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Shábháil sé mé ón mbás -- so who am I to judge him? As much as I hate to be angry with him, I am constantly finding myself boiling over with rage.
It only feels like we are always fighting now, and we are always fighting over everything. Yesterday he was so angry with me when I spilled a bit of water by an accident, he would not let it go until late in the evening. He yelled at me today over Ira (again). At least this time, Ira has been out for a week and hadn't done anything to deserve the yelling, but it doesn't mean anything to him.
I fear the thing I have been dreading to discuss him will come to pass, and probably sooner than I want it to. Of course, in a perfect world I would not have to discuss it ever at all-- he would know just as well as I do and wouldn't care, or would've at least, gotten over caring for it. But that is the way of the Gods and there is not a thing I can do for it. I know he will not take it well and I wish I didn't care, but I do. I hope Ira will be here before I must tell Emrys that it is not my place but another's. I will need the support, and, perhaps, someone to block the punch that may be thrown.
I suppose that is how it is supposed to be with friends, sometimes. I suppose sometimes we must be so at loggerheads we cannot stand to be together. I must go all the way to the opposite end of his hill here to be away from him properly, otherwise he will continue to annoy me with his mutters about how ungrateful I am and even the very sounds of his footsteps tapping in my ears make me want to lash out. But it would be silly for me to tell him to stop walking in his own home and it would only make me look more the fool.
The point is, I know how angry he will be with me when I tell him what he has been thinking all these years is wrong-- what he has been planning to do with me will not work out. I am not to be a pawn in his chess match, nor a rook, nor a bishop, not a queen. And that is not by my own decree, but by the Gods. He will think I am only saying things to avoid having to part myself from Ira, and he will tell me I am ungrateful and spoiled by Ira's affections, or he will think I have heard some sick rumor from one of his enemies detailing his poor use of people (although I know it haunts even Emrys himself, for he murmurs about it constantly in his sleep. I can hear him every night saying the names of those he has betrayed for the use of the gods) and he will say I am gullible and weak, and cannot think for myself. That is always his way, and maybe some other time it would be true. But I do not lie about the things I see in my dreams.
Perhaps the gods might some day invest in making things easier for me by showing everyone in the world the things I see. Maybe then I won't sound so crazy.
Perhaps as just a nice gift to me, once.Tags: amir
Current Location: parlor
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My back is paining me again. I always feel bad telling Amir that, for he seems to think it is some code to him, some code that means, “You’re being an ass, dear. Step off a bit.” Which it really isn’t. If he were being an ass, I suppose I’d just tell him and have him knock it off. Although I don’t think I’d tell him to step off, because his poor soul is so fragile and mad with want of adoration there’s no telling what he’d do. But he isn’t being one currently, and there have been few times when he has been a complete and utter jack, so I suppose it’s generally tolerable (I know I can be a far greater ass at times, as well as a regular jealous twat that rightfully deserves to have his ears boxed on occasion to make sure he is behaving in his own brain, but, you see, I am always forgiven). In anycase, my back is still scarred and the bones still ache and creak sometimes. I’m sure he knows it, but I think it’s one of those things he just doesn’t understand. It’s that whole fucked up trust thing we seem to have going on and all. I might tell him something a dozen hundred times and it won’t ring true until I say it with mere silence, or until someone else informs him it is true, and then he’ll get it like it’s the word of the Gods (like the time he figured out he was, indeed, a fairly decent human being, whose faults, as are most of the common day faults of most common day people, are perfectly forgivable, if not occasionally adorable—as the one is where he does that strange tweaky thing with his nose every time he runs into something that makes my heart go all dancey and my toes curl up like a scroll). Wish it were nonexistent, but I’d rather have it than other problems, I’d suppose. Good on my heart to let our problems seem smaller than perhaps they are, but bad on my brain for attempting to do the same thing. So, my back is paining worse than it has since I was injured initially those years back and I’ve been spending a lot of time napping with many pillows or hot stones beneath it. It is