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 Posted: Wed Aug 29, 2007 3:13 pm
Hi folks,
With the permission of our beloved Leader I am creating this topic to occasionally share some of what I am working on. If you read something here that you find amusing, interesting, or even annoying, I hope you will comment! Heck, I hope you'll comment, period! *g*
A little of my own back-story: I think I might be one of the oldest ones here. smile I've been married and am currently separated; I have a twenty-something son (which may tell you just how much of an old Phart I am! *g*) and I believe Dr. Who said it best when he insisted that "you're never too old to have a happy childhood." smile
I am a published writer, both of fiction and non-fiction; I'm a card-carrying historian, trained in the art and science of it at George Mason University in Northern Virginia. My historical specialty includes military history and Medieval/Renaissance. I speak several languages and play a number of musical instruments; I am owned by one horse (a dapple grey Foundation QH/Connemara cross gelding named Jasper) and one cat (a grey DSH tabby named Thranduil... *g*), and my day job is as a senior consultant (IT and Security) and a technical writer/editor at a software company. And that pretty much covers it for the moment! smile
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Posted: Wed Aug 29, 2007 3:25 pm
Here's a squib I wrote the other day when we were discussing how much to reveal about characters and how. It will probably eventually be part of the tale, but I think this character will have already been introduced before this point in the story. For the non-German speakers in the house, "haltung" is a term that can be loosely translated as "proper behaviour" or "excellent manners"; it's VERY Prussian. smile And "kasino" is the German military term for what the Americans call an officer's club on a military base. An Albatros is a kind of WW1 military aircraft, very popular among some of the aces of that war.
The story is one of several AU historical fiction works where many of the main characters are Vampyre--Kurt and Fitz included, in the excerpt below. Other volumes will be far more medieval; this one just happens to be set before and during WW1.
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Excerpt from Albatros Wings:
Feeling the hairs rise on the back of his neck, Kurt realized they were being watched. He turned toward the sensation, meeting the cool gaze of another officer. Kurt raised an amused eyebrow and subjected the tall, lean newcomer to a thorough inspection.
Either this one seriously worshiped at the altar of haltung or he simply had not been at the Front for long. His uniform was exquisitely tailored and had no hint of wear; none of the pervasive mud of the airfield had dared besmirch the perfect shine of his boots. Perfect knife-pleats marched up the fronts of his breeches like obedient Prussians on parade. Every ounce of brass on his coat and tunic had been polished within an inch of its existence, and the gloves he carried in perfectly manicured hands were so new Kurt could almost smell the suede from across the kasino.
The man was sinfully handsome but expressionless; his cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut glass, giving him a severe look despite his apparent youth. Deep hazel eyes bored into Kurt from under dark lashes shadowed by the brim of his cap. Black hair curled out from under the perfectly-creased headgear, falling in a long and utterly incongruous braid down the man's back completely against regulations. He looked more princely than any of the Kaiser's offspring.
There was a protracted moment of silence; all sound of conversation and clinking glasses around them seemed to fade from awareness. Then one corner of the newcomer's mouth twitched upward into a sardonic smirk. Kurt gave a shout of laughter and pushed away from the table, dashing across the room. "Fitz!" he exclaimed, reaching to take the other's hand. "What are you doing here?"
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Comments are most assuredly welcome!
Cheers,
Jasta
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Posted: Wed Sep 05, 2007 3:32 pm
A little something I've been working on. This is from a lengthy multi-part story called "In Threes". There is brief passing mention of a same-sex relationship, just so you know.
Briefly summarized, the story concerns a powerful nobleman, Lord Philip, whose wife is dead and children grown. He hates his equally powerful neighbor, King Tancred, and wants to make him pay for imagined slights in the past; other than this one fault Philip is actually a rather nice person, well-read and kind to his loved ones. His people adore him. He is in a relationship with his seneschal, Adelhard, a famous warrior. (The princess has been treated rather shamefully during the course of this ongoing relationship, which Philip refuses to end even though now married. Conclusions will be come to, and justice eventually done...)
Philip demands marriage with King Tancred's daughter Teleri as the means to create an alliance between their lands--then promptly treats the young lady rather cavalierly, because he still sees her as the enemy. His people take their cues from him.
