I often use metaphors in my everyday conversation to describe my world. One of the more common metaphors I use for myself is imagining myself as a literal knight from days gone by. These stories are filters by which you can glimpse my life, they show the world how I see it. The people in my stories might not feel the way that I portray them to feel but I do portray them the way that I perceive them to be in the given situation.
The Hammer's Peals - December 12th, 2015
The summer's warmth had long since passed. Falls colors had come and gone. The world lay coated in cold and blanketed in snow and ice. And yet, my heart was warm.
Summer had brought challenges and conquests unlike any before. The King had called me away from the mountains to the ocean. The battles were quieter and the nights were spent taking in the lay of the land. But in the silence between clashes, The King and I sat and talked together. One day, a sojourner joined us. She had the bearing of a huntress but the soft spoken nature characteristic of a quiet soul. I will never forget what she told me - that a maiden worth finding would be free of difficulty and confusion. The King never mentioned her words to me; instead, I pondered them in the solitude of my mind.
Falls colors brought beauty and chaos. I had returned to the mountains - jousts and hunts keeping my skills sharp but no battles. It was one a hunt one day that I ran into a maiden out gathering. She recognized me from a joust. We spoke and I offered her a ride on my horse back into town. Upon arrival, she refused to dismount - in my haste I abandoned my horse. In hindsight it was not my wisest of choices.
The huntress' words kept coming to mind. Free of difficulty and confusion. As the fall passed and winter started I kept mulling those words over in my mind. What would it look like? Is it even possible? Every maiden I had met had been rife with confusion or brimming with difficulty. In a handful of cases, both. My nights spent over the anvil echoed with the peal of a hammer and the wonder of what might yet be.
The next weekend was a dance. Nothing approaching a ball at the castle, rather a dance in the candle light under the stars. I arrived early, and laid my tunic to rest over a tree on the outskirts of the clearing. Dancing commenced and a handful of maidens honored me with a dance. One maiden, however, stood out from the rest.
I wish I could say that she caught my eye when she walked in. She was dressed in a plain dress - dark, feminine, yet practical. Truth be told, I was too captivated by her eyes to notice much of her dress. Her eyes revealed a wisdom well beyond her years. She carried herself with the dignity and poise of a queen and yet the gentleness of a mother. Her hands were strong, accustomed to work and yet soft and delicate.
We spoke as we danced under the twinkling lights. She was a caregiver - studying under a physician and working with both the elderly and children. To hear the compassion in her voice as she spoke of those in her care was to taste of sincerity anew.
The night passed too quickly. Days came and went and she occupied my thoughts. Jumbled up with the huntress' words and punctuated by the ringing of the hammer and tongs, were the eyes of the maiden caregiver.
Was this what it meant to be free of confusion and difficulty? Was there something I might be missing?
Summer had brought challenges and conquests unlike any before. The King had called me away from the mountains to the ocean. The battles were quieter and the nights were spent taking in the lay of the land. But in the silence between clashes, The King and I sat and talked together. One day, a sojourner joined us. She had the bearing of a huntress but the soft spoken nature characteristic of a quiet soul. I will never forget what she told me - that a maiden worth finding would be free of difficulty and confusion. The King never mentioned her words to me; instead, I pondered them in the solitude of my mind.
Falls colors brought beauty and chaos. I had returned to the mountains - jousts and hunts keeping my skills sharp but no battles. It was one a hunt one day that I ran into a maiden out gathering. She recognized me from a joust. We spoke and I offered her a ride on my horse back into town. Upon arrival, she refused to dismount - in my haste I abandoned my horse. In hindsight it was not my wisest of choices.
The huntress' words kept coming to mind. Free of difficulty and confusion. As the fall passed and winter started I kept mulling those words over in my mind. What would it look like? Is it even possible? Every maiden I had met had been rife with confusion or brimming with difficulty. In a handful of cases, both. My nights spent over the anvil echoed with the peal of a hammer and the wonder of what might yet be.
The next weekend was a dance. Nothing approaching a ball at the castle, rather a dance in the candle light under the stars. I arrived early, and laid my tunic to rest over a tree on the outskirts of the clearing. Dancing commenced and a handful of maidens honored me with a dance. One maiden, however, stood out from the rest.
I wish I could say that she caught my eye when she walked in. She was dressed in a plain dress - dark, feminine, yet practical. Truth be told, I was too captivated by her eyes to notice much of her dress. Her eyes revealed a wisdom well beyond her years. She carried herself with the dignity and poise of a queen and yet the gentleness of a mother. Her hands were strong, accustomed to work and yet soft and delicate.
We spoke as we danced under the twinkling lights. She was a caregiver - studying under a physician and working with both the elderly and children. To hear the compassion in her voice as she spoke of those in her care was to taste of sincerity anew.
The night passed too quickly. Days came and went and she occupied my thoughts. Jumbled up with the huntress' words and punctuated by the ringing of the hammer and tongs, were the eyes of the maiden caregiver.
Was this what it meant to be free of confusion and difficulty? Was there something I might be missing?
Reversals - April 7th, 2015
Reversals are always strange. From being the squire to having a squire, from mending lances to breaking lances, from eating the meal to preparing the food. It's part of growing and changing, part of becoming who we were created to be. As I sat and sharpened my knife by the fire I pondered the reversal that had taken place.
I had met her when the King had hosted a banquet. It wasn't terribly fancy but His kindness for His subjects knew no bounds. We sat opposite each other and as the minstrels sang and the musicians played our conversation flowed like hot tea. She was an enigma unlike any I had come across before. Her soft hands could work the soil as well as anyone else I knew. Her garb was simple and dark but conveyed a cheerfulness known only to a few blessed souls. Her smile was quick to show but as rare as tanzanite.
After the banquet we had met a handful of other times. Hot tea and food proved the catalyst to our conversations. I was there to help when a leaky roof had dampened her spirits. Our friendship was like the first snow at the end of the harvest - beautiful and a foreshadowing of what's to come. Or so I thought.
There lay the reversal though. The other night she had asked to remain friends - nothing less, nothing more. My memory of that night fuzzy, but she said something about protecting my heart. That line stood out to me. A maiden protect the heart of a knight.
Or at least a knight in training.
On the one hand, maybe I needed to be reminded that I am still in my black armor, not the red and white armor the King's preparing for me. I'm not who I am supposed to be yet. Saying that I don't need help or protection is an arrogance I dearly hope I'm not inclined toward.
Yet the damsel protecting the knight? Something about that isn't quite right. Her value is greater, her heart more fragile. It is not the clay jar that's kept inside and protected, it's the glass vase. But neither are flowers kept in the clay jar.
But here I was, watching flowers in a clay jar as the glass vase is used to draw water from the well.
There's something to be said for glass vases robust enough to draw water, don't get me wrong. But no matter how robust the vase is, drawing water isn't its purpose. And no matter how decadent the clay jar, it will never do the flowers justice.
Maybe analogies are just confusing the situation - although they don't make it more confusing. They just don't clear anything up.
My thoughts tumbled around, as chaotic and short lived as the sparks leaping from the fire. Sparks...that was something else she had said. She appreciated my friendship but was waiting for a spark.
The sparks from the fire weren't the cause of the fire - rather the fire caused the sparks. The fire itself fed off of the rather dreary logs nestled in the bottom of the pit. Those logs, years in the making were now being used to fuel a fire that would only burn so long as there were logs to spare. And the sparks only came from the fire when it was large and well fed. The years long growth of the logs was the only reason for the short lived life of the spark.
True, the sparks were the prettiest part of the dancing flames. They leaped higher than anything else, taking the light of the fire outside the flickering, circular glow. But the sparks were also the weakest part of the fire, stamped out by even a bare foot out extinguished in the cool evening breeze.
But the hottest part of the fire was deep down in the nestled crook of the logs. As the wood gave way to white hot and brilliant pink pocket of heat. Pockets that could be convinced to birth a flame long after the fire had gone out.
Maybe there's another reversal here I need to be aware of - more than the maiden protecting the knight. It's the least glamorous parts of the fire that are the most important. All the while the prettiest parts of the fire, the parts most easily seen, are the parts that rely on everything else being right.
I had met her when the King had hosted a banquet. It wasn't terribly fancy but His kindness for His subjects knew no bounds. We sat opposite each other and as the minstrels sang and the musicians played our conversation flowed like hot tea. She was an enigma unlike any I had come across before. Her soft hands could work the soil as well as anyone else I knew. Her garb was simple and dark but conveyed a cheerfulness known only to a few blessed souls. Her smile was quick to show but as rare as tanzanite.
After the banquet we had met a handful of other times. Hot tea and food proved the catalyst to our conversations. I was there to help when a leaky roof had dampened her spirits. Our friendship was like the first snow at the end of the harvest - beautiful and a foreshadowing of what's to come. Or so I thought.
There lay the reversal though. The other night she had asked to remain friends - nothing less, nothing more. My memory of that night fuzzy, but she said something about protecting my heart. That line stood out to me. A maiden protect the heart of a knight.
Or at least a knight in training.
On the one hand, maybe I needed to be reminded that I am still in my black armor, not the red and white armor the King's preparing for me. I'm not who I am supposed to be yet. Saying that I don't need help or protection is an arrogance I dearly hope I'm not inclined toward.
Yet the damsel protecting the knight? Something about that isn't quite right. Her value is greater, her heart more fragile. It is not the clay jar that's kept inside and protected, it's the glass vase. But neither are flowers kept in the clay jar.
But here I was, watching flowers in a clay jar as the glass vase is used to draw water from the well.
There's something to be said for glass vases robust enough to draw water, don't get me wrong. But no matter how robust the vase is, drawing water isn't its purpose. And no matter how decadent the clay jar, it will never do the flowers justice.
Maybe analogies are just confusing the situation - although they don't make it more confusing. They just don't clear anything up.
My thoughts tumbled around, as chaotic and short lived as the sparks leaping from the fire. Sparks...that was something else she had said. She appreciated my friendship but was waiting for a spark.
The sparks from the fire weren't the cause of the fire - rather the fire caused the sparks. The fire itself fed off of the rather dreary logs nestled in the bottom of the pit. Those logs, years in the making were now being used to fuel a fire that would only burn so long as there were logs to spare. And the sparks only came from the fire when it was large and well fed. The years long growth of the logs was the only reason for the short lived life of the spark.
True, the sparks were the prettiest part of the dancing flames. They leaped higher than anything else, taking the light of the fire outside the flickering, circular glow. But the sparks were also the weakest part of the fire, stamped out by even a bare foot out extinguished in the cool evening breeze.
But the hottest part of the fire was deep down in the nestled crook of the logs. As the wood gave way to white hot and brilliant pink pocket of heat. Pockets that could be convinced to birth a flame long after the fire had gone out.
Maybe there's another reversal here I need to be aware of - more than the maiden protecting the knight. It's the least glamorous parts of the fire that are the most important. All the while the prettiest parts of the fire, the parts most easily seen, are the parts that rely on everything else being right.
The First Ripple - October 25th, 2014
The journey back from the physician’s house wasn’t what I
was expecting. Then again, my second visit hadn’t been in that category either.
The woods were still clinging to their green despite the autumn coloring. I stopped for lunch next to the pond I had thrown a boulder in on the way out. It was a peaceful day, warm but not oppressively hot - a hint of crispness in the air to remind me that it was fall and to encourage me to keep my overcloak on.