the cold damp air that gets into my bones, old Gita might tell me if she were still crippling along the earth. But to think that would make me feel old, so I tell myself I was doing something wonderfully fanciful and youthish (such as climbing a fence or practicing my swordsmanship, which is always in need of practice). And the old lad sulks like the kit in the corner when he is able to come and see me. I might coddle him and mess up his hair, but it hurts to move so. So I do it with my words, and I suppose I get a fine grin now and again. I am always hopeful. Isolde comes to see me, like a bright firefly who buzzes around and hurts my eyes and head, but is nice and harmless, and knows how to aid these things. It was she who suggested the hot stones, and when her dear Brangwyn is not busy, she is the one who warms them for me. And we talk together as if we were brother and sis, in Welsh (although she is always calling me in Gaelic, ‘Seabhac’ and Amir is always her ‘Eanbeag’ or her pretty “Cláirseoir” as she likes it best of all to hear him sing). It is good to have the kin around that is truly my own (and is not that yellow-eyed bastardous charlatan). I do not suppose Amir is jealous of Brangwyn, for I never believed before that he might have a jealous bone in his body. The thought that I would cease in my fidelity to him is, nonetheless, disgusting and unthinkable (despite the fact that it is, indeed, a thought and therefore, has already been thought, despite being unthinkable). I think, merely, he is jealous that he cannot spend as much time with me in my pain as Brangwyn, who is a serving maid and not an important member of the royal court, and perhaps wishes he might be the one rubbing those infernal stones on my poor inflamed back, the maternal little git. But he pines often for my touch, I think, when I am weak and my poor back hurts in the late autumn. I have spoiled him with my fabulous skills of loving, I think, and he is hurt in his heart when we cannot be rushing at every moment he has spared to be teasing and giggling with one another. But he is still my sweetheart, the poor kit. So I let him rest his head on my stomach when we lie in for the night. Sometimes he brings me food and pets my hands and hair, the dearling. I think he likes to mother me about, even if being mothered is something I deeply despise. He likes to have –me- (who is both older and taller and certainly at least a bit more manly than he) resting my head up on his chest so that he might pet my hair and coddle me like a spoiled pup (which, in all actuality, I really am nothing more than a glorified whippet). But I find it a bit annoying, however, as I have not been able to entertain him in a more, dare I say? proper manner, I allow him to do it now and again. Needless to say, my back is mending up at least a little bit, and I think I shall be able to attend the Yuletide fire without any sort of support or cane, spry as my fair love.
I sorely hate feeling old at twenty-one. Tags: ira
Current Location: the parlor
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The boy smiled at me once, though, and dear be to me the Gods, it felt like the sun was finally shining again! So happy was me, so overjoyed to see them pretty pink lips parting, I might’ve cried. Not seen him smile in over three weeks, not since word came back and I thought he might never be happy again, I told myself. Yesterday and the day before while we were riding, he slumped most of the time against Bais’ neck and looked like he was not awake at all. So stressed is he, so hurt! I hope Cornwall and Morgaine (who does not seem so over-bearing as Isolde and Guenivere--nor indeed, Isolde and Guenivere put together, as was the situation when we left Camelot) will heal him. It is near the sea and the waves always seem to do him much good. He says the rhythm of the waves lets him fall back into his natural motion, lets him feel alive again. I don’t think I understand it, but I s’pose it’s the same as how I can’t be in a room without windows without getting myself sick. He doesn’t look as tired as he did yesterday. He shouldn’t. He slept like a babe last night. Swear he kept the cows awake with his snoring. The moment he hit the hay in that smelly barn, I think, he was asleep, and I had to pull him into my arms all by myself. He didn’t wake up once from ill dreaming—just slept. And looked at peace. I don’t think he was happy to be woken up this morning, but we needed to be gone before the owner of the barn came and found us curled up there. Amir didn’t talk at all the entire morning, and I think it was because he was still one-part asleep, not because he is angry with me. And I know it is not because he is mad because when we stopped to have a dinner he wouldn't eat but curled up on my lap and told me he loved me 27 times without stopping, then fell asleep again, with his head on my shoulder and his big pretty eyes full of tears.
My poor kitten.