In this chapter, the previous night has seen the princess abducted by someone who hates both Tancred and Philip--and is determined to ruin them both. To say she is in serious danger is to drastically understate the case. *mwah-hah-hah...* This scene shows the circumstances under which the seneschal learns of the abduction.
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With the same dogged determination he gave to everything, Adelhard set about finding out what sort of morass he had so foolishly slipped into. It swiftly became clear that no one had seen the young princess for at least a day, possibly longer. She had not asked for anything to be sent to her chamber, and she certainly had not been in the Hall for any meal. The healers had heard nothing from her. The one of her original household servants yet remaining in The City—Elliwen—blushed for shame that it had not occurred to her to look in on the princess, so caught up was she in plans for her own impending marriage to one of Adelhard’s warriors.
With a growing sense of unpleasant urgency Adelhard hurried up to the guest wing. He made his way to the corner near the family quarters. To his dismay he saw a small basket of clean laundry sitting beside the locked door—laundry that had not been brought in to be put away. Adelhard dug out his keys and attempted each one. No key he possessed would open the door; he swore under his breath to realize the princess must have had the lock changed.
Little b*tch, he thought, taking a step back. Adehhard eyeballed the distance, estimated the force—and planted his foot powerfully right next to the ornate doorknob. He was even more astonished—and that much more concerned—that it took five blows to finally shatter the edge of the door enough to open it. What sorcery is this? No one warned us she could do magick!
Adelhard pushed into the chamber. “Brat, it is time to stop hiding!” he called out, managing to sound more irritated than worried. He quelled the embarrassing little voice in the back of his head chiding him for the fact that he pretty much always addressed the princess in such a tone—that it was long practice at disdain which gave him the ability to sound so. There was no answer.
Adelhard strode into the small sitting room and paused at the bedchamber door, looking around behind him for clues. They were few in number but disturbing: an over-robe neatly folded over the back of a chair; a portrait of King Tancred and Prince Rhisiart hanging crookedly on the wall, its frame smashed, the canvas slashed across the front from corner to corner. There sat a pair of boots, well-worn and tilting sadly, carefully brushed and otherwise left alone; Adelhard squinted at them for a long moment then raised an eyebrow. They were the boots the youngster had worn on the trip from Breviloc so many months before—the boots Philip had forbidden Teleri to wear any longer. There did not seem to be anything else in the room save the sparse furnishings: two chairs before the hearth, a bench under the windows looking out into the garden, the small woven rug on the floor. Adelhard felt a guilty shiver run up his spine, for the room reminded him of a deserted guard post more than the parlor of a princess.
“Teleri? Come out, child, I mean you no harm!” he called, raising one hand to rap smartly on the bedchamber door in a quick staccato. No sound reached his ears from within; he tried the latch. It gave easily in his hand. Feeling battle-alert without knowing why, he cautiously pushed the door open and looked inside.
With narrowed eyes Adelhard observed the room as if it were the scene of a crime—for there was really no other way to look at it. The lonely, cramped chamber was a wreck. Adelhard would have been the first to admit he knew very little about the living habits of Philip’s young mate—but if he had had to guess, sloppiness would not have been one of Teleri’s customary personality quirks. This mess went a long way past mere untidiness. There was an upside-down broken chair tottering forlornly against the wall; the bed covers looked either torn or cut, or both. The clothing cupboard was open, one door hanging precariously on its hinges. Garments were strewn all about as if someone had packed in haste—or had been searching for something.
Blood… blood on the floor, on the carpet, on the bed… there was a narrow but lengthy swath of it starting near the bed on the floor and spewing upward in a sad line along the wall, up onto the ceiling. Smears and footprints marred the line on the floor as if someone had fallen into or walked through it—or both. Adelhard moved with caution to avoid treading in it himself and made his way out onto the balcony past an empty spot where a curtain ought to have hung. There was no sign of the curtain, but its shredded twin dangled limply from the rod on the other side. The seneschal hastened to the railing.
Teleri’s chambers looked out on the back of Philip’s palace, over the gardens; if one stepped far enough forward and craned one’s neck, the River Tarsil was just barely visible as it passed a stand of willows on the bank near the house. Glancing about, Adelhard realized there was a clear view of Philip’s own balcony far away on the other side of the gardens—a view that, given the usual activities undertaken there, would have proven a particularly cruel twist on affairs indeed for an unwanted young spouse.
We have been bitterly unfair, he thought, closing his eyes briefly. Far better it would have been to let the child leave when she wanted to!
