No Joy Apart from Him

O, God...
You give such joy. There is no joy apart from you, because anything apart has refused some part of your goodness and is not whole.

When your face turns on us, the sun brightens, breezes live among the trees, leaves shiver at your touch and everything basks in the tender hand that made them. There are no words, suddenly, because words do not describe the connection of your eyes to ours, the stirring of your breath as you sigh on the trees; we cannot speak or we ruin the connection. It is something beyond words, beyond the mouth and deep in the heart and eyes.

I find myself chasing beauty, hungering for perfection and seizing the first image floating by. You have created all these, though: what is there to worship but You? We are beneficiaries of your talent, your fingers precise with each crooked twig. Waves lash, mountains mast, lightning blasts at your word: please God, tell me, how beauty can be so cruel?

Stray trees crush humble dwellers, icons of beauty tremble and lash out with abandon; we who worship them are smashed beneath the falling idol. Places of glory turn rancorous in on themselves, as you the artist destroy spectators with the piece. Why is this so? Do you loathe when we lift the art above the artist, seeking to place it as our God?

Help us, lead us to glorify you and enjoy your art while loving you apart from it. Give us joy to live among beauty, to lay in green pastures and walk beside quiet waters, but let that joy and love remain when beauty is stripped away. Give us joy to follow you in the valley, too.

Calmed by Shadow

Quiet summer nights. Slipping cool curtains over the grass.
Feeling heated and urgent after a day of to-do's, I fall to the feet of the weeds, sinking gloves into brambles; they gnash their thorns. The pain only spurs me, and I drag out bramble after clutching bramble, feeling the rip as their long bodies resist, scratching through undergrowth and holding on tooth and briar. Finally the last dragon is pulled from its weedy lair, and I sit back Conqueror, quieted at the sight of a peaceful garden. Lovely fire lights the crowns of the trees, but only for a minute, slipping away as gold clouds cover the sun. Shadows slip like curtains, birds draw theirs and whistle their last contentment, leaving
a quiet       summer        night.

Lost Soul

Purity. Purity is a lost soul in this world. She gave us beauty, and we seized it, ripped off its gossamer garment and gave it a leather crotch. While she cried, over her child naked, alone and dazzled by the lights from a thousand stages, we mocked her pain and demanded more. Beauty wasn't exciting enough anymore, and she had grown old and unmanageable.
So Purity groaned and reminded us that passion was still alive, in the dusty corners of the earth. We discovered it, remembered the sweetness it brought before it was bound and locked away, and let it out, encouraging it to grow and flourish. Passion beamed, relieved to be set free, and rode the wind of our desires, flitting here and there by our guiding hand. When storms of lust or ravenous attraction descended on passion, however, we abandoned it to the wind and let go entirely, blissful in the knowledge that if we desired something with passion, it must be allowed. And Purity watched, horrified, as we let passion be dashed by our emotions, and we spat at her if she ever objected in giving us whatever we desired.
But we still wanted something, something was missing, so Purity choked up the last of her posterity, a child with eyes clear and quiet. We took one look at innocence, saw her soul and pureness in one glance, and threw her into the Past where she belonged. We scoffed at her limited wisdom, deemed it unrealistic and ridiculous, and hoped she would grow up someday and step into the real world. We knew how vapid a life would be without disorders, frenzy, violence and hatred, so we jeered her desire for normalcy and morality into the ground. We need to accept everyone as they are, we declared. Take your self-righteousness and go torture someone else. But she didn't change, she kept waiting for us to listen. She asked us if we wanted to live the right way, we said furiously, There IS NO RIGHT WAY! and drove a stake through her, hoping she would be silenced for good.
Whispers come now and then from all of these, but we close our ears, listen to our heart. We never hear Purity, though, because she does not live in our heart. She is a lost soul in this world.

Earth-bound

Merciless tragedy
We are... graceful distortions
And angels with clipped wings--
Flying through this night on earth,
Waking up no further with the morning.

