-changing natures. However, he could scarcely remember the lessons, only that his upbringing at the Keep of Love was something he never appreciated until years later. The bard wanted the same for Elendome, but she could only hate him for it. Judas missed Brother Finlay. And Claudia. And Stower. And Cubbins. And Shelley. And Paine. And Aingeal. And all the others he had lost in recent years. Mostly though, he missed Jolicia. The rest were dead, nothing could be done. She was not, and nothing could be done about that either.
A third verse, quite different than the first:
At night when stars light up the sky;
Oh sir I dream my fire is high;
Oh taste these lips sir if you can;
Wandering man, I call thee sand.
He walked alone. Footprints dancing through blankets of snow. Vague impressions soon to vanish. An early morning wandering through the forest lands between Vesper and Minoc, with no purpose except the promise of distraction from the despair of an empty bed and a sleepless night. The myriad of thoughts that plagued him -- which was more often than not as of late -- of present friends, of a kingdom that would survive, and of the little trading company that eventually would.
All of these, and solitude most of all.
********
Note: All italicized portions of the above liberally adapted and stolen from Sand by Lee Hazelwood.