But this was no time to engage in such realizations, for clearly the young princess was missing. If one accepted the evidence at face value there was really only one circumstantial conclusion: Teleri had been abducted—with a vengeance. As he considered what to do next, Adelhard looked down and saw Thomas taking a turn in the garden with Alienor, perhaps some thirty yards away.
“Thomas!”
They paused, looking up in surprise. Adelhard gestured with urgency; moments later the two stood under the balcony, looking up. “Where is Lord Philip?” he asked formally.
Thomas narrowed his eyes just as Alienor widened hers. In any other situation it might have been comical. “Why?”
“I have something to show him. Can you find him and return here, Thomas?”
Alienor noted the exclusion and lifted her chin. “Something you do not want me to see?” she asked with some asperity. “Where have you tied the child this time? And in what condition?”
“We’ll discuss that some other time,” Adelhard growled. “Thomas—please. This is seriously important. Find Philip and bring him up here to Teleri’s suite immediately!”
Thomas pondered in silence for a heartbeat, perhaps two; then he nodded. A short, perfunctory bow was given to Alienor, then the advisor hastened away—breaking into a trot at the edge of the garden and an outright run once he cleared the gate. Good. About time he paid attention.
Adelhard also gave a somewhat more mocking bow to Alienor and disappeared back inside. He found a clear patch on one side of the chamber where he would disturb no evidence, and crouched down to try and think his way through it all.
So. Someone, or a group of someones, entered here? By force? No… the door was not broken in until I did it. So they got in somehow. Through…the balcony? Yes…
Adelhard stepped carefully back toward the balcony and began to minutely examine every square inch of it. The simple elegance of the polished brass railings bore a number of marks of hands and weapons, some of them caused far too long ago to be of any importance to this question. But there were bloodstains, and hand-prints in that blood—some smeared, some more firmly marked….
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Opinions and comments are happily solicited... smile
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Posted: Wed Sep 12, 2007 9:25 am
*grins* Not that anyone's reading these little squibs, but it amuses me to post them...
Here's a little something I wrote recently, the start of a chapter about my Elves in my fantasy universe.
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The great forest was silent in the moments just before dawn. No bird called; no squirrel stirred. As if waiting to see what would happen, every living creature under the forest eaves seemed to be holding its breath. Tree and grass, leaf and branch, Elf and Human, bird and beast--it mattered not. All was in readiness, though not a one of those beings could have said for what. There was magic in the air, in the very breath of the wind that blew--yet even the wind seemed to pursue its business with half an eye toward the great what-and-whether of a universe frozen in time, for the breeze just barely stirred.
Thudding soft and rhythmic against the mossy ground underfoot there came at last the sound of hoof beats. Horses--Elven mounts, their coats gleaming russet and muted silver in the uncertain light--came galloping out of the fastness of the Greenwood. Grim were the faces of the Elves upon their backs: dark-haired and pale of mien, or winter-wheat light of tress, they were warriors all, bearing the deadly, beautiful bows of the Realm and short, wickedly sharp swords. Their quivers ordinarily would have bristled with arrows, but the fabled ammunition seemed in short supply--bearing mute testimony to the reason why so many of these Immortals bore bloodied wounds upon their fair forms. The trees groaned in sympathy; the wind picked up, bearing the lament through the growing pre-dawn. Blood swept in rivulets down Elven bodies and across the sweat-sheened hair of their mounts’ flanks; bright eyes were hardened with pain barely held in check, so great was their need. Desperation was in every line of them all, fully ten warriors, wearing the livery of the Forest King. Some rode astride, most doubled up on fewer mounts than there were Elves; others were held unconscious or stuporous in the arms of friends, and one was grimly wrapped in a comrade’s cloak, not to open bright eyes upon the Land again.
They rode on in hurried silence, making their way swiftly through their forest home, closer with each passing moment to the brighter light, the greater magic that was their King’s royal influence over the once-great land. As the dimness of pre-dawn gave way to the muted light of an overcast morning, the Shadow-tainted darkness of the Greenwood retreated before the Elven-king’s power. Soon amid the trees could be seen sentries, dropping down from their posts to offer aid and comfort to their returning comrades. One of the riders, the senior-most captain still able to command, slumped forward to take the arm of one of those sentries in an urgent grip.