Florence in July

July 14, 2013

    It was so hot today. Walking through the Florencian heat for three hours with no water, I got a little heatsick, and felt like I was going to faint. I'm sure I was jolly company for my mother and sister, at that point... We went through the gardens, which were nice but no flowers, and then stopped by a boutique and market on the way back. An ice-cold apple has never been so good, and then I had some "limone" gelato which was ecstasy. Then we all layed down at the place for a while, gathering our strength. Octopus and pasta for lunch, biscotti and milk for dessert.
    I suppose I should talk about something other than food. We have to keep filling the AC, otherwise it burns out if there isn't any water in it. We're all getting tanner, little by little, and I feel like our legs are very strong from walking around so much. \no handsome Italians have taken us off on their vespas yet, but Ellen did get a wolf whistle today (she was wearing a crop top). I saw a very handsome Italian who served me gelato today; he smiled at me and dropped my cup (who knows what that means).
    It's strange to see dogs peeing right on the sidewalk, but there isn't any grass. People also pee on the sidewalk, probably because public washrooms cost money. There can be very foul wafts of smells in Florence, sometimes rotten eggs and sometimes excrement, but the houses and buildings are still so beautiful. I cannot pin down the city, cannot understand its many ways, which probably makes sense~it just has many ways because it has many people. And yet it is also so much the same~the same types of faces, the same cigarettes, the same heat and food, and the same peddlars hawking their wares hopefully and doggedly each day. Does no one get tired of it?
    And yet, I'm not tired. We leave day after tomorrow and I'm still intrigued. I guess that's how it should be.

Lopez lyric

Black sharp against the pearl of twilight

A heron wading, knee-deep in sheen;

Starlight breaks through a canvas shining,

Drops light like a tear on water clean.

What did I find

        Five days on Lopez island.... I feel slower, stretched out in a comfortable way. Even the clocks in the house where we stayed were all an hour late, and time seemed to slow down to oblige us all. Morning fog, quenched by a hot sun bringing the fish and bugs alive, followed by twilight's soft cloak and a stirring moon.
        The last day of our stay, I kayaked along the rough-rocked shore, encountering jellyfish, starfish, kingfishers and the occasional human. At one point, I saw a distant slick head appear, look about and then slide beneath the surface: funny how seals are so sweet-looking until they could possibly come up underneath your small craft and capsize it. A small curve of beach appeared, and I pulled up along the rocks so I could drag the kayak further up; the waves and barnacles were not helping at that point, but I managed. Out of the top of my lifejacket, my book was protruding, reminding me that I had stowed it away intending to read it on some reclusive shore. I read probably three paragraphs, of course, before I was distracted from Finding God by the massive pile of slate rocks behind me. Somewhere inside of me I was inspired by an urge to start moving rocks, to look for the bottom of the pile and whatever lay down there, covered with moss and algae. I don't know what I was looking for, or even expected, but I began industriously throwing rocks left and right, pounding out a rhythm of slate knocking against slate, and the pile shrank. Then, it appeared: a giant rock with a wide flat bottom sitting like a slug, completely immovable and non-negotiable and quite depressing if you are trying to get beneath it. Sweaty and determined, I began shoveling out sediment and pebbles from under the front and removed several small, burgundy crabs from their impending doom. At last I gave a great heave at the rock and probably a hernia to my midsection, but it began moving: like a limpet from its suction hold, it was pried from its home and I saw beneath it.... nothing. I kept digging with a sharp piece of slate, through pebbles, muck and dead crab shells, and as I hit the hard rock of the island itself I realized that I had found strength, something that cannot be given or bought, but fought for and achieved. My perseverance had paid off, and it isn't something I can explain to anyone but something inside which is different from before.

Driven

This thought that we're never enough...

There is a little voice deep inside, urging us to do better, to deserve our grace, to deserve everything....
And then we find out one day that we can always do better. Always.
       And then, from there, we find out we can always be better than we are, and that's when it begins. A tumultuous whirlpool of trying, striving, hoping, slaving and we just want to come up to breathe but then we remember, what doesn't kill me makes me stronger, and so we keep fighting our way, swallowing water until our throats hurt and we can't think clearly anymore. We want to be the best, the best we can be, and of course, we can always be better... When God says, Stop. and the world stops spinning.