We have been leaving on stealings from the fields of farmers and the booths of merchants. Glad am I I wore my tunic with the big sleeves. I can fit five apples in one arm, so long as I don't go bending over and letting them fall out. I think he will be alright. I certainly hope it. Tags: ira
Current Location: the pasture
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Isolde said she had something to tend to and wanted me to watch her pilgrim while she was gone. She said he mostly sleeps all day. I know what she’s doing, and I don’t think I mind. He has a terrible wound in his thigh and from how he was speaking when Ira found him, I think he is delirious and in much pain. I don’t think I’m scared over it. And I could take in the harp Merlin is having me make before our next meeting and do some work then. I sat with him for over two hours, I think, before he started to do anything worth mentioning (but it could’ve been more because I think I fell asleep with my head on the column of my harp). I was only sort of awake and one of my little ones came in through the window and was sitting on my hand. She was chatting at me, only I didn’t care much for what she was saying, but I let her stay there because she was warm and sweet on my fingertips. And my hands were tired of chiseling. And my cousin’s pilgrim awoke. He asked for Isolde, but he did not call her ‘princess’ nor ‘queen’, not even ‘lady’ (which even I call her), only ‘Isolde’. “There is business she is to tend to,” I told him, forgetting the little one on my hand. “She told me to help you if you awaken, comfort you if you are still mad, or to send for food if you are hungry.” He laughed at me, “I was not mad,” he told me. “Only in pain. But it is okay for now. I know your face, no? And you are speaking my language, like Isolde does…” “I lived in Camelot for a short while,” I told him, “before the fighting ended with Camelot the second time, and before it started between us and Cornwall.” My aunt is always fighting with someone. “And I was there when you were found. It was my serving boy that found you,” I told him, gently. “You were screaming something terrible.” “A snake bite,” he told me, in that warm voice of his. “Snakes have not teeth of steel, nor sharp enough tongues,” said I, although I do not know from whence it came. He was silent for the long minute and I figured I had said something to make him uncomfortable. So I said, “Tell me the patterns and noise of the snake. My cousin teaches me to heal and make the herbs of use. I made your bandages the night you came, by her instruction, of course. Maybe I will learn something of healing snake bites from you, dear pilgrim. Mayhaps I already know.” “I saw naught the beast,” he said to me. “But it is possible my companion did? Is he still here?” “If you had a companion, he did nothing more but deposit you on our geraniums,” I told him. “And that mystifies the guards yet, for he left you clear in plain view of the Queen’s daughter, knowing she is a skilled healer. You were deposited practically within her inner gardens, and well inside of the gates, yet no one saw you nor any companion coming, you know.” Again, he was silent for the long minute. When he spoke again, he spoke in a tone so strange, I did not know where to place it. “You are very well-informed, little princess, aren’t you?” And here is my turn to laugh at him. “No,” says me. “I may be well-informed, but I am no princess.” “Surely,” he said, sounding aghast and apparently eager to move on to a different topic than his own mysteriousness arriving here in Dubh Leinn, “you must be! You have a serving-boy, you are made up fine and royally, you have a tongue of elegant prose, if not a bit rough, and you lived in Camelot… you cannot be a serving maid, surely?” “No, I am not a maid,” I told him, laughing at him again. “A courtier then,” said he. “A young girl, daughter to a knight or noble or lord?” “No, dear,” I said to him, smiling. “Then I do not see who you could be if you are no princess, serving maid, or courtier,” he said, sounding a little frustrated. “It was not the royalty part that you got wrong,” I told him, “merely, the gender. I am a well-informed little prince, not princess,” said I. I rather think if Ira heard that, he would say the pilgrim would have to ‘color himself embarrassed’. So I think I laughed to make him feel better over it. “Issokay,” said I, “is not a big mistake. I am very pretty, am I not?” I asked him (if Ira heard me, he might scold me for being vain—I don’t care much, but everyone always says it to me and I think you must care to be vain). The pilgrim laughed at me. “You are very vain, no?” he asked me and I smiled at him, thinking about what Ira would say. “But yes, you are very lovely.” He said, and I knew he felt strange for saying it, so I tried to smile to let him know it was okay. “What have you got there?” there is he, eager to move the subject along once more. Quite suddenly, I realized the little one in my hands, and that I was still petting her and loving her and she was still chattering to me, but I realized too, that her chatter sounded oddly like she was shouting at me. I don’t know how I didn’t notice. “AREYOULISTENINGCHILDLISTENLISTENLISTENDOYOULISTENINSOLENTCHILDHATCHILING?!!” I