“Is there one among you fleet enough of foot to bear word to the King?” he gasped, his normally dulcet voice rasped with exhaustion and pain. “Or one with a fresh horse? We bring grim news indeed, he must know of it!”
“Fool,” the sentry said fondly, pitching her voice to soothing tones. “Think you he does not already know? And even if he did not, the Queen would know. The trees, the very grass, all the forest is crying out with it. Galeril will take word to them if there is aught to tell more specifically.”
There was, of course. There always was. The captain looked at her, his stern, wearied gaze piercing to her soul; she only nodded and tipped her dark head back to give a particular bird call. Seconds later a young guardian dropped out of the trees at her feet and bowed slightly, hand to heart.
“Lady?”
Her laugh trilled through the morning air. “I am no lady, merely a simple warrior of the Forest,” she said, patting the warrior’s arm. “Hearken now to the captain. There are words he needs must send to the king and you are my swiftest runner.”
Young Galeril, barely out of his second millennium, bent all his considerable concentration on the face and voice of the captain, whose words were indeed grim. The captain concluded his earnest recitation with these chilling instructions:
“Hurry now--with all your speed, gain entry to their Majesties’s hall and report what we have seen, before the Doom of it breaks upon us all. Go! Fly!”
Galeril whirled on one foot like a startled deer and sped away into the forest. After the manner of his kind he left no footprint, hardly displaced a single blade of grass to mark his passing. Within seconds it might have been as if he were never there to begin with. The captain watched long in silence whence the youngster had gone, then sighed and turned back to the warrior.
“We needs must get me and mine out of this,” he said grimly. “Not lightly did I tell the young one that the Doom was about to break. Never in all my long years have I seen so many Goblins. And some there be for whom the daylight is no halt--we must be ready for them, or the Forest will fall to the Dark Lady.”
Knowing her friend was not given to hyperbole, the warrior gave him a spare nod and a pat on the arm. Glancing this way and that, she saw her patrol had already done what she would have ordered in any case: they had exchanged their rested horses for the wearied ones of the home-comers, and all of those escaping the hoard of the Enemy were now safely aboard mounts that could bear them the more swiftly. Those not quite fit to ride were in the arms of others who were. The sad remains of the one fallen warrior were still where they had been, strapped to the back of a leggy mare whose head drooped with grief. Blood was congealed on her flanks from the sad burden she bore.
“Take them home, Eithelion,” she said to her second. “Calenmir, Duilinion, Fathel--you three with me, we will scout forward and see how the road patrols are doing. Eithelion--make certain reinforcements are sent to us.”
Eithelion nodded that he understood, and without further ado the rescue force moved out. Those not specifically given a different task took in hand the wearied horses and headed homeward more slowly, bearing the remains of one of their own. Tuilinal, “just a simple warrior of the Forest”, turned to the business of making certain all was in readiness, should the minions of the Shadowed One be so foolish as to foray this close to home.
Let them come if they are so eager to face the Doom, she thought grimly, though she smiled as the words came to her. Let them come. We will show them what the People of the Forest are capable of doing under the eaves of their own trees!
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Posted: Mon Oct 15, 2007 5:13 am
I LIKE THE ELVES FRAGMENTARIUM.
CAN YOU WRITE MORE?
I`LL LIKE TO MAKE AN ANALISIS BETWEEN YOU AND PAOLINNI(THE BOY WHO WROTE ERAGON`S TRILOGY)
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Posted: Tue Oct 16, 2007 11:17 am
Wow, someone actually read and commented!! YAY!! Thank you!
I do have a little more of this. I'll post it shortly.
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Posted: Mon Oct 29, 2007 7:24 am
razz Its quite interesting, I like your writing ^__^.
I'd like to read the continue of "In threes" 3nodding I've already got too far in guessing possible endings :3 .
*Goes to read the 3rd one, about the elves*
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Posted: Mon Oct 29, 2007 10:38 am
Glad you liked it! There is some more, I'll dig it out and post it.
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Posted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 2:52 am
Ok, let me know when its posted ^^
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Posted: Sun Nov 18, 2007 3:33 pm
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Posted: Tue Dec 11, 2007 6:43 pm
Shalymar asked for more of the Elf story, so here you go! This is the scene that comes right after the previous one.