I built a fire and started to cook my meal. Nothing fancy, just some sausage I had with me, a couple of eggs from this morning’s foraging, and some wild vegetables. It’s amazing how fond you grow of the tools you use to feed yourself.
*snap* A twig cracked in the underbrush and drew my attention away from my meal. I stood up, hand on my dagger, ready for action. The snap gave way to footsteps and the footsteps revealed themselves. He was an older man, unshaved and disheveled. His mouth was constantly open without a tooth to be seen.
There’s a mannerism that desperate people have that reveals itself in every action they take. Their walk, their talk, their eyes all say what they fear to admit with words. This man wasn’t afraid however.
“Can you help us?” His plea reached my ears and while my hand didn’t leave my dagger, my stance relaxed. “My wife,” he motioned to the woods where another shadow kept its distance, “and I need some help. Can you help us find something to eat?”
There comes a point in every man’s life where his words and his actions either align or diverge. Loving the poor had always been a talking point of mine but opportunities to do so had yet to present themselves until today. My words searched for a polite way to send him on his way – my meal was plenty for one but hardly enough for three.
Yet what came out of my mouth surprised me, stopped me in my tracks.
“Let’s get you something to eat. C’mon.” I found myself waving him toward my fire even as he turned toward his wife and joyfully called her over. We all sat down in the sand on the shore together as the meal finished cooking.
Conversation was pleasant and flowed easily. Desperation had given way to childlike gratitude as I shared what I had with them. The meal didn’t last long but it was the act of eating, rather than the quantity, that gave those two hope. As for myself, I was lost in my thoughts.
See, the person I had been yesterday wouldn’t have shared. The person who I was today shared hesitantly…who would I be tomorrow? What all was the King doing in my heart? Here was a man with nothing but the clothes on his back who had done all that he could do to provide for his wife. That….that was something I needed to learn. He sacrificed his dignity to ensure that she had food. Could I do that?
He met me man to man, face to face, and his plea was one that I couldn’t ignore because it was a plea that spoke to my heart, to my desires. And in his plea he proved himself a knight far more deserving of the title than I. Yet again I found that worth doesn’t come into play in the King’s realm. It’s about the King’s choice and not about worth at all.
My afternoon would be filled with these reverberating thoughts, I was sure of it. Visiting the physician and his wife, who were always so quick to share, so quick to be hospitable, had changed me. I could almost see the King’s smile now as I thought ahead to telling him about this.
Lunch ended and we parted ways. I saddled my horse while the man and his wife continued their journey. Just as I mounted and turned toward the road, something caught my eye. A shimmering of the surface of the pond – like a ripple without a source – touched the shore. I looked again but the pond was as still as glass, a veritable mirror to the sky. Yet I hadn’t imagined that ripple, I was sure of it.
The woods were still clinging to their green despite the autumn coloring. I stopped for lunch next to the pond I had thrown a boulder in on the way out. It was a peaceful day, warm but not oppressively hot - a hint of crispness in the air to remind me that it was fall and to encourage me to keep my overcloak on.
I built a fire and started to cook my meal. Nothing fancy, just some sausage I had with me, a couple of eggs from this morning’s foraging, and some wild vegetables. It’s amazing how fond you grow of the tools you use to feed yourself.
*snap* A twig cracked in the underbrush and drew my attention away from my meal. I stood up, hand on my dagger, ready for action. The snap gave way to footsteps and the footsteps revealed themselves. He was an older man, unshaved and disheveled. His mouth was constantly open without a tooth to be seen.
There’s a mannerism that desperate people have that reveals itself in every action they take. Their walk, their talk, their eyes all say what they fear to admit with words. This man wasn’t afraid however.
“Can you help us?” His plea reached my ears and while my hand didn’t leave my dagger, my stance relaxed. “My wife,” he motioned to the woods where another shadow kept its distance, “and I need some help. Can you help us find something to eat?”
There comes a point in every man’s life where his words and his actions either align or diverge. Loving the poor had always been a talking point of mine but opportunities to do so had yet to present themselves until today. My words searched for a polite way to send him on his way – my meal was plenty for one but hardly enough for three.
Yet what came out of my mouth surprised me, stopped me in my tracks.
“Let’s get you something to eat. C’mon.” I found myself waving him toward my fire even as he turned toward his wife and joyfully called her over. We all sat down in the sand on the shore together as the meal finished cooking.
Conversation was pleasant and flowed easily. Desperation had given way to childlike gratitude as I shared what I had with them. The meal didn’t last long but it was the act of eating, rather than the quantity, that gave those two hope. As for myself, I was lost in my thoughts.
See, the person I had been yesterday wouldn’t have shared. The person who I was today shared hesitantly…who would I be tomorrow? What all was the King doing in my heart? Here was a man with nothing but the clothes on his back who had done all that he could do to provide for his wife. That….that was something I needed to learn. He sacrificed his dignity to ensure that she had food. Could I do that?
He met me man to man, face to face, and his plea was one that I couldn’t ignore because it was a plea that spoke to my heart, to my desires. And in his plea he proved himself a knight far more deserving of the title than I. Yet again I found that worth doesn’t come into play in the King’s realm. It’s about the King’s choice and not about worth at all.
My afternoon would be filled with these reverberating thoughts, I was sure of it. Visiting the physician and his wife, who were always so quick to share, so quick to be hospitable, had changed me. I could almost see the King’s smile now as I thought ahead to telling him about this.
Lunch ended and we parted ways. I saddled my horse while the man and his wife continued their journey. Just as I mounted and turned toward the road, something caught my eye. A shimmering of the surface of the pond – like a ripple without a source – touched the shore. I looked again but the pond was as still as glass, a veritable mirror to the sky. Yet I hadn’t imagined that ripple, I was sure of it.
Of Boulders and Ponds - October 14th, 2014
I remembered this pond. It was quiet, still. Just like it had been the last time I was here. I was nearly to the crook in the river, nearly to my final destination. My trip was almost through.
The leaves were different, the forest green had started to give way to reds, golds, and oranges. Far more colors than I was used to seeing. Where I grew up the only fall color was yellow. Sunlight through the aspen leaves turned the air gold in forest clearings. Here, the air was auburn, a fitting color for the warmth in the woods.
I stopped my horse and dismounted. No stumps were there to sit on, all of them having been eaten by bugs as soon as they were formed. The leaves were enough padding to make sitting comfortable on the bank of the pond.
The still water reflected the trees on the opposite side sharply. Bugs and fish would break the stillness of the surface here and there but the pond was quiet. I knew that life teamed under its serene surface, that past the beautiful exterior there was the chaos of life. But it wasn’t showing through, all that I could see was the reflection of the woods.
The last time I was here I had found a round, flat stone. It was just the right size to fit in the bend of my finger and it flew straight and true before skipping across the surface of the pond. I had sat and watched the ripples from that stone reach the shore just beneath my feet. Each skip produced its own ripples and all of the ripples made it back to me.
There were no flat rocks this time, no readily available ammo for slinging a stone across the surface of the waters. All that was around me were leaves and a large rock, more correct perhaps would be to call it a small boulder. It was the size of my head and made of black granite. I picked it up and, while unwieldy, found it to be no heavier than my sword.
The sheen of the rock matched my armor – it was as if someone has started to polish it and then realized how long it would take to polish the entire rock and stopped partway through. My armor hadn’t been polished in ages and while it still had some shine to it, it was not what it needed to be. I knew what I was doing at the campfire that night.
And so I sat on the banks of the river, rolling the small boulder through my hands reflecting on life.
Part of me still didn’t believe that I was here, that within 5 fortnights I had left the kingdom I was so content with, attended a tournament, and had fallen fast and hard for the lady in the colored dress. The past few months were so unlike anything that I had done before that I kept thinking I would blink and wake up. I kept blinking but I never woke up.
So here I was, on the banks of the still pond, with a boulder. Something to know about me is that deep down there will always be a part of me that’s a little kid. That will say something to get a reaction, that will find toys fascinating, that’s grossed out by girls, that throws rocks into ponds.
As I stood up, I picked up the granite with me. My throwing methods might not be as refined for boulders as they are for skipping stones but the two handed heave is always a sure bet. The small boulder flew over the surface of the water, I watched as the pond faithfully reflected its trajectory. And then the solitude and stillness of the pond were shattered as the rock met the center of the pond and set a five foot tall jet of water into the air.
I turned and walked to my horse.
The leaves were different, the forest green had started to give way to reds, golds, and oranges. Far more colors than I was used to seeing. Where I grew up the only fall color was yellow. Sunlight through the aspen leaves turned the air gold in forest clearings. Here, the air was auburn, a fitting color for the warmth in the woods.
I stopped my horse and dismounted. No stumps were there to sit on, all of them having been eaten by bugs as soon as they were formed. The leaves were enough padding to make sitting comfortable on the bank of the pond.
The still water reflected the trees on the opposite side sharply. Bugs and fish would break the stillness of the surface here and there but the pond was quiet. I knew that life teamed under its serene surface, that past the beautiful exterior there was the chaos of life. But it wasn’t showing through, all that I could see was the reflection of the woods.
The last time I was here I had found a round, flat stone. It was just the right size to fit in the bend of my finger and it flew straight and true before skipping across the surface of the pond. I had sat and watched the ripples from that stone reach the shore just beneath my feet. Each skip produced its own ripples and all of the ripples made it back to me.
There were no flat rocks this time, no readily available ammo for slinging a stone across the surface of the waters. All that was around me were leaves and a large rock, more correct perhaps would be to call it a small boulder. It was the size of my head and made of black granite. I picked it up and, while unwieldy, found it to be no heavier than my sword.
The sheen of the rock matched my armor – it was as if someone has started to polish it and then realized how long it would take to polish the entire rock and stopped partway through. My armor hadn’t been polished in ages and while it still had some shine to it, it was not what it needed to be. I knew what I was doing at the campfire that night.
And so I sat on the banks of the river, rolling the small boulder through my hands reflecting on life.
Part of me still didn’t believe that I was here, that within 5 fortnights I had left the kingdom I was so content with, attended a tournament, and had fallen fast and hard for the lady in the colored dress. The past few months were so unlike anything that I had done before that I kept thinking I would blink and wake up. I kept blinking but I never woke up.
So here I was, on the banks of the still pond, with a boulder. Something to know about me is that deep down there will always be a part of me that’s a little kid. That will say something to get a reaction, that will find toys fascinating, that’s grossed out by girls, that throws rocks into ponds.
As I stood up, I picked up the granite with me. My throwing methods might not be as refined for boulders as they are for skipping stones but the two handed heave is always a sure bet. The small boulder flew over the surface of the water, I watched as the pond faithfully reflected its trajectory. And then the solitude and stillness of the pond were shattered as the rock met the center of the pond and set a five foot tall jet of water into the air.
I turned and walked to my horse.
Why? Part II - September 23rd, 2014
The battle didn’t end with fighting for my heart. Grace may
be the only antidote to bitterness and unforgiveness but giving grace doesn’t
rid yourself of feelings of guilt. Even a tiny seed of guilt, no bigger than a
grain of sand, can scratch and the underside of your eyelid and keep you from
rest.
These were the thoughts that consumed my mind long after the fire had died down and the owls had taken over the night.
I rolled over, hoping to escape the scratching of tiny mouse feet scampering through the undergrowth. I knew that was no escaping the scratching inside my head.
