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Tristraam_

11-25-2004, 09:26 PM

<DIV> This story takes place roughly in the year 5MA (Meta Apollumi – After the rending), but has many flashbacks to periods as early as 12PS (Protos Symfora – Before the rending). Dedicated to Laughing Allegra, because life isn't about the happy endings. It's about the sad ones, and what we take from them into the next story. I miss you still, sweet kitten. Resolution - An Ayr'Dal Novella I She kneels down before him, pressing her palm delicately against his frail chest. Her fingers trace lightly against his ribs, noticing their shocking prominence. Abruptly his breath hitches. Eyes clenching like fists, a rough, barking cough erupts from him as he heaves forward. Tiny flecks of blood spatter his companion, crimson stars shining against the ivory sky of her bodice as she crouches before him, patiently enduring the torrent. Slowly the coughing subsides, his head returning to the makeshift pillow she has created from her much-needed coat. His breathing comes low and ragged, each inhale a tiny battle in the war against the fever wracking his body. "He is leaving me," she thinks with heartsick certainty. There is something about those whose lives are ebbing away. Something between emotion and scent, like the memory of a fragrance. You could sense it - the tenuous touch of a finger scraping the back of your neck, and the feeling of it weighed against your shoulders like a woolen coat in the rain. Her hand slides up to his face, fingers brushing back his matted hair. He raises a trembling hand, grasping hers and pressing it against his breast. "Alethea," he croaks weakly between laboured breaths, "I am so sorry that you must see me like this. I would have your last memories of me be of my strength, not my weakness." She bows her head, kissing his hand gently. Sliding upward, her lips glide tenderly against his burning cheek. "Love is not jewellery and ball gowns," she whispers in his ear, "Fancy parties and moonlit walks by the sea, exotic flowers and sugar-sweet poetry." Nodding her head softly, she brushes her eyelashes against the fleshy tip of his earlobe. "Don't you see, Lanthaneis?" she chides, "Love is not seeing someone at their best. It is seeing someone at their worst, and still wanting them, no matter what the worst may be." Her voice catches in her throat, and she squeezes her eyes against a flood of sorrow that the greatest of dams could not impede. "And," she says silently, "it is seeing your lover dying, a pale wisp of what he should be. It is seeing his dishevelled, emaciated form and praying to the gods again and again for one more hour - just one more, because I am not ready to let go yet." Feeling the grip on her emotions beginning to fail, she pulls back from him, pressing her lips to his forehead before she rises. "Sleep now, love. We've not that far to go, but you will need your strength. I've the fire to tend." Wrapping her thin cloak tightly around her, she steps from the tent. A soft, bitter wind greets her, pulling the shelter's heat quickly from her body. She looks out across the snowy hills, her eyes searching for any hint of civilisation. She knew they could be no more than three days from their destination, and yet they had not come upon a single soul in weeks. She had hoped to encounter other travellers or, even better, a scouting party from the city - anyone who might have skills to heal her ailing lover. But they were alone. And she could not risk leaving him. It was down to his strength of will, her feeble knowledge of herbs, and prayer. She plucks up a few pieces of wood and carries them to the slowly fading remnants of the fire. Dropping them in a heap, Alethea slips to her knees. She takes up one of the smaller pieces and gathers the glowing coals into the centre of the pit. Absently, she reaches to her right and begins to place the branches one by one atop the ember pile, allowing the winter breeze to rekindle the blaze. At length she pauses, hovering another branch over the top of the fire. She takes the piece of wood in both hands. Knuckles white with tension, she slowly wrings it back and forth. Tiny shards of bark, stained crimson from her now lacerated hands, crumble between her fingers, speckling the snowy earth before her. With a strangled cry, she raises the branch above her head and stabs it cruelly into the icy soil. She draws it roughly from its earthy sheath, sending a spray of dirt and snow into the air. Again and again she strikes, cutting a deep trench in the permafrost and pouring into it all the anger and sorrow the cavernous well of her heart contains. There is a sudden snap as the branch cracks. She looks at it a moment, then falls exhausted onto her backside, letting the broken stake slip from her fingers and pulling her knees up to her chest. It could not be over. They had endured far too much for him to be pulled from her embrace now. Giving in to the fatigue, Alethea leans forward, staring into the burgeoning fire. The damp wood hisses and pops as the embers' heat seeps through it. She watches as flakes of glowing ash rise into the night and wink out, like dying stars. The aseptic fragrance of pine wafts into her nostrils, sparking a strange nostalgia. Her eyes grow cloudy. A warm trance of memory envelops her. Old sounds slip through her ears; the noisy shuffle of a marketplace, merchants calling out their wares. The narcotic scent of exotic spices and roasting meats intermingled with the pungent closeness of a bustling crowd; Long-forgotten smells tickling her nose. She blinks lazily at the moisture gathering in her eyes as the aromatic smoke of the fire surrounds her. Her head lolls forward lazily, surrendering to the dream-state. The years peel away from her mind like the skin from an orange. The sounds grow more distinct, echoing through her ears. The myriad of scent magnifies into tastes, assaulting her senses. A wild sense of spinning engulfs her. Raising her hands to her face, she rubs her fingers across her eyelids in an attempt to drive away the vertigo. Gradually the dizziness fades, until all that remains is a dull throbbing in the back of her throat. Alethea lowers her hands. Her eyes flitter open, and she gasps suddenly. Somehow, impossibly, she was home. --continued--</DIV>Message Edited by Tristraam_EQ on 11-25-2004 08:29 AM