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After the sumptuous dinner, the tall flagons of wine came out at the table of Aelhard, Lord of The Refuge. The minstrels and their musicians tuned up, preparing to make more sprightly music than that heard during dinner; there would be dancing, and conversation, and celebration. The harvests in the Refuge and the other Allied Elven Realms had been more than generous. The Humans of those regions, knowing whence came their fatness, looked to their immortal neighbors to trade foodstuffs for goods of Elvish make, and by dint of such trades the Elves had all they needed and more to make it through the winter to come. Indeed, things were good.
Seated at the High Table, Aelhard gazed about the Hall and smiled. All was well and had been for many a year now. There was peace here and in their nearest allied Elven neighboring realm, Lorhael. Magic held the minions of Shadow at bay, for Aelhard was a master sorcerer, while his marriage-mother, the Lady Gliriel, was a great seeress who wielded her own magic to keep Lorhael secure. The warriors of the two Realms kept open the pathways between the regions, and for a certain area beyond the borders; all else was either under constant threat, or was barely kept safe due to the exertions of the Humans. All else, subject to grim Shadow and the puppet-mastering of Darkness, though under whose control the Free Elves had yet to determine....
All else, that is, save the one Elven Realm over which neither Aelhard nor Gliriel had any say or control at the moment: the Great Forest, home of the People of the Wood and a hodge-podge of refugees from elsewhere. Aelhard felt his eyes narrow at the very thought. Tirdiel, the Forest King....
“You’re doing it again,” said a quietly merry voice at the Lord’s right hand. Aelhard rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the interruption, but one never ignored Golrod of Hiriol for long. It was not the nature of the creature, as it were, to be ignored. “You look rather like a cave troll when you do that: brow all pinched and wrinkled, eyes looking off into the distance with disdain and annoyance. Not a good thing for a wise Elven Lord to do.”
“Did you need something specific, Golrod, or are you just attempting to drive me to mayhem?” Aelhard asked mildly, and reached for the wine decanter. Golrod laughed pleasantly.
“I never attempt such things, my lord.”
“I see. Such arrogance, to believe you always succeed.”
A snort of amusement was the reply; Golrod hooked a chair with one foot and toed it closer to Aelhard’s, draping his tall, elegant form into a comfortable seated sprawl. Lithe and almost painfully handsome, the golden-haired Elf gazed out at the celebrating, happy crowd of people, the tables laden with all manner of food and drink. Golrod was something of a law unto himself—warrior, diplomat, legend. Thousands of years before, in the fall of his home city of Hiriol, he had died to save the refugees from the assault of one of the Dark Lady’s most fearsome creatures: a dragon. Sixteen centuries more spent in the Waiting Plane—then Golrod was returned to life and given the task of keeping watch over what had become the House of Aelhard, a charge he kept with the utmost attention, seriousness and dedication to this very day.
“Is it arrogance, to acknowledge simple fact?” the warrior seneschal asked rhetorically, and held out his own goblet to be refilled. “It is not my nature to fail, after all.”
Aelhard only grunted in reply. Golrod watched him in silence for a space, noting his gloom and seeming annoyance.
“So what is it this time?” he asked at last. “The price of wool from Halardin? The impending birth of Isiwen’s babe?”
“Tirdiel,” Aelhard said shortly, making an epithet of the name. Golrod’s golden brows climbed toward his equally golden hairline.
“Indeed? And what would have you thinking of such a one at such a time as this?” he asked, gesturing with his goblet. “We are celebrating a superb harvest and a most successful season of trading. All is right with the world. And you sit here, in the midst of merriment, thinking of the things and Beings over which you have no control? Really, Aelhard.”
Aelhard said nothing, but only allowed his expressive eyes to speak for him. After so many years it was no longer necessary to explain himself to so close an intimate as Golrod. They had both lived through the events that had brought to a head years of problematic interaction. Indeed, by means of the convoluted intricacies of Elven genealogy, both of them were remotely related to the difficult, fell, profoundly annoying and frustratingly handsome Tirdiel--a fact that did not always amuse, any more than it reliably angered. It was just one of those things, really.
“It has been a long time,” the Lord of the Refuge contented himself with announcing. “He is not likely to change any more than I am.”