How do you deal with a guilt that is tiny but incessant? How do you deal with a grain of sand stuck in your eye that no tears, no pleading on your part can remove?
I sat up – if I’m awake I may as well be productive. My boots had been on the wrong end of a handful of rocks today. Watching where you’re going is hard when your ears are full of tears. I pulled them out of the bottom of my sleeping roll and dug the black wax out of my satchel.
My horse nickered nearby, blissfully resting until my movement had woken him.
The silver moonlight was plenty to see the scuffs on my boots by. I wet the rag from my canteen and let the monotonous polishing motion take over. The nice part about being male was being able to almost forget everything that’s bothering you in the light of a menial task.
Almost.
As the scuffs gave way to the dull sheen of a boot desperately in need of polishing, the grain of sand in my eye returned to the forefront of my mind.
My guilt plagued me. Instead of speaking life I had drained it, instead of encouraging I had torn down through silence. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel the feelings, it was that I never spoke them. I had buried my gratitude deep inside never to see the light of day.
My eyes started to tear up again.
I had been too casual, too cocky but not confident enough. I had forgotten that being a knight was more than carrying a sword. Being a knight was dressing the part, was being exemplary in every aspect of your appearance, demeanor, and character so as to inspire those around you to be the best they can be.
The moon’s crescent shape was now distinguishable on the one boot while the other still blurred its outline into that of a pale blob.
So now here I was – fighting with a grain of sand in the middle of the night while polishing boots in the moonlight. A grain of sand…a speck.
But wait, humans aren’t the only ones bothered by a grain of sand. I’m fairly certain that shaking like a wet dog isn’t going to do anything to ease my guilt though. What else? Wait, oysters. Instead of fighting the grain of sand, why don’t I turn it into something.
My polishing speed ebbed and flowed with the thoughts in my head.
If I couldn’t rid myself of my guilt…then maybe I could turn my guilt into something beautiful. Something unique, precious. I couldn’t get rid of the grain of sand in my eye, I could only accept it and work around it. Not all problems are there to be solved, some are to be leveraged to bring about a beauty far beyond what we could have ever imagined.
My boots stood ebony black and shining in the moonlight. I replaced them in my sleeping bag to ensure their warmth in the morning as I rolled back over. Sleep finds its way quickly to the peaceful. And peace is a by product of forgiveness.
I was traveling to apologize.
These were the thoughts that consumed my mind long after the fire had died down and the owls had taken over the night.
I rolled over, hoping to escape the scratching of tiny mouse feet scampering through the undergrowth. I knew that was no escaping the scratching inside my head.
How do you deal with a guilt that is tiny but incessant? How do you deal with a grain of sand stuck in your eye that no tears, no pleading on your part can remove?
I sat up – if I’m awake I may as well be productive. My boots had been on the wrong end of a handful of rocks today. Watching where you’re going is hard when your ears are full of tears. I pulled them out of the bottom of my sleeping roll and dug the black wax out of my satchel.
My horse nickered nearby, blissfully resting until my movement had woken him.
The silver moonlight was plenty to see the scuffs on my boots by. I wet the rag from my canteen and let the monotonous polishing motion take over. The nice part about being male was being able to almost forget everything that’s bothering you in the light of a menial task.
Almost.
As the scuffs gave way to the dull sheen of a boot desperately in need of polishing, the grain of sand in my eye returned to the forefront of my mind.
My guilt plagued me. Instead of speaking life I had drained it, instead of encouraging I had torn down through silence. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel the feelings, it was that I never spoke them. I had buried my gratitude deep inside never to see the light of day.
My eyes started to tear up again.
I had been too casual, too cocky but not confident enough. I had forgotten that being a knight was more than carrying a sword. Being a knight was dressing the part, was being exemplary in every aspect of your appearance, demeanor, and character so as to inspire those around you to be the best they can be.
The moon’s crescent shape was now distinguishable on the one boot while the other still blurred its outline into that of a pale blob.
So now here I was – fighting with a grain of sand in the middle of the night while polishing boots in the moonlight. A grain of sand…a speck.
But wait, humans aren’t the only ones bothered by a grain of sand. I’m fairly certain that shaking like a wet dog isn’t going to do anything to ease my guilt though. What else? Wait, oysters. Instead of fighting the grain of sand, why don’t I turn it into something.
My polishing speed ebbed and flowed with the thoughts in my head.
If I couldn’t rid myself of my guilt…then maybe I could turn my guilt into something beautiful. Something unique, precious. I couldn’t get rid of the grain of sand in my eye, I could only accept it and work around it. Not all problems are there to be solved, some are to be leveraged to bring about a beauty far beyond what we could have ever imagined.
My boots stood ebony black and shining in the moonlight. I replaced them in my sleeping bag to ensure their warmth in the morning as I rolled back over. Sleep finds its way quickly to the peaceful. And peace is a by product of forgiveness.
I was traveling to apologize.
Why? - September 22nd, 2014
Why are you fighting? Why are you here?
The words echoed in my head like the strident sound of a blade being drawn, like the twang of an arrow released from a bow. The words attacked me at every turn, every twist of my sword and they would dance right back – accusing, mocking, relentless.
I couldn’t escape. They were in my dreams as faces with names, stories. They were in my waking hours as thoughts inside my head. They were with me when I cooked, ate, fed my horse. I heard them every time I polished my sword, every time I donned my armor or took it off.
Why are you here? Why did you come back?
Sometimes the words changed. Sometimes they questions were different. But it was always poisonous, always attacking, always seeking to breach my defenses.
The journey back to the crook in the river was long. The autumn sun was merciless without wind or rain to take its edge off. But my weariness came from the constant battle. You can end most battles – either win or die. But this battle, this was a battle with myself. There was no winning, there was no dying here. The battle raged on, vying for my soul.
Why did you come back? Why are you fighting?
I answered the questions a thousand times and yet still it was asked. I was fighting for her, for the Lady in the Colored Dress. I was fighting for true love, for grace and hope. I was fighting for a future, for the freedom to choose. I was fighting to become more than just a man, to become a legend, a story. I was fighting to be larger than life.
Why are you fighting? Why are you here?
The questions never ceased. They were like needles under my fingernails, like claws at my eye lids, like poison oozing through my veins. I couldn’t keep fighting forever. You can’t win when you fight your own self, your own thoughts. There is no way out, there is only defeat.
Why are you here? Why did you come back?
And then it hit me. I knew why I was fighting. The answer wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t what I hoped for either. But it was the truth.
I am fighting for a heart. A human heart made in the image of the invisible God. The most precious treasure in all the world worth far more than any sum of money. A human heart so valued that the King Himself died to save it, that the King rose again to keep watch over it. A human heart that holds the capacity for beauty and strength, the possibility of greatness lies within its grasp.
I’m fighting for my heart.
The words echoed in my head like the strident sound of a blade being drawn, like the twang of an arrow released from a bow. The words attacked me at every turn, every twist of my sword and they would dance right back – accusing, mocking, relentless.
I couldn’t escape. They were in my dreams as faces with names, stories. They were in my waking hours as thoughts inside my head. They were with me when I cooked, ate, fed my horse. I heard them every time I polished my sword, every time I donned my armor or took it off.
Why are you here? Why did you come back?
Sometimes the words changed. Sometimes they questions were different. But it was always poisonous, always attacking, always seeking to breach my defenses.
The journey back to the crook in the river was long. The autumn sun was merciless without wind or rain to take its edge off. But my weariness came from the constant battle. You can end most battles – either win or die. But this battle, this was a battle with myself. There was no winning, there was no dying here. The battle raged on, vying for my soul.
Why did you come back? Why are you fighting?
I answered the questions a thousand times and yet still it was asked. I was fighting for her, for the Lady in the Colored Dress. I was fighting for true love, for grace and hope. I was fighting for a future, for the freedom to choose. I was fighting to become more than just a man, to become a legend, a story. I was fighting to be larger than life.
Why are you fighting? Why are you here?
The questions never ceased. They were like needles under my fingernails, like claws at my eye lids, like poison oozing through my veins. I couldn’t keep fighting forever. You can’t win when you fight your own self, your own thoughts. There is no way out, there is only defeat.
Why are you here? Why did you come back?
And then it hit me. I knew why I was fighting. The answer wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t what I hoped for either. But it was the truth.
I am fighting for a heart. A human heart made in the image of the invisible God. The most precious treasure in all the world worth far more than any sum of money. A human heart so valued that the King Himself died to save it, that the King rose again to keep watch over it. A human heart that holds the capacity for beauty and strength, the possibility of greatness lies within its grasp.
I’m fighting for my heart.
Blood Red and Purest White - September 18th, 2014
One month. It seems so long and yet not long enough.
I methodically packed up my camp. Last night's fire had long gone cold and my breath hung, misty, in the crisp morning air. Truth be told I couldn't fully tell you how I ended up here. Laughter mixed with tears, gratitude mingled with thinly veiled attacks, smiles both sincere and cutting all flashed through my mind.
It was too much to think about. I turned my attention back to securing the straps on my satchel.
The green of the forest was giving way to the colors of fall. The oranges, golds, and crimsons were lost to my eyes. The color in my world was the silver of the morning fog, the gold of the noonday sun, the platinum of the starlight, the black of my scabbard, the navy of the night, and the country blue of the sky.
Something about focusing only on what I can change calmed me. I can change how tight these straps are, I can change how polished my sword is, I can change how I react, what I say. The rest? That's really out of my hands. The King does what He has always done.
And that is why I'm here. I sigh as I tighten the last strap. If I had had my way, I wouldn't be here. I'd be on the other side of the country by now, fighting in the endless wars. Or, better yet, I'd still be in the town nestled by the crook of the river. But the King had a different plan.
If I was honest with myself I'd made my peace about being on this mission. The King and I had had a long walk through His gardens. He listened as only He can listen. I ranted about fairness, about second chances, about logs and specks, about dirty feet even. He just listened.
Finally He turned and found a rose. It was white with blood red tips. He didn't say anything as he tucked it into my lapel and walked on. Nothing needed to be said.
To Him, I wasn't the Black Knight. That was merely the title I gave myself. To the King, I was a White Knight. The armor He had given me was white with blood red accents. Just like the rose. The armor was a gift, a welcoming gift for when I first entered His kingdom as a squire. It didn't fit then and it still didn't fit now. Closer though, every time I tried it on I was closer to fitting. Someday I would trade in my ebony armor for that shining suit. Someday.
Which is why I'm here. I'm trying to fit into that suit of armor and therefore I'm riding back from the King's castle the thousand plus miles it takes to reach the crook in the river. If I stopped to think about it, I'm sure it wouldn't have made sense to me either.
I methodically packed up my camp. Last night's fire had long gone cold and my breath hung, misty, in the crisp morning air. Truth be told I couldn't fully tell you how I ended up here. Laughter mixed with tears, gratitude mingled with thinly veiled attacks, smiles both sincere and cutting all flashed through my mind.
It was too much to think about. I turned my attention back to securing the straps on my satchel.
The green of the forest was giving way to the colors of fall. The oranges, golds, and crimsons were lost to my eyes. The color in my world was the silver of the morning fog, the gold of the noonday sun, the platinum of the starlight, the black of my scabbard, the navy of the night, and the country blue of the sky.