Tristraam_

11-25-2004, 09:31 PM

<DIV> II Alethea blinks in confusion. The camp was gone. So were the hills. She glances about, trying to make sense of the scene before her. She is standing in the middle of a market square. Around her, busy as ants, people jostle to and fro. To her left comes a piercing wail. She turns to see a Fier'Dal woman nursing a small child, his knees scraped and bleeding where he has fallen. The dust-covered remains of an ice-lolly lay melting by his feet. Her vision blurs suddenly as an object is thrust in her face. "Fancy an Underfoot Pasty, treacle? Two for the price of one, three for a quilver! (1)" bubbles a portly, bespectacled halfling female, hovering the greasy morsel in front of Alethea's face. Waving dismissively at the old peddler, she mutters, "Thank you, no..." and stops abruptly. Something about the woman catches her. The halfling woman. Either she was the tallest halfling Alethea had ever seen, or... The pasty-seller begins to turn away, looking for another potential customer. Frantically, Alethea grabs the merchant by the shoulders, spinning her back around. She leans in close, peering at the twin reflections in the old woman's glasses. Two figures stare back at her, confused expressions on their tiny faces. The startled merchant peers at her warily a moment. Recovering her composure, she smiles at the young girl, "Change your mind, poppin?" "That's not me!" Althea whispers in panic. And yet... there is something familiar about the diminutive doppelgangers. Squinting her eyes, she leans in closer, entranced. A sudden series of explosions brings her out of the bewilderment. Tearing her gaze away, she looks up to see three gnomes, huddled on the back of an ox cart. They chitter away excitedly, their powder-burned faces glowing as they struggle to erect a giant rocket. Two of the gnomes hold the ponderous projectile steady while the third, a look of mischievous joy on his face, holds a torch beneath it. There is a sudden roar and a shower of sparks as it launches, ejecting the gnomes from the cart with a loud "whoosh!" The missile zips upward, its smoky trail cutting a path through the sky. A moment later there is a huge eruption as the rocket detonates into bloom, showering a colourful conflagration over the marketplace. The gnomes, patting away the rash of tiny fires that have broken out over their clothing, trot back to the cart, giggling perniciously. "Fireworks!" Alethea blurts, "there haven't been gnomish fireworks in the Fay (2) since..." She puzzles a moment, her mind racing in recollection. Looking around, her fingers stroke her cheek absently as she takes in her surroundings. She turns back to the halfing, her eyes widening in epiphany. "I remember this day!" she breathes, grasping the woman's arm, "I'm twelve years old. Mother's sent me to buy vegetables!" "That's nice dear," says the old merchant, nervously patting Alethea's hand, her eyes searching for a means of escape. She shakes her head. A cold wave of vision slips over her: snowy hills, a tent, the glow of a campfire. And then it is gone. Releasing the struggling woman from her grasp, she scans the market, searching for the vegetable-mongers. Her voice changes slightly as she turns to leave. "I must get going. Mother will be most upset if I'm late. She's having a dinner party tonight, with important guests!" she says, her speech comes in the melodic trill of a child. The merchant, regaining some of her commercial expertise, holds up the pasty, "Plenty of veg in these, love. Why, your mum'll thank you for bringing home such a tasty..." Ignoring the woman's half-hearted sales pitch, Alethea pulls the hood of her cloak back over her head and slips into the crowd, working her way towards one of the fruit and vegetable stands. The halfing watches Alethea disappear into the thick forest of bodies. "Elves," she mutters, shaking her head. Spotting a group of rather podgy humans, she quickly tests her merchant's smile. Satisfied that it is sufficiently cheerful, she scampers after them, pasties at the ready. (1) A quilver is four silver pieces in Fay-speak, the sylvan dialect spoken in the area surrounding the village of Del'Sance. The area is far from affluent, and gold is the largest denomination that most folk see. Silver is by far the most used coinage, and has thus gained its namings. The count goes one silver, twilver, trilver, quilver, half gold, helver, swelver, olver, nolver, one gold. (2) The Fay is what the locals call their region of the Faydark, which lies approximately three days' ride from the capital of Felwithe. It is a rural community, comprised of mostly hamlets and farms. The tiny village of Del'Sance lies in the centre of the area, and acts as the gathering place for farmers and traders to sell their wares. </DIV>