“They had another child, had you heard?” asked another Elf who came up to hear the scattered bits of the discussion--and only Erion would have had the ability to take such a small amount of evidence and come to precisely the correct conclusion. The chief steward of Aelhard’s household, Erion was a number of things, all of them helpful, most of them pleasant. Lovely to look at, devastatingly intelligent, charming in his quiet way, and extremely well-read, he coupled it all together with an extremely felicitous manner and tone of speaking that made one want to listen no matter what he had to say. As dark as Aelhard, though paler because he had no Human blood in his ancestry, Erion helped himself to a chair and reached for a goblet. He smiled, showing one dimple, as he held out that goblet to Golrod, who was more than pleased to fill it for him. Aelhard caught up with the declaration and raised both eyebrows.
“With things as bad as they appear to be in the Forest Realm, they breed again?” he asked, just to be sure he had heard properly. Erion nodded solemnly.
“You needn’t be disagreeable and make it sound as if they are prize horses or something,” the steward murmured, his pale blue eyes twinkling nevertheless. He and Tirdiel had once been friends and brothers in arms, in those long-gone days when all the Elven realms had peace between them and a common foe to fight.
“Well--but it does not seem practical,” Aelhard grumbled, doing his best to control an untoward smile. “Last report I read suggested they can barely feed all their people--and there are Shadow minions in and out of there as if it were the High Road to heaven. Who in their right mind would bring a child into that?”
“Someone who had lost a beloved son and wished to fill an empty space in his life--and his lady’s, I would suspect,” Erion retorted, though his tone was kind.
“How old is this child? How long ago did this amazing event occur?” Golrod asked, as much to gain the information as to forestall Aelhard thinking for too long about the things that bothered him. He too knew what loss meant, though thankfully both of the children brought into the world by him and his lady Celaria were alive, adult and thriving. Golrod had appointed himself the task of making certain his lord did not dwell overmuch on things that were past, things that could not be helped--and if he could attain that same goal while keeping up with his job of knowing all that affected The Refuge, well, so be it. All to the good.
Erion appeared to think for a moment; he gave a slight shrug and sipped at his wine. “Those who have seen the little one guess it may have been as much as a year ago. The reports are vague; the child has been kept close, watched day and night, and is as yet too tender a sprout to be a part of Tirdiel’s court. The only reliable information we have is more than two months old, at this pass.”
Aelhard sighed, trying not to be annoyed. No matter how carefully he worked, how clever his plans, Tirdiel and his lovely, dangerous lady, the fair and deadly Luthiél, always seemed to remain a few steps ahead of all spies and watchers. There was indeed magic there: old, primal magic, deep and wise, understood by the Forest Realm's royals and some of their chiefest advisors, but not by many others. It had always been a mistake to underestimate Tirdiel--almost as big a mistake as not keeping an eye on him at all times.
“What do we know else of this child?” he asked at last, keeping his voice down and level. Erion straightened slightly, well understanding the tone.
“Well--he is little for his age, tender though that may yet be,” the steward murmured, pitching his words well under the music for the ears of Aelhard and Golrod only. “He is as fair as both his parents, a biddable, sweet little Elfling who was not weaned yet by the last report that contained any information of worth.” At a lift from Aelhard’s eyebrow, Erion gave a faint smirk. “I did tell my informants to bring me any word of Tirdiel or his family, no matter how seeming insignificant. I could tell you, for instance, that the little one was breeched not too long ago, but that he is still decidedly in leading strings, as he is just as curious and inventive as you would expect a child of such parents to be. But such information, while amusing, is not exactly unusual--and therefore not something I would avidly collect, if you understand my meaning.”
Golrod snickered. He had, through two lifetimes so far, managed to avoid entanglement in the bonds of marriage--and thus had avoided procreation. But he had watched any number of friends and acquaintances breed; he was willing to concede the charm of Elflings, so long as he was able to hand them back to parents or care-givers when they became over-stimulated, wet or cranky.
“Is there any collectible information, then?” he asked with an insouciant grin. Erion nodded.
“Oh, of course there is. Not that this will be surprising, but it certainly is useful.” He leaned slightly closer and dropped his voice yet lower. “Tirdiel is an overly fond father--doting, one might say. Luthiél is no better. If the child were a little older and fond of intrigue, he could easily wrap both of them quite completely around his little fingers.”
“Oh yes, very useful information, that is,” Aelhard scoffed, glancing about the room as he did every so often, just to keep track of everyone and everything. “Erion, I need helpful information, not commonplaces. Every Elfling wraps its parents completely about fingers and heart. It is their nature.”