He says, "You don't have to live up to your full potential all the time, because you can't.
You may think you're worthless unless you're working, but my Word says REST.
Worship is not a reflection on your holiness, but Mine.
If you cannot be holy, lay down your torch and let me shine.
Don't push away the gifts that come because you feel unworthy to deserve--
Take them please because I'm trying to GIVE.
If your courage fails and your strength is dying,
Come to the one who roars strength like a lion.
Above all, don't hate yourself for things you can't do,
You couldn't save yourself, so I sent my son to save you.
You are precious, not because you buff my image til it shines,
But because you are designed piece by piece by peace of mine."

Then comes the letting go, with a sigh that moves mountains,
No striving is as powerful as peace: Truth makes unnecessary the lie,
We are free, no more whips of Pride...

Are You Listening?

We are humanity. Right? 

Maybe I'm just old-fashioned, or an idealist, or maybe I don't know enough about life, but I wish humanity agreed this is not the best we can do.
Maybe I want my head in the clouds. 
Maybe I prefer to be a little clueless. 
Maybe that's how I would rather think, that we are ships built for a wider and sweeter ocean than this.
Maybe I don't believe in just the world that's right in front of me--a pale shadow of neon-lighted signs and places of pleasure as far as the eye can see.
I believe there is greater pleasure, purpose, meaning than what our eyes just want to tell us.
And that is confidence to keep hoping.
Because if there is anything I want most, it's something that is bigger than what I already know. 
More intense than I can imagine. 
More beautiful than anything my eyes can seize on this earth.
So when people say we've reached our potential, we've come to the greatest era of mankind, or that the world has never been better, I have to pause. 
Overall world hunger may have gone down.
Extreme poverty may be waning in several continents. 
We are enough for each other and we make this earth enough for us. 
But even with all the check-marks checked in this hungry world, even if everything were perfectly planned and executed and aligned and sweetened, I still wait for something.
Something outside of myself, yet near as the heart-beat of the person next to me.
Am I the only one, or is the rest of humanity listening for the heart-beat as well?
Please tell me I am not alone.

Beauty is Truth

Sometimes I can feel things of beauty so much better than I can explain them... words are not always sufficient for the depth that one needs to share an experience with someone else.

        Of course, there is always drawing and painting--both are so entirely different yet complementary to writing that sometimes it's the only way I can truly release a thought. It's best to save drawing for a time when you can't satisfy your creative state with words; then it flows and feels constructive. I have heard that a picture's worth a thousand words, and sometimes, I have to admit to the truth in that.

        Why is it that I always try to explain and describe everything? I had a friend say to me the other day that he spent much of his life trying to find a formulaic explanation for it, a sort of reason for why everything exists the way it does. But he found that after a while, the art of explaining everything got so tiring that much of the joy was taken out of things that can't be argued into rationality, like beauty, and relationships.
         The fact is, some things cannot be said: but that doesn't make them any less important and wonderful. Most of the things I can't explain are beautiful, sacred, solemn in a sense: I shouldn't soil them with my harried attempts at proving their worth through speaking or writing. They are above me, are something which can be enjoyed, loved, even tangibly felt at times, but are not captive by my descriptions of them. Undefinable, yet purely real....

          On that note, I shall say no more, and leave your imaginations to find the rest.

Paradigm Shifts

        A friend and I the other day were trying to think of the last time we were absolutely carefree--we almost couldn't remember such a time and were kind of amazed that it had existed. My threshold started at age twelve: I feel like I grew up a lot my thirteenth and fourteenth years, and left a lot of innocent little-girlishness behind me. It's incredible how learning of one event, one change in the life of someone close to you can change your life, your outlook on what is important and prioritized.
        Dreams which had once seemed so entrancing and all-encompassing were replaced by more realistic ones, beliefs in invincibility of those I loved were shattered, and my view of earthly things was altered: materiality equals temporary. We must protect our material bodies, finances, experiences, because we only get them once. How did a carefree child get all this in a matter of months? 
        Life can be seen as a steady upward slope, a series of roller-coaster up-and-downs, or any number of other strict picture diagrams, but someone once described the progression of life as a shaky, primarily horizontal line, that now and then comes unpredictably to experiences and paradigm shifts which cause it to suddenly jump up a notch. This is how I see life; although, sometimes jumping up a notch doesn't necessarily mean your life has gotten better. Usually, it just means it has gotten more complicated. When I look back and realize I can never really go back, I am sad in a way, but even more so amazed at what I have become without even trying. If I could go back, I don't think I would: is that bad?

