In his dream, Derrick was kneeling before the fantastically beautiful woman someone had tried to capture in the pictures back at the cabin. The memory of those pictures made Derrick wonder what Tranot would do since he didn't return, but that thought was fleeting. In his dream, he was proffering his weapons, a staff, a bow and a dagger.
He knelt deeper, bowing his head down between his extended arms for she was both the chill of winter and the warmth of summer. She was the vigorous growth of spring and the drowsy-chill of autumn. She attended the smallest atom and expanse of the universe. She was everything. He was merely a pawn on her chessboard.
Behind her towered Actaeon, a huge elk-headed man standing all of nine feet above heavy cloven hooves, her king or perhaps her consort, at least on this chessboard.
She waited, shifting through her many and varied aspects only a few of which were captured in those fascinating pictures that were so dim in comparison to the real thing. She waited and Actaeon stamped a heavy cloven hoof with impatience.
Derrick pleaded his supplication, vowing all of his weapons, his heart and his soul to her service, and begging for her notice, her blessing, her lightest touch.
She waved her hand and her voice was wind and rain and snow. Actaeon stepped forward and took his proffered weapons, offering them for her to examine.
Speaking words that brushed his soul without passing through his mind, she took each weapon and touched it to his bowed back for a long moment before leaning it against his kneeling body, placing each one in each location deliberately. His bow, she rested against his left shoulder causing him to wince, as the shoulder was inexplicably tender. His staff, she rested against his right shoulder. They were to be her strength in his hands.
Then she knelt close in front of him and lifted his chin with the tip of his dagger. When his eyes had lifted to her face, she scrutinized the dagger between them; the ice that tipped her eyelashes alternately froze and melted, dusting her cheeks with a fine glitter of frost that might have been pollen. The dagger was a fine blade, chipped from black volcanic glass and hafted with bone. "In my service, this will never break," she said, speaking words that were, this time, intended for his brain, though they still sounded like wind-driven rain and soft falling snow to his ears.
She jabbed the knife firmly in the earth between where his hands had come to rest when Actaeon had taken his weapons from them. "You are much needed here. You have my blessing. Actaeon will be your guide." She clasped his face in her hands. "And for that, you must live. After this, I expect you to keep yourself alive." She planted a firm kiss on his forehead.
He knelt deeper, bowing his head down between his extended arms for she was both the chill of winter and the warmth of summer. She was the vigorous growth of spring and the drowsy-chill of autumn. She attended the smallest atom and expanse of the universe. She was everything. He was merely a pawn on her chessboard.
Behind her towered Actaeon, a huge elk-headed man standing all of nine feet above heavy cloven hooves, her king or perhaps her consort, at least on this chessboard.
She waited, shifting through her many and varied aspects only a few of which were captured in those fascinating pictures that were so dim in comparison to the real thing. She waited and Actaeon stamped a heavy cloven hoof with impatience.
Derrick pleaded his supplication, vowing all of his weapons, his heart and his soul to her service, and begging for her notice, her blessing, her lightest touch.
She waved her hand and her voice was wind and rain and snow. Actaeon stepped forward and took his proffered weapons, offering them for her to examine.
Speaking words that brushed his soul without passing through his mind, she took each weapon and touched it to his bowed back for a long moment before leaning it against his kneeling body, placing each one in each location deliberately. His bow, she rested against his left shoulder causing him to wince, as the shoulder was inexplicably tender. His staff, she rested against his right shoulder. They were to be her strength in his hands.
Then she knelt close in front of him and lifted his chin with the tip of his dagger. When his eyes had lifted to her face, she scrutinized the dagger between them; the ice that tipped her eyelashes alternately froze and melted, dusting her cheeks with a fine glitter of frost that might have been pollen. The dagger was a fine blade, chipped from black volcanic glass and hafted with bone. "In my service, this will never break," she said, speaking words that were, this time, intended for his brain, though they still sounded like wind-driven rain and soft falling snow to his ears.
She jabbed the knife firmly in the earth between where his hands had come to rest when Actaeon had taken his weapons from them. "You are much needed here. You have my blessing. Actaeon will be your guide." She clasped his face in her hands. "And for that, you must live. After this, I expect you to keep yourself alive." She planted a firm kiss on his forehead.
2 comments:
"She jabbed the knife firmly in the earth"
I love this line. I could smell the dirt. Wonderful post!
I wish I had half the imagination that you do in your pinkie! I love your blog! It's so cool!
God Bless! PJ
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