“I know that, my lord,” Erion sniffed. “I’m not an idiot. All I mean to say is that knowing his parents dote on him, knowing it for certain, could be--useful. You have often said you wished for a lever in your dealings with the Forest Realm royals.”
Golrod nodded judiciously, all too well comprehending the need for such a tactic. However, Aelhard started back slightly, eyes wide at the implication. One thing it was to understand such a thing from a philosophical standpoint; quite another, to realize his advisors were seriously contemplating control of the King and Queen of the Forest Realm through whatever it was Erion and Golrod saw as a possibility in the existence of a child in the royal nursery!
“Surely you are not advocating the kidnapping of an infant,” the lord said in a low, purring growl. Erion put down his goblet and spread his hands to either side in a placating gesture.
“My lord, really. You make it sound so awful.”
“Well? If I felt anyone might be considering such a thing against either of my children, I would be livid! And they are all fully grown!” Aelhard shook his head decisively. “No, my friends. The infancy of an Elfling is a precious time, and I refuse to even consider the contemplation, much less the actual act, of separating a child from his parents during such a time. We would unleash far worse things, potentially, than we would have the chance of preventing. Not being with his parents could harm the child--warp him perhaps--and as we understand so little about Tirdiel’s family as it is, we would be playing with fire. I will not consider this.”
Erion thought quickly and changed his focus just a bit. “All you say is completely true, my lord, and is of course a sensible comprehension of the dangers involved--on both sides,” he said quietly. “In any case, I am not advocating the exposure of our people in Tirdiel’s household for what could easily be a risky and chancy venture. There are too many what-ifs, and no way to support them if it all started to come apart midways.”
“Then what are you suggesting?” Golrod asked, knowing all too well that Erion was always thinking, always considering and planning ahead. It made him both frustrating and extremely useful.
“All I am saying is, if an opportunity ever presents itself we should not shy from seizing it. Or him, as the case may be.” Erion locked eyes with Aelhard, pale blue to piercing grey. “Say the chance should come that we could lay hands on the son of Tirdiel in some manner that involved little danger to us. Let us, say, suppose there is a picnic in the forest some fine and lovely day--the little Queen and her Elfling, lots of guards, but out of the palace and in less difficult surroundings. Say further that goblins were to attack. If there were those who might come to their rescue--warriors, say, dressed in the manner of the Elves of the Forest Realm.”
“Only…not of the Forest Realm, say,” Aelhard murmured, a disobliging smile touching his lips.
Erion nodded, grinning faintly. “Only not of the Forest Realm. It might be possible, say, to carry off the Elfling and his lady mother—a superb pair of hostages for The Refuge, a lever against Tirdiel’s disobedience, and no harm done to the Elfling because he would still have his mama to comfort him.”
There was a long silence. At the other end of the Hall, the singers and musicians under the direction of Aelhard's chief minstrel segued from a swift dance piece into something slower, more thoughtful. Golrod glanced sidelong at them, smiling enigmatically, then reached to refill each of their goblets. At length, Aelhard spoke.
“If—and I emphasize, if—such an opportunity were to arise, I would not be averse to making use of it,” the Lord of The Refuge said. He locked gazes first with Erion, and then with Golrod. “But I would be most displeased if harm of any sort were to befall any Elf, regardless of age, in such an endeavor. I do hope that is perfectly clear.”
“Like the finest blown glass ever to come from a workshop,” Erion murmured solemnly. “I would no more want to harm another Elf than I would want to see one harmed—especially ones with such value in terms of the peace of all the world.”
“Then we are agreed.” Aelhard took a sip of the fine wine, rolling it around on his tongue. He met the eyes of Golrod, bright blue and brimming with amusement; the seneschal grinned brightly.
“It would be lovely to have an Elfling about the place again, after all!” he announced. Erion batted him on the arm and looked away, his mind already working over the details. Aelhard kept his own counsel as always.
Around them, the dancers and singers celebrated the abundant harvest in a swirl of bright clothing and a tapestry of sound and motion. All was as right with the world as it could possibly be.
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So there's the next update. What do you think?
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Posted: Tue Dec 18, 2007 1:39 pm
Should there be some slight possibility anyone's interested in reading a Lord of the Rings Yule-flavoured fic, here's one of mine:
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2190155/1/After_All
You don't have to belong to the site to leave a review. (hint, hint) smile
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