The Furthest Mountain

            Something in me always wants to get to the furthest mountain-top, the peak beckoning with fresh slopes shining pink in the sun. And then, if you squint carefully, there is one even beyond that, retreating duskily into the mist; they are silent, hooded, but always there, always reminders of the places I have never gone. If I could reach the furthest one, could stand wind-whipped on the highest thrust of rock on the other side of what I know, would that be far enough? Would I have crossed the threshold, passed through the portal to mystery and adventure, or would there be another peak, just beyond my gaze? Even if the last and highest mountain were put behind me, there would always be something else, causing me to follow the staircase, winding, mounting, toward something which I can’t even explain, but which leads my feet as clearly as if they were tied with strings.

            Can you long for something you’ve never seen, can’t fully imagine? Can your questing be led to places never known to you, even when you’re not sure that they exist after all? I long for the last stair on the staircase, just beyond the highest peak… If I were a bird, I would probably fly too high, and get frozen by glacial winds; but then the mountains below would no longer beckon, only sit. Perhaps I would move on to the tossed palatial clouds, following the sun as it rolls on behind each floating mountain…

Black as Ebony

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Snow fell softly, feathering a cold silvery wood and softening the spires of a stone castle; all was quiet and still- even the streams were frozen and made no utterance. Herds of famished deer roamed the plains, searching for some scrap of foliage to satisfy their hunger, and the sun hung numbly in the sky, like a polished, glinting pearl.

            A face was framed in the ebony wood of a window in the castle, a face so beautiful it took one’s breath away: but it was not enhanced by any false coloring of any kind, nor was it daringly handsome. Bedewed black eyes gazed out of a smooth, slim face, and lustrous black hair cascaded down her back, gathering in curls and glossy heaps here and there. Her eyes were dewy because she was thinking of the child she would never have, the child that would never ring out its laughter through the great hall. A single, crystalline tear slipped over her eyelashes and plummeted to her white hand where it burst with a splash; she started as if the tear had burned her, and carefully wiped her eyes with her hands, smothering her emotions under a guise of tranquility. She had heard the footstep of the king in the passage.

            He entered, sweeping his heavy, wolf-furred cloak and paused in the doorway: the king had been ever a cautious man, whether in hunting, warring, or common duties, and he waited now until the queen turned her fair face toward him before approaching her. Sinking to one knee, he enveloped one of her willow-white hands in his own strong brown grasp, and looked searchingly into her midnight eyes.

            “The apothecary says there is to be no baby, then,” he concluded, rising and pacing along the chamber.

            “I can never conceal anything, can I,” smiled his wife, although there was no merriment in it. “Aye, and there is no man so practiced and clever.”

            “Practiced in his cleverness he is, but clever in his practice- of that I am not sure,” grimaced the king, pressing a scarred finger to his forehead. “If he releases this information to the duke, I’ll have him placed in the stocks.”

            “Charity, my dearest, charity,” plead the compassionate woman. “Anyhow, the duke’s ears are so large that he shall hear of it whether we would conceal it or not.” Glancing askance at her, the king smiled behind his blond beard at her despairing wit. At that very moment, there sounded a derogatory knock upon the door, as if someone were striking his head against it.

            “If I know Hubert at all, that will be him,” remarked the king, striding across the room and opening the door to a skulking, large-framed man (it is a most unpleasant thing when a colossal man skulks, for it reminds one of a cringing bear attempting to hide behind its paws).