Something about focusing only on what I can change calmed me. I can change how tight these straps are, I can change how polished my sword is, I can change how I react, what I say. The rest? That's really out of my hands. The King does what He has always done.
And that is why I'm here. I sigh as I tighten the last strap. If I had had my way, I wouldn't be here. I'd be on the other side of the country by now, fighting in the endless wars. Or, better yet, I'd still be in the town nestled by the crook of the river. But the King had a different plan.
If I was honest with myself I'd made my peace about being on this mission. The King and I had had a long walk through His gardens. He listened as only He can listen. I ranted about fairness, about second chances, about logs and specks, about dirty feet even. He just listened.
Finally He turned and found a rose. It was white with blood red tips. He didn't say anything as he tucked it into my lapel and walked on. Nothing needed to be said.
To Him, I wasn't the Black Knight. That was merely the title I gave myself. To the King, I was a White Knight. The armor He had given me was white with blood red accents. Just like the rose. The armor was a gift, a welcoming gift for when I first entered His kingdom as a squire. It didn't fit then and it still didn't fit now. Closer though, every time I tried it on I was closer to fitting. Someday I would trade in my ebony armor for that shining suit. Someday.
Which is why I'm here. I'm trying to fit into that suit of armor and therefore I'm riding back from the King's castle the thousand plus miles it takes to reach the crook in the river. If I stopped to think about it, I'm sure it wouldn't have made sense to me either.
The Crook in the River - August 29th, 2014
The journey had been long, tiring, but it was nearly done. Within a day I would be at the physician’s place.
The afternoon sun was warm, with a gentle breeze to take the edge off the worst of its offenses. Unfortunately, there is no easy way to travel with armor – wearing it cooks you like a duck over open flame while carting it in your satchel requires a larger satchel than any I knew of. Needless to say I was metaphorically spinning on a spit.
The nights had been cool enough to bring me back to a healthy internal temperature. And of all the odd happenings recently I had run into some old friends of mine on various nights throughout this trip.
The Grey Knight had laughed at me when I told him of the lady in the colored dress. Not a mean laugh mind you, but a jovial laugh that finds far more humor in a situation than anyone else. He told me I reminded him of the winter storms where the wind is whipping the flakes to and fro. Chaotic beauty. The conversation lasted until the embers died out in our fire.
A couple of nights later I ran into another old friend of mine. He was the knight of many blades for he had yet to encounter a weapon he wasn’t proficient in. He had given me my second sword, a decorative piece that I carried with me safely wrapped in my satchel. His eyes were a steely blue but they shone with merriment as I relayed my quest to him. While softspoken, his advice was multifaceted and I found myself still tumbling it over and over in my thoughts as I walked along.
My third friend had traveled with me for he had business in a town just west of the physician’s. We didn’t speak much as words are often times too much for weary travelers to force. But there was a comfortable quiet between us – an understanding that only practiced silence brings. When I related my journey’s purpose to him he stayed quiet, offering encouragement in lieu of wisdom. It’s so easy to forget that both are needed. Tonight would be my last night with him before I went east in the morning. Dinner tonight, if I didn’t end up being it myself, would be followed by a sparing match. Something about crossing blades with another brings life to an adventure.
The lady in the colored dress had sent word back from her father’s house. I was expected and welcomed. It eased my fears but did little to calm my nerves. There is something about the presence of a lady that will cause the strongest knight to feel like a stable boy and simultaneously will cause a squire to become a knight. I can’t explain it, nor do I want to. Mystery makes life more interesting.
As we mounted the hill in silence I looked toward the east. There, sparking in the evening light was a winding river. Smoke rose up in clumps along it’s shore from groups of chimney’s huddled close together. Not for warmth, but for the comfort of company. And there, in the crook of the river was a sparse group of chimneys with smoke just starting to climb into the darkening sky.
My friend and I locked eyes briefly and started to scout for a worthy campsite. This day’s journey had come to an end. Only the King knows what tomorrow’s journey will bring.
The afternoon sun was warm, with a gentle breeze to take the edge off the worst of its offenses. Unfortunately, there is no easy way to travel with armor – wearing it cooks you like a duck over open flame while carting it in your satchel requires a larger satchel than any I knew of. Needless to say I was metaphorically spinning on a spit.
The nights had been cool enough to bring me back to a healthy internal temperature. And of all the odd happenings recently I had run into some old friends of mine on various nights throughout this trip.
The Grey Knight had laughed at me when I told him of the lady in the colored dress. Not a mean laugh mind you, but a jovial laugh that finds far more humor in a situation than anyone else. He told me I reminded him of the winter storms where the wind is whipping the flakes to and fro. Chaotic beauty. The conversation lasted until the embers died out in our fire.
A couple of nights later I ran into another old friend of mine. He was the knight of many blades for he had yet to encounter a weapon he wasn’t proficient in. He had given me my second sword, a decorative piece that I carried with me safely wrapped in my satchel. His eyes were a steely blue but they shone with merriment as I relayed my quest to him. While softspoken, his advice was multifaceted and I found myself still tumbling it over and over in my thoughts as I walked along.
My third friend had traveled with me for he had business in a town just west of the physician’s. We didn’t speak much as words are often times too much for weary travelers to force. But there was a comfortable quiet between us – an understanding that only practiced silence brings. When I related my journey’s purpose to him he stayed quiet, offering encouragement in lieu of wisdom. It’s so easy to forget that both are needed. Tonight would be my last night with him before I went east in the morning. Dinner tonight, if I didn’t end up being it myself, would be followed by a sparing match. Something about crossing blades with another brings life to an adventure.
The lady in the colored dress had sent word back from her father’s house. I was expected and welcomed. It eased my fears but did little to calm my nerves. There is something about the presence of a lady that will cause the strongest knight to feel like a stable boy and simultaneously will cause a squire to become a knight. I can’t explain it, nor do I want to. Mystery makes life more interesting.
As we mounted the hill in silence I looked toward the east. There, sparking in the evening light was a winding river. Smoke rose up in clumps along it’s shore from groups of chimney’s huddled close together. Not for warmth, but for the comfort of company. And there, in the crook of the river was a sparse group of chimneys with smoke just starting to climb into the darkening sky.
My friend and I locked eyes briefly and started to scout for a worthy campsite. This day’s journey had come to an end. Only the King knows what tomorrow’s journey will bring.
The Tournament - August 15th, 2014
There’s a moment in every battle when you realize it’s not a skirmish – when you’re stabbed. As I sat there on the battlefield, watching the red life ooze from the laceration, I realized that I was in a battle.
Truth be told, I wasn’t entirely sure how I got here. Just eight days ago I had been happily living in the old kingdom. Old kingdom, I’m still not used to saying that. I had packed a bag, closed the door behind me, and set out for a tournament. It was meant to be a quiet weekend.
The funny part about life is that the King’s plans rarely follow my script. I’m alright with that.
The tournament started with a feast. Knights and ladies sat side by side enjoying the camaraderie. One lady though, I couldn’t help but stare. She was dressed simply – no less adorned than the rest but her clothes were a recognition that her true beauty came from inside.
Her dress reached her ankles and its bright colors reflected the sparkle in her eyes. Her sister was there too, every bit as beautiful and a testament that this lady’s beauty ran more than skin deep.
The pain from my wound pulled me out of my daydream. This wasn’t the feast any more, this was war.
The tournament itself was friendly; there was more teaching than competing, more competition than rivalries. I learned how to joust in addition to being able to fight with a blade. The tournament style allowed for plenty of time to practice while ladies from various kingdoms watched.
While my desire for the tournament was satiated – meet other knights and learn a new skill, it seems the King wasn’t done with me yet. The lady in the colored dress seemed to always be nearby. She was the first to arrive the morning after the feast, she watched all the training sessions I participated in. Weirder still, she participated in a handful of them. While she wasn’t as strong as some of the knights, she was every bit as fast with a knack for archery that I had never seen before.
To say I was intrigued would be an understatement.
On the second day of the tournament I was getting thoroughly beat by a novice swordfighter. The contest should have been lopsided in my favor yet here I was with half his score. An elder knight pulled me to the side.
“Ed, snap out of it. What’s wrong with you?”
“Do you see her? The lady in the colored dress with chocolate hair?”
“Yes, I see her. Tell you what, win this round and then approach her. But win this round first. No one wants to be seen with a loser.”
Sometimes it’s the blunt ones who tell us what we need to here. I won the round (even if just barely). As I made my way through the crowd I caught a glimpse of her dress as she turned a corner.
“M’Lady.”
I feared my call would be lost amongst the noise. Instead, the color in her dress stopped moving and she turned to meet my gaze. What color were her eyes? I couldn’t tell, they were dark but not one particular shade could describe the beauty they held. Her chocolate hair held the faintest hints of autumn’s glory, rippling halfway down her shoulder blades. Her face, while relaxed, bore the evidence of laughter around her eyes and the corners of her mouth.
In a word: stunning.
“M’Lady.” I began again. Too late I realized that attempting poetry while looking at such beauty is futile at best. I switched to prose after a couple of false starts.
“May I walk with you?” It was such a simple sentence, and by the King’s kindness, I received a courteous nod and the hint of a smile in return.
We spoke as we wound our way through the streets. The conversation was pleasant – flowing far easier than my forced attempts at poetry earlier.
The pain in my arm wasn’t pleasant though as I snapped back to reality. It had been a quick ambush, my thoughts of an all-out war earlier were reactive. Might it lead to that? Yes, but for the time being this had just been a short battle. Not that it was any less deadly than a war.
The rest of the tournament went well, the lady in the colored dress and I had numerous opportunities to talk. She was the daughter of a physician and had a knack for healing of her own. She was the oldest child and had laughed at me the first time I asked how many siblings she had.
Her demeanor was simple and quiet, finding joy in the everyday parts of life. Very little bothered her. She taught me a quick lesson or two with the bow while I showed her a trick or two with the sword.
Come the end of the tournament I knew that my heart was no longer my own. While I couldn’t say if it was hers yet, there was a spark between us.
Which brings me back to where I am today, bandaging my cut with an eye on the forest in case the ambushers return. I was on the road with a sealed letter in my satchel. It bore my seal, simple as it was and it was address to the physician.
Crazy? Yes. I would be the first to tell you that. Yet it had been months since I had seen any action, months since my sword had tested its mettle in combat. Here, today I had seen combat. My skills were rusty but I survived.
As I finished bandaging my wound and wiping the blood bronze sheen from my black armor I wondered what else lay before me on this road. More ambushers? An army? Yet deep down I knew that no challenge could prevent me from delivering the letter; my greatest obstacle lay in what the physician would say.
Truth be told, I wasn’t entirely sure how I got here. Just eight days ago I had been happily living in the old kingdom. Old kingdom, I’m still not used to saying that. I had packed a bag, closed the door behind me, and set out for a tournament. It was meant to be a quiet weekend.
The funny part about life is that the King’s plans rarely follow my script. I’m alright with that.
The tournament started with a feast. Knights and ladies sat side by side enjoying the camaraderie. One lady though, I couldn’t help but stare. She was dressed simply – no less adorned than the rest but her clothes were a recognition that her true beauty came from inside.
Her dress reached her ankles and its bright colors reflected the sparkle in her eyes. Her sister was there too, every bit as beautiful and a testament that this lady’s beauty ran more than skin deep.
The pain from my wound pulled me out of my daydream. This wasn’t the feast any more, this was war.