Tristraam_

11-25-2004, 09:34 PM

III At the northwest corner of the square stands a large but extremely ragged and weatherworn tent. Despite its shabby appearance, and its off-the-beaten-path location, this ancient and patchwork marquee is still surrounded by a huge mob of patrons. The other produce vendors look on jealously from their elaborate stalls as dozens of eager shoppers huddle anxiously around it, vying for the attention of the manager. This stall had been selling fruit and vegetables for years out of memory. The owner had inherited it from his father, and his father before him, and so on. It was such a fixture of the market that even the elves, whose lives and memories were long, could scarcely remember a time when the Tillswain's shop had not been there. "All right, all right! One at 'time now. I'year ya just fine!" growls the stall-keep, a grizzled but kindly old human. His name is Bolger Tillswain, and his earthy appearance fits well with the décor around him. His family have been farming this land for generations, and selling their crops for nearly as long. They were Fay-folk through and through, and this was the reason for their popularity. Bolger made it a point to know every one of his customers and their families by name. His father had always said a friendly word tasted far better than the juiciest peach, and the Tillswains have lived by this code since time out of memory. Sometimes business sense was just common sense. "Ned, yer sod! Get up here! There's customers t'serve. Bring some melons with yeh too!" he shouts behind him. Turning back to the crowd, he says, "Now then, Missus Del'yer, that was half a stone of taters an two dozen carrot? That'll be one gold, twilver, if yeh please." A muffled clatter comes from the back of the tent. Through the rear entrance bursts the gangling form of young boy, a large crate of dew-melons in his hands. His foot catches on a tent peg, sending him toppling forward. The crate hits the ground with crash, sending a wave of melons rolling across the tent floor. "Oi, yeh daft bugger! Them's comin' out yer wages," shouts Bolger, "If'n yeh weren't my grandson I would'er sacked yeh long ago." The younger Tillswain begins collecting up the melons hastily, his eyes avoiding the gaze of his grandfather. "Sorry, Gran'da, I.... Oops!" he squeaks as a melon slips from his fingers and bursts on the hard earth, spraying a fleshy cascade of fruit-shrapnel into the air. "Gah! Leave 'em already, Ned. We'll gather em up later. Take care of Missus Hillock here," he says, turning to smile at a middle-aged human. Ned shuffles over to the woman, sparing a last fearful glance between the remains of the melon and the back of his grandfather's head. The elder Tillswain, ignoring his grandson for the moment, turns to another customer, "Hallo Mister Thatcher! What can we get for yeh today?" IV The mad flow of customers continues throughout the morning. By the time they close for midday meal the Tillswains, both elder and younger, are panting with exhaustion. Falling into a chair, Bolger heaves a sigh. He props his legs up on an empty crate and plucks an apple from the nearby pile. Polishing it against his chest, he leans back and closes his eyes. "I'm gettin too old fer this, Ned. These ol' bones jes can't keep up like they used teh." The young Tillswain looks up in alarm, "Yeh can't leave me teh do all this alone, Gran'da! Look at this mess," he says, waving his hand at the shattered remains of the melon. Turning to his grandson, Bolger gives him a wry grin, "Yeh may be a bit clumsy, but ye'r still a Tillswain at heart. Yer Nan an' me raised yer best we could, an' you'll do fine when the time comes." "Besides," he says, taking a bite from the apple, "I ent gone yet! I've still a season or two left in me." A tiny "ahem!" interrupts their conversation. Rising from his chair, the old man peers over the top of the stall, "Who's that then?" "Good afternoon, Mr. Tillswain," calls a soft voice. Looking down, he sees a small figure standing there, identity hidden behind the veil of a cloak. "How can I 'elp you miss...?" he prompts. "It's me, Mister Tillswain... Alethea." "Why 'ello ther Alethea," he says in surprise, "We've not seen you round in quite some while! Why're you wearin that cloak? It's ruddy hot ter'day. Have it off then, so we can have a look at yeh." "Oh no!" Alethea replies in shock, "Mother says not to take off my cloak in town. It's for protection. No one can recognise me like this." "Pish posh!" grunts the old man dismissively, "why'd anyone want teh harm yeh?" "Not me - Mother. She says it'd be dangerous for anyone to recognise me. If they knew I was her daughter there could be trouble," says the girl, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Nonsense! We known yeh since you were knee high to a grasshopper. If'n yeh can't trust old Tillswain, who can yeh?" The girl considers this a moment. "I guess it'd be ok for you then," she says finally, "but don't tell mother!" She removes her hood, and old Borger Tilswain feels his breath catch. He blinks to ensure that his sight hasn’t finally gone round the bend. His eyes weren't what they used to be. After 93 years of closely scrutinising crops for the slightest sign of imperfection, it's