            “Your Honor,” greeted the duke, pausing to move his lips while trying to analyze his next statement, “I am most disconcerted to hear that the kingdom’s continuation of succession is in peril.” Here he broke off, and glanced uncertainly at the queen, whose cheeks were touched with pink and whose shoulders had drawn back as if a cold breath of air had entered the room.

            “I only wanted to mention,” he continued tentatively, “that we would be delighted if the king could attend a… a summoning of the higher court, and as the queen is most undoubtedly wearied, it would suit her liege to rest- that is, if she pleases so.” The king gave the duke a rather threatening look, and the other bowed rapidly and squeaked backwards out the door, stammering titles and reverences and bowing like a pump handle. Following his vassal’s hasty retreat, the monarch turned flashing green eyes to his queen, and muttered something about a double stocks display in the market square.

            “I suppose I must go,” the king conceded gloomily, sounding like a child preparing for its lessons. “You could come along- I could hide you in the back, where no candles are lit; no one shall be the wiser for it.”

            “Nay, I think not,” replied his wife, laughing for the first time in many days. “Though I am loathe to agree with Duke Ensington, I am a little fatigued.” Gently, King Orson removed his splendid cloak of garnet-lined grey wolf-pelt and spread it over her knees; she knew then that she would always have joy, whether she had a child to share it or not. He kissed one hand, and then tucked them both away beneath the cloak, remarking that kings needn’t be so selfish as to hoard away all the best outer-garments for themselves. Inwardly berating himself for bringing her to this frigid country, he rose to his full magnificent height, squared his Herculean shoulders and strode away to court.

            She watched him go, and shuddered with a sudden draft, shrinking her back against the chair behind her; it was true that transfer from Britain to Norway had been an astounding hardship for her- for the last two years, hardly a fortnight had gone by but that she was afflicted with some fever or ailment. And yet, she would never wish to leave the snow-crowned mountains of Norway, nor the churning rivers or brilliant skies of dusky blue, a blue one could almost feel against one’s cheek, like a mist. Remembering the vivid wild blooms of the midsummer, she gazed blindly down at her lap, the tears mounting in her eyes. As if in a painting, she saw the garnet cloak, redder than the brightest mulberry, draped over the dimpled snow which lay across the ebony window frame: the combination and meld was so beautiful she could scarcely breathe. If God blesses me with a daughter someday, she thought, let her be a harmonizing of summer and winter- hair black as ebony, skin white as snow, and lips red as garnet.

In view of the fact that this was the only thing the queen had ever asked for, she was granted her plea: not quite a year passed before she gave birth to a rosy-cheeked infant who had hair black as ebony, skin white as snow, and lips red as garnet. Unsurpassed joy filled the king’s heart for but a moment, however, for his wife- the key to his heart, his dearest confidant- died almost immediately after the naming of the child. Duke Ensington seemed undismayed and even expectant of this event, which simultaneously grieved and agitated King Orson, and the monarch decreed a day of complete mourning in which every subject was required to sustain utter silence and dress in garb of black. Little Snow White (for that was the princess’ name) was dressed in white attire, however, for it was her day of welcome as well as a time of sorrow.

            From her mother, Snow White inherited the thick locks of rippling black hair, and from her father, the green eyes which could look so innocent one moment and impudent the next; neither of her parents were able to give her a trait for which she was well known, however- she had to create it for herself: a merry spirit inhabited her, one which endeared everyone to her. It is said that her laugh was like a bird’s warble, and it could be heard ringing throughout the castle, sometimes to the chagrin of the duke. At her first service with the local bishop, she was, after all, only two, and when a priest walked doggedly past with a swinging censer, she giggled entrancingly, causing all but the king to stare at her in disapproving astonishment; her father merely smiled behind his beard and pulled her closer to him. Since that incident, she had learned to curb her natural gaiety and laughed only outside of services, but Duke Ensington was yet unappeased. His primary interest lay in the succession of the throne after King Orson died, and he was determined to make the king’s life a short, sweet span: the only blemish that might thwart his plan was this daughter, this Snow White who would inherit to be Queen. Maddened by these disheartening prospects, he would slink away to his richly furnished quarters and pretend to read massive, ponderous books whose pages bulged out of the covers. At last, he arrived at a solution, and decided to put it into execution as soon as possible.