thought she screamed, so I got scared and let go of her. She flew off and back out the window, and I think she was angry with me. I suppose I looked like I was startled, and it frightened him too. “Was that a… bird?” he asked me, sounding like it was a big terrible thing. “Did you catch it?” “No,” I told him, “she came to me. She was mad with me because I wasn’t listening to her, but to you instead.” “And what was she saying to you?” “Wouldn’t know, would I?” I asked him. “I was listening to you, not her. They rarely talk of anything important, birds, right. Only nests and babies and winter storage and things. But they seem to think I need to know all about it.” “Maybe it is somehow important? My mentor always used to tell me strange stories about birds and dogs, and frogs falling into milk jugs.” “Merlin!” I said, quickly without thinking and he went positively silent. I knew the story of the frogs in the milk jugs… he had told it to me over and over and over again, Merlin. I felt that warm bit of feeling that had been between us as we talked about the little one vanish and I grew a little frightened. “Curious child,” he called me, “talking to birds. Don’t they think you’re mad?” He sounded a little angry with me and I shrank back. “The birds? No, they talk to each other too.” “The people,” he clarified. “Them, yes,” I said, and I could feel my hands shaking. “But they don’t even know about the birds.” “Birds don’t talk,” he said to me, sternly. “And maybe you don’t listen,” I said, ashamed very much now because my eyes were wet in front of him. I wished Ira would come and tell him off for making me cry—or even tell me off for crying. He gave me the long silence again and I thought he may have fallen asleep. I sort of hoped he did. “What else have you there?” he asked me, quite suddenly. “What?” I asked him, confused. I had let the little one go. “That wood there. And a chisel. What are you making?” “A harp,” I told him. “Or, well, the column to my harp.” He seemed interested. “And how does such a little boy know how to make a harp?” he asked me and there was his voice, kind and warm again. It was like Merlin hadn’t even come up. I suppose maybe he felt bad for making me cry. “My...my mentor taught me,” I told him, “I’ve always been okay with wood-working, but I cut my hands a lot,” I added, showing him my fingers where I’d accidentally whittled myself. Isolde and Ira kept bandaging them up for me, as well as scolding me for being a hassle, but I don’t think they actually mind. “Do you play?” he asked me, and I said I did. “But this harp isn’t nearly ready to be played yet,” I told him, showing how I had only started on putting the column together—it wasn’t even connected to the neck or the soundbox yet. And I hadn’t even sent Ira to purchase strings for me yet, either. “You spend a lot of time on the design,” he informed me, like I didn’t know, “that is admirable. Most boys your age would be so anxious to pluck around on it, they might not even add such detail, forget putting it together right.” “Yes, but I am late on it,” I told him. “My mentor wanted me finished by the time he gets back, and I have a feeling he will be back soon enough.” “Perhaps your feeling will be wrong?” he suggested to me, and I said maybe. “Amir, sweetheart…” and then Isolde was there and her hand was in mine. “…ah, Drustan,” she said gently, “You have met my dearest little cousin, Prince Amir?” she asked, and I heard her sit on the bed next to him. “Is he not sweet?” “Yes, he is very,” said Drustan the Pilgrim. “He was showing me his harp, and telling me what the birds were saying.” “Always listening to his friends, my little bird,” she said, of me, and she petted my head like I was her son. “Where is your Ira, dear? Will he come and collect you soon?” “I should think so,” I told her, replacing my whittling in my bag. Ira’d made it for me out of velvet so I wouldn’t lose it so easily, as I like the touch so much. “I’m here, sorrysorry!” And then he was, with his hands on my shoulders and a kiss on my cheek. “Got caught up, dearling, m’lady,” I felt him bow to Isolde and I knew she was smiling at him. She loves Ira, not quite the same as me. I think if Ira were older, and perhaps if he were a prince (as he was in the dream I had that Merlin gave me), she might like to marry him. But I am not ever sure if he wants to have her back—she is much older than he is and he treats her just the same as he treats all the girls. “We…. ought to be off, kitten,” Ira said to me and I nodded when he held my hand. “Good evening, my cousin,” I told Isolde. “And to you, dear,” she said. “And thank you for your help today. You did a very good job.” She is always so kind to me—I think she thinks I will be upset if she is not always adoring me. “It was nice meeting you, little prince,” said Drustan to me. “There are no snakes in Ireland,” I said to him, and I still do not know why. I don’t think he is happy with me, because he did not speak to me again after this and Ira and I left quick.Tags: little amir
Current Location: th parlor
Current Mood:  confused
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Grey clouds are stirring on the near horizon.