The tournament itself was friendly; there was more teaching than competing, more competition than rivalries. I learned how to joust in addition to being able to fight with a blade. The tournament style allowed for plenty of time to practice while ladies from various kingdoms watched.
While my desire for the tournament was satiated – meet other knights and learn a new skill, it seems the King wasn’t done with me yet. The lady in the colored dress seemed to always be nearby. She was the first to arrive the morning after the feast, she watched all the training sessions I participated in. Weirder still, she participated in a handful of them. While she wasn’t as strong as some of the knights, she was every bit as fast with a knack for archery that I had never seen before.
To say I was intrigued would be an understatement.
On the second day of the tournament I was getting thoroughly beat by a novice swordfighter. The contest should have been lopsided in my favor yet here I was with half his score. An elder knight pulled me to the side.
“Ed, snap out of it. What’s wrong with you?”
“Do you see her? The lady in the colored dress with chocolate hair?”
“Yes, I see her. Tell you what, win this round and then approach her. But win this round first. No one wants to be seen with a loser.”
Sometimes it’s the blunt ones who tell us what we need to here. I won the round (even if just barely). As I made my way through the crowd I caught a glimpse of her dress as she turned a corner.
“M’Lady.”
I feared my call would be lost amongst the noise. Instead, the color in her dress stopped moving and she turned to meet my gaze. What color were her eyes? I couldn’t tell, they were dark but not one particular shade could describe the beauty they held. Her chocolate hair held the faintest hints of autumn’s glory, rippling halfway down her shoulder blades. Her face, while relaxed, bore the evidence of laughter around her eyes and the corners of her mouth.
In a word: stunning.
“M’Lady.” I began again. Too late I realized that attempting poetry while looking at such beauty is futile at best. I switched to prose after a couple of false starts.
“May I walk with you?” It was such a simple sentence, and by the King’s kindness, I received a courteous nod and the hint of a smile in return.
We spoke as we wound our way through the streets. The conversation was pleasant – flowing far easier than my forced attempts at poetry earlier.
The pain in my arm wasn’t pleasant though as I snapped back to reality. It had been a quick ambush, my thoughts of an all-out war earlier were reactive. Might it lead to that? Yes, but for the time being this had just been a short battle. Not that it was any less deadly than a war.
The rest of the tournament went well, the lady in the colored dress and I had numerous opportunities to talk. She was the daughter of a physician and had a knack for healing of her own. She was the oldest child and had laughed at me the first time I asked how many siblings she had.
Her demeanor was simple and quiet, finding joy in the everyday parts of life. Very little bothered her. She taught me a quick lesson or two with the bow while I showed her a trick or two with the sword.
Come the end of the tournament I knew that my heart was no longer my own. While I couldn’t say if it was hers yet, there was a spark between us.
Which brings me back to where I am today, bandaging my cut with an eye on the forest in case the ambushers return. I was on the road with a sealed letter in my satchel. It bore my seal, simple as it was and it was address to the physician.
Crazy? Yes. I would be the first to tell you that. Yet it had been months since I had seen any action, months since my sword had tested its mettle in combat. Here, today I had seen combat. My skills were rusty but I survived.
As I finished bandaging my wound and wiping the blood bronze sheen from my black armor I wondered what else lay before me on this road. More ambushers? An army? Yet deep down I knew that no challenge could prevent me from delivering the letter; my greatest obstacle lay in what the physician would say.
Cold Sweat - August 6th, 2014
I sat bolt upright, drenched in a cold sweat. Even the warm summer night couldn’t take away the chill that lay in my bones. She was miles away, a kingdom removed. And yet she had been here, in my head, as real as the moisture beading on my brow.
Her siblings were there too. Her brother stood in the background – a silent, watchful guardian. He weighed every word I said, wrote down every sentence for later review. His face had been sterner than I remember. He was still my friend, my brother in arms but when it came to the princess, he became even more dangerous than I had ever seen him on the battlefield. All without saying a word.
Her sister had said the most. She had read every letter, evaluated every brushstroke. Her fiancé whispered in her ear, a guide to the male psyche.
When her sister spoke, the words were ice arrows.
“What will happen if you leave?”
Leave? The thought had never crossed my mind. I would never leave. But here I was a kingdom away, fighting a war for my King, my purity, and my family. Death was a far more likely scenario than me leaving.
I guess I should be thankful – the night air had returned some semblance of coherent thought after the dream. If her sister had asked what would happen if I leave…that means that I was with her at some point.
Then again. I may be just grasping at straws. She was a princess, I was but a lowly knight. My armor was black; it didn’t shine like the knights of her kingdom. I was a mercenary, a knight wandering, searching for a beauty to defend. She had plenty of defenders already. She didn’t need me.
Yet she knew me by name, she spoke to me and welcomed me in. Was it her upbringing causing her to be polite or was I genuinely welcomed ?
Questions without answers lead simply to more questions. There is no pleasant end to that spiral when the sun is sleeping. And speaking of sleep, I best be getting back to it. There’s no telling what the morning will bring. Perhaps a princess, perhaps something or someone else.
Her siblings were there too. Her brother stood in the background – a silent, watchful guardian. He weighed every word I said, wrote down every sentence for later review. His face had been sterner than I remember. He was still my friend, my brother in arms but when it came to the princess, he became even more dangerous than I had ever seen him on the battlefield. All without saying a word.
Her sister had said the most. She had read every letter, evaluated every brushstroke. Her fiancé whispered in her ear, a guide to the male psyche.
When her sister spoke, the words were ice arrows.
“What will happen if you leave?”
Leave? The thought had never crossed my mind. I would never leave. But here I was a kingdom away, fighting a war for my King, my purity, and my family. Death was a far more likely scenario than me leaving.
I guess I should be thankful – the night air had returned some semblance of coherent thought after the dream. If her sister had asked what would happen if I leave…that means that I was with her at some point.
Then again. I may be just grasping at straws. She was a princess, I was but a lowly knight. My armor was black; it didn’t shine like the knights of her kingdom. I was a mercenary, a knight wandering, searching for a beauty to defend. She had plenty of defenders already. She didn’t need me.
Yet she knew me by name, she spoke to me and welcomed me in. Was it her upbringing causing her to be polite or was I genuinely welcomed ?
Questions without answers lead simply to more questions. There is no pleasant end to that spiral when the sun is sleeping. And speaking of sleep, I best be getting back to it. There’s no telling what the morning will bring. Perhaps a princess, perhaps something or someone else.
Injured - July 21st, 2014
Sometimes
the best course of action is stillness, silence. When no choice leads where you
want to go, it may be a sign that you’re supposed to stay where you are. It was
a lesson I’d nearly forgotten, and a lesson I ignore far too often. Today was
different though, today I was remembering and following it.
Pinned down behind enemy lines with a gash on my leg, I was in no position to run. There was nothing for me to do but wait until the sounds of battle died down. Sometimes the roar was closer and I could almost taste the sweat as a stale copper scent filled the air. Other times the forest quieted as the clamor of blade upon blade grew distant.
Yet not matter how distant it grew, it always came back. The clash of swords rang out to my left, then right, then behind me.
In moments of trouble outside your control, I find it best to focus on what you can change. I can change me, and that’s it. So I scrapped together a rough tourniquet for my leg.
My injury was a foolish one – I had seen a potential opening that a master swordsman could have exploited. I went for it but left my side vulnerable. Needless to say I’m lucky but not a master swordsman. Instead of severing torso from limb, I was able to crudely avoid the worst of his attack.
My leg didn’t feel like I avoided the worst of it though.
The cut was deep but clean. I would have a nice scar to remind me of my foolishness if this battle would ever relent enough for me to hobble back to safety.
I was not fighting for the Princess’s kingdom in this battle. Rather, the King’s allies had come through recruiting soldiers. They had been skirmishing for months – both sides unwilling to fully commit to the horrors of war yet neither side able to back down.
I had grown restless in my gardening and needed an outlet to keep me through the winter. It was no longer winter and here I still was. Fighting had been a nice distraction while it lasted but my leg reminded me that I wasn’t going to be striding into battle again anytime soon.
It’s a humbling feeling, knowing that you’re beat. Part of me understands the cultures that would rather die than accept defeat. Yet I worry for those people - redemption, fighting again to regain honor – is such a powerful motivator.
And there’s something about fighting that few people realize. The man with nothing to lose is only the second most dangerous. The man with everything to lose is far more dangerous. He has every reason to keep pushing long past when his body can take the abuse.
Which makes me wonder – am I a man with everything to lose or with nothing to lose? Hhhmmm, another question to distract me while I wait for this battle to ebb away.
Pinned down behind enemy lines with a gash on my leg, I was in no position to run. There was nothing for me to do but wait until the sounds of battle died down. Sometimes the roar was closer and I could almost taste the sweat as a stale copper scent filled the air. Other times the forest quieted as the clamor of blade upon blade grew distant.
Yet not matter how distant it grew, it always came back. The clash of swords rang out to my left, then right, then behind me.
In moments of trouble outside your control, I find it best to focus on what you can change. I can change me, and that’s it. So I scrapped together a rough tourniquet for my leg.
My injury was a foolish one – I had seen a potential opening that a master swordsman could have exploited. I went for it but left my side vulnerable. Needless to say I’m lucky but not a master swordsman. Instead of severing torso from limb, I was able to crudely avoid the worst of his attack.
My leg didn’t feel like I avoided the worst of it though.
The cut was deep but clean. I would have a nice scar to remind me of my foolishness if this battle would ever relent enough for me to hobble back to safety.
I was not fighting for the Princess’s kingdom in this battle. Rather, the King’s allies had come through recruiting soldiers. They had been skirmishing for months – both sides unwilling to fully commit to the horrors of war yet neither side able to back down.
I had grown restless in my gardening and needed an outlet to keep me through the winter. It was no longer winter and here I still was. Fighting had been a nice distraction while it lasted but my leg reminded me that I wasn’t going to be striding into battle again anytime soon.
It’s a humbling feeling, knowing that you’re beat. Part of me understands the cultures that would rather die than accept defeat. Yet I worry for those people - redemption, fighting again to regain honor – is such a powerful motivator.
And there’s something about fighting that few people realize. The man with nothing to lose is only the second most dangerous. The man with everything to lose is far more dangerous. He has every reason to keep pushing long past when his body can take the abuse.
Which makes me wonder – am I a man with everything to lose or with nothing to lose? Hhhmmm, another question to distract me while I wait for this battle to ebb away.
Convinced to Change - March 25th, 2014
It’s been a year. A year of heartache and joy, of tears and laughter. I’ve moved from palace to hut, from wandering soldier to quiet smith. The woods are a place of excitement now, while my abode has become a place of comfort.
Sure, there’s always more work to do. And No, life hasn’t always been what I expected. But I find time to write by candlelight in the evenings. I work hard during the days. I’m beginning to know the villagers better than the palace guard. It’s a strange feeling for me.
My armor and sword hang in the wardrobe in the back of my apartment. They’re well taken care of but also well rested.
It might be time for the smith to try out some of his wares in the arena. There were always squires training together – sparring, jousting, wrestling – when the knights weren’t looking. I knew some of them by name; they were good young men, soon to be full-fledged knights. Not that they didn’t have much to learn. The curse of youth is that it resists the wisdom of age until too late. The curse of age was the tendency to resist the impishness of youth instead of reveling in the simple joys of life.