            In the meantime, Snow White had been slowly growing up, and was now at the inquisitive age of seven: not a room of the castle remained unexplored by her wandering steps, and she had established many a friendship with the servants. The cook and the scullery maid would give her morsels in exchange for news of the upper quarters, and the huntsman would display his catch in return for her vivacious smile.

Many children would have become egocentric and spoilt by this attention, but Snow White seemed only enhanced by it: a faint line of gypsy blood coursed through her veins, and the heady pulse of this breeding caused her to dance willingly whenever asked. She could finish a Welsh jig, breathing tumultuously and laughing at the same time, and if her father requested a Norwegian folk dance, she would immediately whirl into the next variation. Nothing appeared adequate to subdue her spirits, except Duke Ensington, and that was only because he made her uneasy, and she was annoyed by anything that made her uneasy, including sparrow livers for breaking fast*. In a general summary, however, she was a friend of everyone; someday, her kindness would save her life.  

*breakfast

            Informed that she was betrothed to a young lad- son of Lord Ghoran who was captain of her father’s army and hersir** to the king-, she felt true fear for the first time: who was this boy, and why must she wed someone who had grown up with a sword in his fist? Surely he would be an uproarious individual, fascinated with gore and army strategy, and more interested in cleaning his blade than anything else. She altered her view after meeting him at a Michealmas feast, and decided that perhaps he might ascend to his honor and duty with admirable chivalry; she told him so, lifting her chin optimistically as if she were approving a dish for mid meal. He, a healthy arm’s length her superior in height, looked down with amused grey eyes and tried to be serious, succeeding only in a crooked frown.

            “I am honored to be addressed by the crown princess, and would do anything to further mine reputation in her eyes,” he announced gravely, striving for an unrehearsed air and failing entirely.

            “Your reputation would be furthered if you would stop talking in that gloating way,” said Snow White, flushing over her affront.

            “Jolly good, I should be glad to,” he replied, relieved, and they were instantly comrades. Seated behind the festival dais, King Orson and Lord Ghoran watched with pleasure, and clapped one another soundly on the back, vowing repeatedly that the wedding should occur within seven years, at the most. Neither gave heed to Duke Ensington who sat immobile at his place of honor, sipping frozenly at his wine goblet and tasting nothing; his black brows drew together for one moment of forgetfulness, and then were again pulled taught in a blank stare of indifference. His time had come.

*lead warrior

Delicately, the woman spat into her hand and saw her reflection as clear as ever; swiftly, she prodded some brilliance into her slender cheeks and folded up the few straying strands of golden hair. She was swathed in a gown of purple that was so steeped with pigment that it appeared almost black, and white gold ornaments hung from her wrists and long neck. Her eyes were a fathomless forget-me-not blue, and her lips a blood red, belying her to be of flawless Norwegian origin, with not a drop of alternating blood in her; having lived in the mountainous kingdom all her life, she was no longer affected by the frigid Northerners nor the driving snow. As the gale roughed up her luminous face, she merely drew her rabbit-furred wrap against her cheek and flung her hair rakishly over her shoulder, mocking the attempts of winter’s teeth. The sleigh that bore her whistled fiercely over the packed snow, swift as an arrow from a bow, slicing toward King Orson’s very heart.

            The Duke Ensington had known that if there were ever a more deplorably selfish woman, she would have been outlawed long ago as an offspring of the demons: however, he thought that her beauty would be the pivotal point in aiding in the king’s decline. The Romanovs had Rasputin, and King Orson had Helgathe, his radiant, devious Delilah.

            Upon being informed of Duke Ensington’s plot, she, honoring her long comradeship with the wily noble, submitted hastily to his orders and concocted a potent beauty elixir, with which she doused herself dutifully. The uncomfortable aspect of this elixir was that whoever wore it had a mesmerizing control over whoever beheld her, and the receipt for the mixture was quite simple: only the heart and liver of a young girl, effective for seven years of ravishing fairness. After her enhancement, Helgathe quitted her rudimentary abode- a proper witch hut, set deep in the wood of the enchanters- and traveled by sleigh to the palace.