All is quiet without the Rohirrim. All seems dead, or waiting for death.
There is nothing to do anymore and I am anxious. There are no horseshoes to be fixed or made, no dents in any armor to be hammered out, no swords to be sharpened. There are no friends to talk to.
I helped the carpenters and the stoneworkers make the coffin and tomb of the prince, but I had little skill there. My skill has always been in armor, weapons, not in tombs. We worked in quiet, and when the day was over, I went home and ate my stew all by myself.
Tomorrow I will go back and work in quiet. And in the evening, I will go home and eat my stew alone.
I will not go to the funeral once our work is done and the old king is ready to bury his son. It is not right. I buried my father. That is right, that is nature's course. When he was buried, I took his shop. Who will take the king's when he dies, now that Theodred is dead and Eomer is gone? He will not be long in our world, our king. I do not think he even knows his son is dead-- nor that Eomer is banished, and most of our good Rohirrim have gone with him to the ends of Middle Earth.
I would not work for Grima Wormtongue, I told myself once, such a long time ago when I saw his snake's eyes and his thieving, devouring mouth. I work only for the king.
Late in the night, the one before the Rohirrim left-- I should not even be writing this down, for it is to be imprisonment for any who talk of them now-- one of the ones that knows me came to speak to me. He said I would do well to go along. Said Eomer wanted a blacksmith to travel with them. He said I should be a man.
I only let myself be swayed for a moment, only let myself dream but a moment. I dreamt of glory, dreamt of riding into battle with armor I made myself, on a horse I knew like a lover, like my own body. I dreamt of wearing a full beard like the men, of drinking and singing with them after battle, embraces and story-telling all around. They might tell stories of my glory, they might say, "To Fallon! Ah, Fallon-- fiercest rogue on the battlefield! Even I was frightened when I saw him come, even I prayed upon the flanks of my horse to be spared from his wrath, let him know his own kin!"
I dreamt all of this, for just a moment.
And then I told him. "I work only for the king."
Me and my little bones and my smooth chin and long hair. My poor eyes and poorer balance. My weak lungs and weaker stamina-- we work only for the king. I am only for the blacksmith's fire, only for working. I have no calluses on my hand but those of chisel and hammer-- no calluses of a swordsman. I know too well my place.
When I was young, my father said I did not know well enough.
Fallon never goes. Tags: fallon
Current Location: the pasture
Current Mood:  angry
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The road now leads onward--as far as can be
Winding lanes-- and hedgerows in threes
By purple mountians-- and round every bend
All roads lead to you -- there is no journey's end
Here is my heart, I give it to you-- take me with you across this land
These are my dreams, so simple and few-- deams we hold in the palm of our hands
Deep in the winter- admist the falling snow
High in the air--where the bells they all toll
And now all around me-- I feel you still hear
Such is the journey-- no mystery to fear
It now leads onward-- I know not where
I feel it in my heart -- that you will be there
Whenever a storm comes -- whatever our fears
The journey goes on -- as your love nears
I suppose there are two things that make us different, mostly, well two things I've always thought of. He is always looking at life like it isn't anything but a dark journey to somewhere better. I've always thought that too hard of him-- to me, it may be a journey somewhere else, but it isn't so rough. There are bright things in life, there are flowers and sunrises and rainbows, and even his gorgeous face. Always when he was younger, there was dark. When he could see, the north where he lived was not too bright for him to get much sunlight, and even when I too lived in that castle, there was never enough sunlight. The dank walls nearly stifled me, I remember-- I, who was not so used to living between four walls that weren't always rolling somewhere. And now he is blind and it is always dark to his poor eyes. So I suppose I can understand it, it I must, this sadness. Although I do not like it. Tags: ira
Current Location: the pasture
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't (Sam wrote this out for me since I never learned my lettershapes before I went blind)
Isolde braided my hair today. She said it looks lovely. It isn’t in just one braid, it’s in many, and they’re all over my head. Every last bit of hair, every last strand—it’s all pocketed up, all braided together into seventy-two different braids. I counted them all as she finished them and handed them to me. It isn’t like my own hair any more. Once before, I tried to count all the different strands of hair I had, once when I was so scared to sleep. I started at the front of my head. I started with one—one that wasn’t quite as long as all the others. I reckon I only got half a handful before I fell asleep. I don’t remember how many it was, but it was more than seventy-two.