It seems that we always have something to teach each other.
Alas, revelry would have to wait until work was finished. I had more work than time, armor needed mending, ceremonial handles needed engraving, scabbards needed polishing. The work was good, but never ending. I found myself thankful that I was not a larger smithing operation, the work that I had was enough to keep me out of trouble, enough to ease the burden on the other smiths, but not so much as to be irreplaceable. There is comfort in being needed but not as much as there is in being wanted. My smithy stayed open not because of my ability, but because of friendships many months in the making.
Friendships…like what I had hoped to have with the princess. She had been in a hunting accident and was still recovering. I hadn’t been to see her since her injury. Part of me longed to rush to the palace, apron on and tongs in hand. But the other part of me knew that the time would either come or it wouldn’t –forcing issues of the heart leads to heartbreak later.
The heart is like a well-crafted sword. It must be carefully heated before it changes permanently. Too much pressure too soon and the heart will simply spring back into place. Or, if pushed too far too often, become brittle and shatter. But slowly heated all the way through, and even the staunchest of blades can be coaxed to take on a new shape.
Which reminds me, maybe it’s time to put my heart back into the fire. I know I could use a different shape.
Sure, there’s always more work to do. And No, life hasn’t always been what I expected. But I find time to write by candlelight in the evenings. I work hard during the days. I’m beginning to know the villagers better than the palace guard. It’s a strange feeling for me.
My armor and sword hang in the wardrobe in the back of my apartment. They’re well taken care of but also well rested.
It might be time for the smith to try out some of his wares in the arena. There were always squires training together – sparring, jousting, wrestling – when the knights weren’t looking. I knew some of them by name; they were good young men, soon to be full-fledged knights. Not that they didn’t have much to learn. The curse of youth is that it resists the wisdom of age until too late. The curse of age was the tendency to resist the impishness of youth instead of reveling in the simple joys of life.
It seems that we always have something to teach each other.
Alas, revelry would have to wait until work was finished. I had more work than time, armor needed mending, ceremonial handles needed engraving, scabbards needed polishing. The work was good, but never ending. I found myself thankful that I was not a larger smithing operation, the work that I had was enough to keep me out of trouble, enough to ease the burden on the other smiths, but not so much as to be irreplaceable. There is comfort in being needed but not as much as there is in being wanted. My smithy stayed open not because of my ability, but because of friendships many months in the making.
Friendships…like what I had hoped to have with the princess. She had been in a hunting accident and was still recovering. I hadn’t been to see her since her injury. Part of me longed to rush to the palace, apron on and tongs in hand. But the other part of me knew that the time would either come or it wouldn’t –forcing issues of the heart leads to heartbreak later.
The heart is like a well-crafted sword. It must be carefully heated before it changes permanently. Too much pressure too soon and the heart will simply spring back into place. Or, if pushed too far too often, become brittle and shatter. But slowly heated all the way through, and even the staunchest of blades can be coaxed to take on a new shape.
Which reminds me, maybe it’s time to put my heart back into the fire. I know I could use a different shape.
Winter Chill - March 3rd, 2014
Sometimes in life prose doesn't reach deep enough. It doesn't get to the matter in your heart.
It had been months. The winter cold was carried by the north wind, squeezing through every crack in my door. The candle barely had light; there was no heat emanating from its flickering flame. The fire had died out hours ago; the coals had ceased glowing.
Yet here I found myself, keeping a midnight vigil as I wrestled with the thoughts in my head and longing in my heart.
What I had wanted to say had never come out the way I wanted it to. The words I longed to speak only had gotten in the way. I never meant to hurt her.
At least, I thought I had hurt her. If I was her I would be hurt. But she is a princess, made of sterner stuff than most. I knew forgiveness ran through her veins.
Yet I want more than just forgiveness. I desire the friendship that we had before. I desire the clarity that had been replaced by a fog. The fog was beautiful - there was hope and danger, treasure and traps all hidden in the depths of the mist. But no sun. No light to reveal the steps ahead, no lamp to illuminate what was already behind.
The princess was hurt – a hunting accident, nothing serious. Finding myself trapped in my house, unable to offer her any assistance was killing me though. I dared not bring her flowers from the field…partially because there were none.
My head’s rational didn’t stop my imagination though. Ideas of how to help danced faster than my fireplace had hours before. Each as vulnerable to being snuffed out was my flickering candle was now.
So as the candle burned lower and the night marched on, so did the thoughts trekking through my mind. I found there was but one place I could go, one person I could talk to to ease my anxiety.
There, in the middle of the night, my knees hit the cold, hard floor.
“Father…”
It had been months. The winter cold was carried by the north wind, squeezing through every crack in my door. The candle barely had light; there was no heat emanating from its flickering flame. The fire had died out hours ago; the coals had ceased glowing.
Yet here I found myself, keeping a midnight vigil as I wrestled with the thoughts in my head and longing in my heart.
What I had wanted to say had never come out the way I wanted it to. The words I longed to speak only had gotten in the way. I never meant to hurt her.
At least, I thought I had hurt her. If I was her I would be hurt. But she is a princess, made of sterner stuff than most. I knew forgiveness ran through her veins.
Yet I want more than just forgiveness. I desire the friendship that we had before. I desire the clarity that had been replaced by a fog. The fog was beautiful - there was hope and danger, treasure and traps all hidden in the depths of the mist. But no sun. No light to reveal the steps ahead, no lamp to illuminate what was already behind.
The princess was hurt – a hunting accident, nothing serious. Finding myself trapped in my house, unable to offer her any assistance was killing me though. I dared not bring her flowers from the field…partially because there were none.
My head’s rational didn’t stop my imagination though. Ideas of how to help danced faster than my fireplace had hours before. Each as vulnerable to being snuffed out was my flickering candle was now.
So as the candle burned lower and the night marched on, so did the thoughts trekking through my mind. I found there was but one place I could go, one person I could talk to to ease my anxiety.
There, in the middle of the night, my knees hit the cold, hard floor.
“Father…”
The Letter - December 16th, 2013
I had found an abode outside of the castle walls. While I was invited to stay I knew that my welcome would last longer should I find means to support myself. There is something about providing for yourself that is integral to growing as a man.
My residence wasn't the largest. It certainly passed for a house but by no means did it encroach on the territory of mansion. Nor was it home yet. Home requires a family of more than just one.
I stood in the doorway, leaning my right side against the post, facing the yard. In my hand was a letter.
A letter is special enough but this wasn't just any letter. It was a letter from the King.
The expected was written there, transcribed by another's hand. I was welcome to stay in his kingdom and visit the castle. A generous offer that spoke highly of the king but it was not the focus of the letter.
No, the focus of the letter revolved around the princess. It had been months since I last saw her. Not that seeing her was necessary for me to stick my foot in my mouth. Part of the reason I had a letter from the king was because some of my actions necessitated an explanation. I find myself constantly astounded by how important knowing someone is to understanding their reactions. It's as if our feet and steel and flint, every step we take creates a spark and we never know which one will catch nor what it will catch on fire.
Needless to say I had accidentally caused a small fire in a rather important part of the kingdom.
My letter was an apology for my actions. Accidental or not, it was my steps that lit that fire. And that fire just so happened to directly affect the princess.
It's a wrenching feeling, unwittingly hurting those you care for.
It's a beautiful feeling, receiving forgiveness.
And it is an odd feeling to have both hope and disappointment coursing through your veins simultaneously.
Which is exactly how I felt having read the letter. Perhaps it was guilt, perhaps fascination, perhaps it was something far deeper than I was willing to admit but the princess had captured my imagination in a gentle vice grip. So, given my tendency to stick my foot in my mouth I decided an indirect approach was better. I sought her friendship under the wise gaze of the King. And yet it was the king's advice to me that stayed my hand. For reasons that only served to further pique my imagination, a purposeful friendship with the princess was not possible at the moment.
Hence the hope and disappointment.
Stewing never accomplished more than tiring the brain. And the brain can tire alongside the body. There was snow to tend to outside, parchments and paintings awaiting me inside, and a world of possibility around the corner.
I set down the letter, in a safe, dry, well protected spot of course, grabbed my jacket and headed out the door.
My residence wasn't the largest. It certainly passed for a house but by no means did it encroach on the territory of mansion. Nor was it home yet. Home requires a family of more than just one.
I stood in the doorway, leaning my right side against the post, facing the yard. In my hand was a letter.
A letter is special enough but this wasn't just any letter. It was a letter from the King.
The expected was written there, transcribed by another's hand. I was welcome to stay in his kingdom and visit the castle. A generous offer that spoke highly of the king but it was not the focus of the letter.
No, the focus of the letter revolved around the princess. It had been months since I last saw her. Not that seeing her was necessary for me to stick my foot in my mouth. Part of the reason I had a letter from the king was because some of my actions necessitated an explanation. I find myself constantly astounded by how important knowing someone is to understanding their reactions. It's as if our feet and steel and flint, every step we take creates a spark and we never know which one will catch nor what it will catch on fire.
Needless to say I had accidentally caused a small fire in a rather important part of the kingdom.
My letter was an apology for my actions. Accidental or not, it was my steps that lit that fire. And that fire just so happened to directly affect the princess.
It's a wrenching feeling, unwittingly hurting those you care for.
It's a beautiful feeling, receiving forgiveness.
And it is an odd feeling to have both hope and disappointment coursing through your veins simultaneously.
Which is exactly how I felt having read the letter. Perhaps it was guilt, perhaps fascination, perhaps it was something far deeper than I was willing to admit but the princess had captured my imagination in a gentle vice grip. So, given my tendency to stick my foot in my mouth I decided an indirect approach was better. I sought her friendship under the wise gaze of the King. And yet it was the king's advice to me that stayed my hand. For reasons that only served to further pique my imagination, a purposeful friendship with the princess was not possible at the moment.
Hence the hope and disappointment.
Stewing never accomplished more than tiring the brain. And the brain can tire alongside the body. There was snow to tend to outside, parchments and paintings awaiting me inside, and a world of possibility around the corner.
I set down the letter, in a safe, dry, well protected spot of course, grabbed my jacket and headed out the door.
Flashbacks and Dreams - September 18th, 2013
“How can you see places like this... and have moments like this and not believe?”
– Jamie Sullivan, A Walk to Remember
It’s like a dream – that moment so crystal clear.
The air was crisp, autumn was in full swing and the heat from the day’s sun was quickly giving way to the coolness of night. The thunderheads had gathered in the east, covering the plains as far as the eye could see. The sun was setting over the mountains in the west, turning the sky a rosy orange.
I stood there, holding her. I was facing the sunset while she had clouds in her eyes.
It was not an easy moment; in hindsight it might have been the beginning of the end. Sometimes I catch myself wondering what might have been, what possibilities will be forever unknown now. Yet I wouldn’t change any part of it. I did what I did for a reason, I couldn’t look myself in the mirror if I had done any differently.
Her eyes were expressive, yet clouded. She had secrets behind secrets. And I had just found out a secret, I could see through the clouds, behind the veil.
By God’s grace, I recognized her beauty still. “Everything is beautiful, even when the tears are falling.” Her tears pained me as my own, our sorrow was shared.
Sorrow, knowing glances, reassurances…all shared. Yet that was all that was shared. I knew something had to change, she was unwillingly to let go of the past.