            Mid-morning meal had just been disposed of when she arrived, and, as the wind had abated some, the doors opening from the great hall into the courtyard had been thrown open; a cat-like breeze explored Snow White’s face, ruffling her silken hair and igniting her cheeks with a tinge of red. King Orson sat despondently at the head of the party, his heavy brow shadowing his face and concealing his eyes in a daytime dusk; a drained silver goblet was held poised in his hand, its stained rim tilting forgotten toward his mouth. Suddenly, the blinding doorway of sunlight was broken by a figure draped in billows of diaphanous fabric, and as all of the members of the court blinked blearily, a seraphic voice was heard.

            “I have come to pay respect to the king, my jarl, and my liege,” Helgathe called out, stepping deliberately into the muted light of the hall where she ceased to be a form burning the eye and became once again a ravishing Lady.  Her vivid eyes glimmered with liquid fire, and every curve of her face was perfect in its mold; although her hair had been bound up in a dyed leather band behind her head, she had successfully allowed most of it to escape its constriction, and it now fell heedlessly in cataracts of gilded waves over her shoulders, ending just above her knee. A hand that was poised like the wing of a dove reached out in supplication, revealing the slightest bit of her blue-veined wrist before the column of her slender arm disappeared into her sleeve.

            “What does this grand anarchist mean, bursting upon the king with uncalled audience?” demanded Lord Ghoran, struggling up from a miasma and shielding his eyes. “King Orson, you know that all who come before you must be escorted.”

            “Your Grace, Duke Ensington assured me of your kind and benevolent nature,” countered Helgathe gently, glaring privately at the captain. “I traveled here in a desperate state of mind, praying that you would hear my plaint: I am a subject of yours, and therefore deserving of a little protection, I hope.” Rising to his feet, the king bowed his head in concession, a wondering look moving over his face. She observed with satisfaction that he was by far the tallest and handsomest among the sickly nobles, and her coquettish smile did not escape the monarch- nevertheless, he did not correctly interpret it.

            “My abode has been ransacked by men from the East, and though they are gone now, I do not trust them to stay away. As your subject, I fled my land and came to seek shelter here, for the Duke offered to put in a conciliatory word, as my father was one of your own warriors, born and bred within the walls of your fortress. Oh, great and mighty King, might you extend your generosity to shield me from future attacks?” Concluding her plea, Helgathe let her speech expire with a wistful sigh, feigning exhaustion from having to ward off feverish Mongolian raiders.

            Resolved after beholding such a moving and impassioned spectacle, King Orson gallantly assured her that she would receive every attention and comfort necessary, and that the steward would immediately escort her to a private chamber, where she could remain for the time being. Needless to say, it was hardly a se’nnight* before the entrancement began its crushing effect, and the king was overpowered every moment she was in his presence. Lord Ghoran tried to dissuade him, having heard rumors, and furiously presented the excellent argument of Helgathe’s commonness, reminding his ruler that the law stated that the Queen must be descended of royal blood.

*week

            “I shall demolish the law, then,” replied the king, hoarsely.

            “That you shall, if you wed that minx!” roared the captain of the guard, opposite him, his grimy features traced with yellow from the candlelight. Orson’s face fell dangerously, his golden beard twitching with perturbation, but the other’s inhibition only seemed to grow.

            “By King Eirik the Fairhair, if you are bound to her, she will poison this entire kingdom! I pray you, do not do treat this matter so rashly.”

            “But it is not only myself I consider,” protested the infatuated monarch. “Think of my daughter, think of Snow White, who is to someday ascend to the throne with your son at her side: should she not have an example before her, and a nurturer? Must she also be

withheld from happiness?” Filled with misery, the captain bowed his grey, weathered head and rested his thick hands upon the oaken table before him; his dear friend had been consumed by a venom so beautiful that he welcomed it and drank the wormwood with a smile on his rugged face.

            “So be it,” muttered the man, defeated. “Your word is law, and I cannot choose for you.”