She said she’d only do it because I was so melancholic today, because Ira was off. She called me that, ‘melancholic’. Sir Tristan is teaching him much, I suppose and they’re right friends. But I still feel, heaven’s above, so lonely. I was only sitting there, in my room, and I was only inside because the rain was too cold this morning to be wandering about in. I don’t want to be thought of some stupid little maiden, after all, sitting inside all day because going outside confuses and scares me. It doesn’t scare me, being outside. Nature doesn’t frighten me or confuse me. It’s people that do. I don’t like the busy streets in Dubh Leinn, but I like the wind and the trees and even the storms, louder than the streets. After all, I went out yesterday for a good and long time. I had Miss Lyre Thatcher walk me to the sea, far from port and not near the cliffs, somewhere where it was all flat and sandy. And I fell asleep with my head on her knee and she was holding on to my hand so very tightly, like she thought the ocean might swallow us up and we would die without one another. She was petting my hair, I remembered—since it wasn’t quite braided yet-- and she was humming so soft, I could barely hear it over the waves. She wasn’t talking. She likes to talk much but she wasn’t yesterday at the sea. Just humming and petting, although she said once that she loved me and kissed me on the side of my mouth. And then I think she started to cry. The sun was ever so warm and the sand was even warmer. I think I half wished that the water would rush up and take me away with it. I sorta wished it was Ira that was humming and petting me and telling me he loved me. And through all that wishing and wondering, I suppose I just drifted off to sleep. But today it wasn’t warm enough for sleeping with Lyre Thatcher at the sea. So I stayed in and listened to the birds. I had my window open and I was leaning my forehead against it, but they only whispered about silly things—about twigs and worms and babies and mates (I don’t think talking about mates is too silly, but it made me think on Ira—the way they said they envied the mates of turtledoves for their softer down and sweeter call—and that made me very sad)—so I didn’t fancy listening to them for very long. I only sat there long enough to have the long line of the corner of my windowpane pressed into my forehead and down to my lips. I ran my finger along it until it finally went away, but I guess I sort of missed touching it after it was gone. Half of me wanted to sit there longer with my head against the pane and listening to the talk of the silly birds, but I didn’t really care for their talk, like I said. So I found my harp instead—the new one I made when Merlin last came unto me. It took me sort of a little while, because, I think, Ira moved it aside from where I last set it. I felt twice around the room before I found it, and I only brought it back to the window pane, anyways. I didn’t play any songs, just plucked for a little while, to cover up the bird noise. I suppose I could’ve asked them to be quiet, but I didn’t want to impose on their chatter. And I’ve never actually, well, talked back to them, only listened. And that was when Isolde came in. I suppose she was in the garden under my window and heard me playing. She said the lot of it—the songs I was playing were very melancholic and sad, but I told her I was only plucking, not playing any music in particular. And then I started crying, for no stupid reason at all, which made me cry any more. Isolde is so warm when she holds me close, she reminds me of my mother sometimes. She said to me, “Little bird,” (that is what she always calls me—‘little bird’), “no tears, no fears, sweetheart,” (that is what she always says—‘no tears, no fears’), “your Ira will be back tomorrow,” (that is what she always calls Ira—‘your Ira’). She always babies me like that, but I think I'd prefer it to her being angry or stern with me. “But I am not crying for missing him, I know he is okay,” I told her, “I do not know why I am crying, I just am. It is so terribly frustrating, it makes me cry even more.” So she sat down and she pulled me down to sit on her knee, like she did when I was smaller and she held me close. “Oh my little bird,” she said, “you are always so melancholic. Do you not know how we love you?” “Please, I am not,’ I told her, “I am only… I do not know what to do with myself.” “Let me be with you, no? Here, come with me,” so she took me by my hand and we went to her rooms. She braided my hair, then and she gave me warm tea and I counted all the braids. I think she could’ve been somewhere better, but she wanted to be with me, so that was okay.Tags: little amir
Current Location: the parlor
Current Mood:  melancholy
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parlororpasture's journal