In that moment, I asked her to change the situation, to permanently affect what was happening and prevent it from happening again. Her eyes flashed resentment and hurt before agreeing with me.
I can still see her face, broken with guilt; a face that knows it needs to change yet lacks the courage to do so. I know that face because I have seen it resting above my own neck far too many times.
But I was foolish then, I was blind by choice. I saw only a glimpse, not the full picture; a snippet instead of the entire conversation.
That snippet was enough though. It could only come from one place: God’s throne. Only His righteousness can convict us, only His holiness proclaims us worldly and unclean. In that one glimpse, His conviction shone through.
And before her face could change, before the snippet was gone and the glimpse had faded, lightning struck. I know not where it hit, I heard the thunder merely instants after the light had turned the rosy orange sky a brilliant white.
Her face, caramel colored, was suddenly whiter than my own. Her eyes reflected the flash like two small mirrors.
It was not a coincidence. God doesn’t work with coincidences. That lightning was given as a sign. He was there, in our midst. He cared. Her actions, my actions – they matter to God.
So as I reflect on that moment like a dream, I ask: How can you see and not believe?
The air was crisp, autumn was in full swing and the heat from the day’s sun was quickly giving way to the coolness of night. The thunderheads had gathered in the east, covering the plains as far as the eye could see. The sun was setting over the mountains in the west, turning the sky a rosy orange.
I stood there, holding her. I was facing the sunset while she had clouds in her eyes.
It was not an easy moment; in hindsight it might have been the beginning of the end. Sometimes I catch myself wondering what might have been, what possibilities will be forever unknown now. Yet I wouldn’t change any part of it. I did what I did for a reason, I couldn’t look myself in the mirror if I had done any differently.
Her eyes were expressive, yet clouded. She had secrets behind secrets. And I had just found out a secret, I could see through the clouds, behind the veil.
By God’s grace, I recognized her beauty still. “Everything is beautiful, even when the tears are falling.” Her tears pained me as my own, our sorrow was shared.
Sorrow, knowing glances, reassurances…all shared. Yet that was all that was shared. I knew something had to change, she was unwillingly to let go of the past.
In that moment, I asked her to change the situation, to permanently affect what was happening and prevent it from happening again. Her eyes flashed resentment and hurt before agreeing with me.
I can still see her face, broken with guilt; a face that knows it needs to change yet lacks the courage to do so. I know that face because I have seen it resting above my own neck far too many times.
But I was foolish then, I was blind by choice. I saw only a glimpse, not the full picture; a snippet instead of the entire conversation.
That snippet was enough though. It could only come from one place: God’s throne. Only His righteousness can convict us, only His holiness proclaims us worldly and unclean. In that one glimpse, His conviction shone through.
And before her face could change, before the snippet was gone and the glimpse had faded, lightning struck. I know not where it hit, I heard the thunder merely instants after the light had turned the rosy orange sky a brilliant white.
Her face, caramel colored, was suddenly whiter than my own. Her eyes reflected the flash like two small mirrors.
It was not a coincidence. God doesn’t work with coincidences. That lightning was given as a sign. He was there, in our midst. He cared. Her actions, my actions – they matter to God.
So as I reflect on that moment like a dream, I ask: How can you see and not believe?
The Art Gallery - June 28th, 2013
I awoke the next day to sunlight streaming through my window. Strange that I slept so well in such a foreign place. Granted, my exhaustion due to the dance and the comfort of the bed compared to the weeks I had spent sleeping on the forest floor played roles in the quality of my rest.
Due to the lateness of the hour a full washing would have to wait. Nevertheless, I dressed myself and headed out to the woods. The castle was pleasantly busy - enough life for a handful of greetings but not so much life than any stopped me before I cleared the outer walls.
I left the main road rather quickly and delved deeper midst the trees. My ears were poised, hunting for any noise resembling moving water. There! A stone's throw to my left a creek was laughing merrily. I doused my face in the cold flow, relishing the moment. Nothing like waking up to the cold flow of a mountain creek.
Having reigned in my unruly hair, I left the creek to its laughter and made my way back to the castle. In the half hour I had been gone the grounds had come to life. Workers were running to and fro, the gardeners were out among their plants, the smells of breakfast wafted from both the dining hall and the kitchen. I grabbed an apple from one of the fruit trees as I made my way to the dining hall.
Inside the atmosphere was jovial yet with an underlying sense of urgency. While no one skimped out on their meal, no one lingered over it either. I helped myself to a scone and a mug of tea to accompany my apple and sat down. At my table introductions were made and conversation was cordial yet hushed. One by one each of them left, leaving a tall lanky twenty year old with curly hair to finish his breakfast with a stranger.
I asked where he worked in the castle.
"In the art gallery. Would you like to see it?" His reply was short and polite.
I accepted, finished my tea and shoved the last bite and a half of scone into my mouth before following him. He led me to the library - a large room two stories tall. Windows lined each side and a fireplace dominated the center of the room. On every column, every bare wall, each end of every bookshelf was a painting or sketch.
The sketches were done in pencil, quickly drawn but they captured candid moments of life. Friends having fun, laughter, strange hats, celebrations, sunsets. Most sketches were in pencil, some had been inked in.
One sketch in particular caught my eye. It was of the Princess and a friend at a feast. Drawn at an angle all seriousness was replaced by good cheer. They were both eating and the sketch clearly depicted them as smiling, embarrassed with their mouths full of food. It was a light-hearted sketch, a sketch meant to portray friendship and joy. Even though the content of the sketch could have been considered condescending, something about it reversed the expectation. Instead of ridiculing anyone, it honored the princess and her friend.
I must have stared at this sketch for minutes on end. When I looked around for my guide he was already busy at work.
I wandered around, looking at the various sketches but none seemed to capture the princess quite like that one did. I kept returning to look at it, time and time again.
Without warning, my guide was at my side. He silently handed me a rolled up parchment. I unrolled it carefully. What greeted my eyes was a rough imitation of the sketch before me. A copy done by an amateur's hand. My guide must have seen the question in my eyes as my gaze was torn between the original and the copy.
"It's from the art class that meets in here once a week. The mounted sketch was done by the teacher while you hold one of the student's sketches in your hand." I nodded in silent acknowledgement as I rolled back up the parchment and attempted to hand it back to him.
"Oh no, that is for you sir. The teacher instructed me to keep the student's work to give to visitors so they always have a memento of their favorite piece of artwork. Any donations from the recipient go toward the student's family." Wordlessly I replaced a silver in my pocket with the parchment and handed my guide the coin. My focus was still entirely on the teacher's artwork.
"Would you like to see some of the paintings sir?" I gathered myself and followed my guide toward the other end of the library.
I was not expecting any piece of artwork to capture my imagination as the sketch of the princess but little did I know. As we progressed further into the library sketches gave way to oil paintings. Some were of the nobles I had met at the banquet the night before, some were of the princess's family. Still others were of other princesses.
My walk slowed as I tried to take in each picture. Eventually my walked stopped altogether. I stopped and gazed at each painting in turn. My guide resumed his duties about the library, watching me lest I had a question. At some point he must have brought me lunch. The next I knew, the sun was setting in the western windows.
I had spent my entire day in the library, taking in the art gallery. Friends in fields of green, sisters midst flowering bushes, families walking together down the street, princesses dreaming of their knight.
Words are too cheap to describe the beauty that filled my eyes that day - snapshots of life preserved in color, untouchable by time.
I made my way to the dining hall, engrossed in my own thoughts. I ate dinner in silence, staring at the parchment the entire time. After dinner, I excused myself to my quarters. There is a time for celebration and a time for thoughtful reflection. Tonight was a time for the latter. I kept my door open though, to welcome any who should stop by.
I sat there, by the fireside, vainly searching for the words, rhythms, and rhymes that would do justice to the beauty I had witnessed. The best of art is self propagating. I do not know how long I sat there, my pen scratching at the page. A knock on the door frame interrupted my reverie.
"Pardon me my lord, is there anything I might assist you with for the night?" A quiet lass stood in my doorway, a servant girl. I smiled and bid her welcome.
"None, thank you. I am still used to being all on my own yet. Did someone send you to check on me?" My smile felt dusty as it had not been used since this morning.
"Why yes my lord. The prince did. He wanted to ensure that you were welcomed and felt at home here. If there is nothing though, I'll leave you be sir." My curtsy was quick but respectful. She was halfway out the door though before I realized I did indeed have a question for her.
"Actually..." She spun quickly, catching herself on the door frame to keep from falling. A smile at her clumsiness greeted the twinkle I'm sure was in my eye. She was a good-hearted lass, young and inexperienced but age is an excellent teacher. Age doesn't teach goodness though but that was a lesson she had already learned.
"Do you know about the art in the library?"
"Why, yes sir," she replied with a smile. "I practically grew up in the library." My face must have given away my confusion for she explained after a brief pause. "You see, I was in there each week learning how to draw and paint."
"So you know the art teacher then?" My words tumbled over themselves in excitement.
"Know her? Why my lord, everyone knows her!" Her voice had a joy in it like laughter, like the bubbling of the stream this morning.
"Is there I chance I might meet her during my stay here?"
"My lord, you already have. The princess teaches art. All the sketches and paintings are her own."
Due to the lateness of the hour a full washing would have to wait. Nevertheless, I dressed myself and headed out to the woods. The castle was pleasantly busy - enough life for a handful of greetings but not so much life than any stopped me before I cleared the outer walls.
I left the main road rather quickly and delved deeper midst the trees. My ears were poised, hunting for any noise resembling moving water. There! A stone's throw to my left a creek was laughing merrily. I doused my face in the cold flow, relishing the moment. Nothing like waking up to the cold flow of a mountain creek.
Having reigned in my unruly hair, I left the creek to its laughter and made my way back to the castle. In the half hour I had been gone the grounds had come to life. Workers were running to and fro, the gardeners were out among their plants, the smells of breakfast wafted from both the dining hall and the kitchen. I grabbed an apple from one of the fruit trees as I made my way to the dining hall.
Inside the atmosphere was jovial yet with an underlying sense of urgency. While no one skimped out on their meal, no one lingered over it either. I helped myself to a scone and a mug of tea to accompany my apple and sat down. At my table introductions were made and conversation was cordial yet hushed. One by one each of them left, leaving a tall lanky twenty year old with curly hair to finish his breakfast with a stranger.
I asked where he worked in the castle.
"In the art gallery. Would you like to see it?" His reply was short and polite.
I accepted, finished my tea and shoved the last bite and a half of scone into my mouth before following him. He led me to the library - a large room two stories tall. Windows lined each side and a fireplace dominated the center of the room. On every column, every bare wall, each end of every bookshelf was a painting or sketch.
The sketches were done in pencil, quickly drawn but they captured candid moments of life. Friends having fun, laughter, strange hats, celebrations, sunsets. Most sketches were in pencil, some had been inked in.
One sketch in particular caught my eye. It was of the Princess and a friend at a feast. Drawn at an angle all seriousness was replaced by good cheer. They were both eating and the sketch clearly depicted them as smiling, embarrassed with their mouths full of food. It was a light-hearted sketch, a sketch meant to portray friendship and joy. Even though the content of the sketch could have been considered condescending, something about it reversed the expectation. Instead of ridiculing anyone, it honored the princess and her friend.
I must have stared at this sketch for minutes on end. When I looked around for my guide he was already busy at work.