not surprising that his vision is suffering a bit. The face beneath the cloak made him thank Tunare that his sight hadn’t left him completely. Some people go their entire lives without a glimpse of perfection. Scanning through his mental dictionary, it doesn’t take long to find the word that best describes the young girl standing before him. Angelic. From the twisted curls of her raven hair to her shockingly green eyes – as though nature had lent some of her own essence to them. And, while still a child, he could see the woman she was becoming and he knew that very soon no heart in the world would be safe. "Why Alethea Ilen'thre. I do believe you are the most beautiful girl these old eyes have ever had the fortune of seeing. More lovely than the apple blossoms in springtime, I'd say. Close yer mouth Ned." Alethea smiles shyly, feeling her face warm. Bolger gives her a small wink and, seeing her embarrassment, changes the subject. "So what can we do fer yeh on this fine day, Alethea?" Remembering why she was there, she reaches into her cloak with an, "oh!" and pulls out a tattered note. "Mother is having a dinner party tonight, and she sent me along for supplies. She's ever so busy at the moment trying to get the house ready for our guests. Important guests!" she says, handing the shopping list over to the old man. "Let's see here... Couple these are a bit rare for the Fay, but I think we have all yeh need. Ned, " he says, handing the note to his grandson, "see if'n yeh can get all this packed up 'en ready for our young mistress here, eh?" The younger Tillswain struts off to collect the order, doing his best to look suave. He stumbles over a crate of cabbage as he turns to have one more look at the young half elf. "And how is yer Mam doin these days, Alethea?" says Bolger, smiling and shaking his head at his grandson. Turning back to the young girl, he adds, "Haven't seen her round in quite a long time either." "Alright, I think. She still misses Lorem a lot. I can hear her crying in her room sometimes." she says in a quiet voice, adding, "I miss him too." Nodding solemnly, Bolger gives her a warm smile, "He were a good boy, yer brother. All the Fay misses him." Bolger remembered the lad very well. Lorem was Alethea's half brother. Unlike Alethea, he was full Koada'Dal, but this didn't change anything. Despite the human in her, and the sizable difference in their ages (he was 40 years her senior), he had still treated her like his sister. Unlike others in there family. Following in his father's footsteps, Lorem had joined the guard. His mother had been very proud of him, as she had told the old shopkeeper on several occasions. She didn't seem to mention Alethea quite as much, he noted. Just over a year ago, the young (for an elf) warrior and his patrol had happened upon a human farmstead being raided by orcs. The troop had managed to drive the invaders off, but Lorem had fallen during the battle, the victim of an orcish arrow. "I used to love playing with him," Alethea whispers sadly, "I would pretend I was a warrior like he was, and we would duel in the garden with wooden swords. He was a good brother." Seeing the young girl's eyes welling up, Bolger turns the conversation back to the present. It didn't do to dwell in the past. "So who're these guests of yers, if'n yeh don't mind an old man's pryin." "Lord and lady Brol'arn," she says, pulling back from the edge of tears. "Ooo err!" says old Tillswain, his eyes widening in surprise, "I 'yerd a' them, I'yav. Them's fancy folk up Brenwold way, ent they?" Hearing about nobles always made his rustic accent thicken. Probably out of spite. He didn't know much past farming, and even less about the goings on outside the Fay, but these were practically royalty, from his point of view. The Brol'arn family were quite influential, from what he knew, and held the deeds to several farms in the area. (3) He also seemed to remember that they had a son only a few years older than Alethea. His wonderings are interrupted as Ned appears from the back with a large sack of vegetables. "Ah, here we are. That's a big load, lovely. Would yeh like Ned yer carry it for yeh?" Ned looks up with a smile, "I'd be happy ter do it!" he says, a bit too quickly. "That's alright. I can manage it, and its not that far to walk," says Alethea. "Well if'n you're sure then, that'll be, let's see... three gold, swelver, If'n yeh please." Reaching into her cloak, Alethea pulls out a small purse. She reaches into it and produces a small handful of coins. Selecting a few, she hands them over to the old farmer. She give them a delicate curtsy, then lifts the sack over her shoulder. "Thank you very much, Mister Tillswain. I'll tell mother you asked on her. Have a good day!" "Good afternoon, Alethea. Tunare watch over yeh," he says, bowing to the young girl. Watching the young elfling depart, he mutters to himself, "And good luck to you, Missus Ilen'thre, if yeh think yeh can sell off that one so easily. She's young, but she's a fire in her. Ye'll have a time gettin' that one to do an'thin she don't want to." Smiling, he sits back in his chair and takes up the remains of his apple. Taking a bite, he thinks, "she's too much of her father in her to fall fer your scheming." --continued--