I wandered around, looking at the various sketches but none seemed to capture the princess quite like that one did. I kept returning to look at it, time and time again.
Without warning, my guide was at my side. He silently handed me a rolled up parchment. I unrolled it carefully. What greeted my eyes was a rough imitation of the sketch before me. A copy done by an amateur's hand. My guide must have seen the question in my eyes as my gaze was torn between the original and the copy.
"It's from the art class that meets in here once a week. The mounted sketch was done by the teacher while you hold one of the student's sketches in your hand." I nodded in silent acknowledgement as I rolled back up the parchment and attempted to hand it back to him.
"Oh no, that is for you sir. The teacher instructed me to keep the student's work to give to visitors so they always have a memento of their favorite piece of artwork. Any donations from the recipient go toward the student's family." Wordlessly I replaced a silver in my pocket with the parchment and handed my guide the coin. My focus was still entirely on the teacher's artwork.
"Would you like to see some of the paintings sir?" I gathered myself and followed my guide toward the other end of the library.
I was not expecting any piece of artwork to capture my imagination as the sketch of the princess but little did I know. As we progressed further into the library sketches gave way to oil paintings. Some were of the nobles I had met at the banquet the night before, some were of the princess's family. Still others were of other princesses.
My walk slowed as I tried to take in each picture. Eventually my walked stopped altogether. I stopped and gazed at each painting in turn. My guide resumed his duties about the library, watching me lest I had a question. At some point he must have brought me lunch. The next I knew, the sun was setting in the western windows.
I had spent my entire day in the library, taking in the art gallery. Friends in fields of green, sisters midst flowering bushes, families walking together down the street, princesses dreaming of their knight.
Words are too cheap to describe the beauty that filled my eyes that day - snapshots of life preserved in color, untouchable by time.
I made my way to the dining hall, engrossed in my own thoughts. I ate dinner in silence, staring at the parchment the entire time. After dinner, I excused myself to my quarters. There is a time for celebration and a time for thoughtful reflection. Tonight was a time for the latter. I kept my door open though, to welcome any who should stop by.
I sat there, by the fireside, vainly searching for the words, rhythms, and rhymes that would do justice to the beauty I had witnessed. The best of art is self propagating. I do not know how long I sat there, my pen scratching at the page. A knock on the door frame interrupted my reverie.
"Pardon me my lord, is there anything I might assist you with for the night?" A quiet lass stood in my doorway, a servant girl. I smiled and bid her welcome.
"None, thank you. I am still used to being all on my own yet. Did someone send you to check on me?" My smile felt dusty as it had not been used since this morning.
"Why yes my lord. The prince did. He wanted to ensure that you were welcomed and felt at home here. If there is nothing though, I'll leave you be sir." My curtsy was quick but respectful. She was halfway out the door though before I realized I did indeed have a question for her.
"Actually..." She spun quickly, catching herself on the door frame to keep from falling. A smile at her clumsiness greeted the twinkle I'm sure was in my eye. She was a good-hearted lass, young and inexperienced but age is an excellent teacher. Age doesn't teach goodness though but that was a lesson she had already learned.
"Do you know about the art in the library?"
"Why, yes sir," she replied with a smile. "I practically grew up in the library." My face must have given away my confusion for she explained after a brief pause. "You see, I was in there each week learning how to draw and paint."
"So you know the art teacher then?" My words tumbled over themselves in excitement.
"Know her? Why my lord, everyone knows her!" Her voice had a joy in it like laughter, like the bubbling of the stream this morning.
"Is there I chance I might meet her during my stay here?"
"My lord, you already have. The princess teaches art. All the sketches and paintings are her own."
The Dance - April 25th, 2013
The Princess and her brother invited me to their castle. There was some comment made about how I would need a new tunic for the evening. Puzzled, I relented. Eating dinner in armor is hardly the most enjoyable of experiences.
When we arrived at the castle, her brother was whisked away on official business. Something about being the captain of the guard meant that he was always on call. I was sad to see him go; when he was around it was much less awkward for me - I had someone to talk to on my place, a friend who understood where I was coming from.
The princess? She was wholly other. I don't say that in a bad way. Her beauty radiated, her joy shone, her eyes sparkled. In a word, she was (is) marvelous. But her beauty intimidated me. It was separate, distinct, unlike anything I had ever known myself. I'd witnessed beauty such as what she had before but witnessing and experiencing are entirely different.
I'm not sure if I was more relieved or saddened when I was left alone to bathe and change.
The tunic laid out for me was black. It was a simple tunic with texture as it's only decoration. The black toggles faded into the material. I was grateful that I would not appear gaudy.
The boutonniere on the other hand grabbed your gaze and never let it go. It was a deep blue orchid - a brilliant cool hue. The trim was silver and the baby's breath also seemed silver. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before, despite spending a whole afternoon wandering through the forest in this land.
Confused yet fascinated, I pinned the boutonniere above my heart. It was far from normal dinner attire but too beautiful to not wear.
I made my way downstairs, following the sound of cheerful voices and pleasant laughter. Suddenly, the boutonniere made sense. Tonight was not simply dinner with the royal family for me; rather, I had been a last minute guest to a ball being thrown in honor of the princess's birthday.
Dinner was excellent, a variety of dishes from countries I'd never been to. But compared to the evening's activities that followed dinner, dinner was but a spark only worthy of mentioning is passing.
The entertainment began as soon as the plates were cleared. The princess herself was quite the musician and opened the evening for us with her a number she composed and performed herself. As the music floated through the air I took a moment to take it all in. Here I was, mere months after being discharged from my previous assignment, a guest at a celebration of a princess. I was surrounded by other knights and soldiers, with my stomach full, clothed in elegant yet simple attire.
Many of the princess's friends also performed. There were readings, songs, feats of strength and daring, acrobatics...the list ran on. As she introduced each of her friends, she called them by name - she knew who they were. Some were princes and princesses of other lands, others were servants in her castle, others were commoners. Their standing is society meant nothing, she loved the person rather than their position.
The best was yet to come, little did I know it yet.
The last part of the evening's entertainment was a dance. As the royal band started the first few notes, couples made their way to the dance floor. I noticed the princess's brother was with a lovely young lady. She was tall, with short light brown, almost blonde hair. Whatever pressing duties he had seem to fall from his mind as they danced.
Another couple on the floor caught my eye - the lady looked so similar to the brother. Slightly shorter but with the same eyes, the same nose. Her brown hair ran down her back, lightly curled, just descending past the top of her golden strapless dress. Her beau was taller, with well maintained facial hair. Bigger than the captain of the guard yet he was not a soldier. He could handle himself, of that I was sure, but there was a lack of fire in his eyes - only inspiration and creativity.
I was sure the lady must have been the sister of the princess (making her a princess as well, a fact I didn't realize until later). I had no idea who the man was, only that I hoped to meet him on good terms.
The music continued to rise through out the room as the floor came to life with dancing. Many of the couples matched in their dress, some were better at dancing while others laughed as they tripped over each other's feet.
It took me a while to notice but I didn't see the princess on the dance floor at all. Her royal blue dress with navy trim should have been easy to spot but my eyes could not catch a glimpse of it anywhere midst the movement. Confused, I looked around the room. There she was, talking with her friends (many of whom had performed earlier).
I was stunned. The princess, not dancing? Perhaps she had no partner. Or perhaps she was waiting for the right partner.
My stomach flipped. No, surely I shouldn't ask her to dance. Yet at the same time I knew I should. She had proved her graciousness already, the worst that could happen would be to be turned down in front of people I hardly knew.
I picked my way through the crowd. I was close enough now to make out her laughter. My stomach started flip flopping with no remorse. It was now or never.
I approached her, cleared my throat to gently get her attention. When she looked at me, all other eyes on me faded away.
"M'Lady, may I have this dance?" I held out my hand as I inclined my head.
When we arrived at the castle, her brother was whisked away on official business. Something about being the captain of the guard meant that he was always on call. I was sad to see him go; when he was around it was much less awkward for me - I had someone to talk to on my place, a friend who understood where I was coming from.
The princess? She was wholly other. I don't say that in a bad way. Her beauty radiated, her joy shone, her eyes sparkled. In a word, she was (is) marvelous. But her beauty intimidated me. It was separate, distinct, unlike anything I had ever known myself. I'd witnessed beauty such as what she had before but witnessing and experiencing are entirely different.
I'm not sure if I was more relieved or saddened when I was left alone to bathe and change.
The tunic laid out for me was black. It was a simple tunic with texture as it's only decoration. The black toggles faded into the material. I was grateful that I would not appear gaudy.
The boutonniere on the other hand grabbed your gaze and never let it go. It was a deep blue orchid - a brilliant cool hue. The trim was silver and the baby's breath also seemed silver. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before, despite spending a whole afternoon wandering through the forest in this land.
Confused yet fascinated, I pinned the boutonniere above my heart. It was far from normal dinner attire but too beautiful to not wear.
I made my way downstairs, following the sound of cheerful voices and pleasant laughter. Suddenly, the boutonniere made sense. Tonight was not simply dinner with the royal family for me; rather, I had been a last minute guest to a ball being thrown in honor of the princess's birthday.
Dinner was excellent, a variety of dishes from countries I'd never been to. But compared to the evening's activities that followed dinner, dinner was but a spark only worthy of mentioning is passing.
The entertainment began as soon as the plates were cleared. The princess herself was quite the musician and opened the evening for us with her a number she composed and performed herself. As the music floated through the air I took a moment to take it all in. Here I was, mere months after being discharged from my previous assignment, a guest at a celebration of a princess. I was surrounded by other knights and soldiers, with my stomach full, clothed in elegant yet simple attire.
Many of the princess's friends also performed. There were readings, songs, feats of strength and daring, acrobatics...the list ran on. As she introduced each of her friends, she called them by name - she knew who they were. Some were princes and princesses of other lands, others were servants in her castle, others were commoners. Their standing is society meant nothing, she loved the person rather than their position.
The best was yet to come, little did I know it yet.
The last part of the evening's entertainment was a dance. As the royal band started the first few notes, couples made their way to the dance floor. I noticed the princess's brother was with a lovely young lady. She was tall, with short light brown, almost blonde hair. Whatever pressing duties he had seem to fall from his mind as they danced.
Another couple on the floor caught my eye - the lady looked so similar to the brother. Slightly shorter but with the same eyes, the same nose. Her brown hair ran down her back, lightly curled, just descending past the top of her golden strapless dress. Her beau was taller, with well maintained facial hair. Bigger than the captain of the guard yet he was not a soldier. He could handle himself, of that I was sure, but there was a lack of fire in his eyes - only inspiration and creativity.
I was sure the lady must have been the sister of the princess (making her a princess as well, a fact I didn't realize until later). I had no idea who the man was, only that I hoped to meet him on good terms.
The music continued to rise through out the room as the floor came to life with dancing. Many of the couples matched in their dress, some were better at dancing while others laughed as they tripped over each other's feet.
It took me a while to notice but I didn't see the princess on the dance floor at all. Her royal blue dress with navy trim should have been easy to spot but my eyes could not catch a glimpse of it anywhere midst the movement. Confused, I looked around the room. There she was, talking with her friends (many of whom had performed earlier).
I was stunned. The princess, not dancing? Perhaps she had no partner. Or perhaps she was waiting for the right partner.
My stomach flipped. No, surely I shouldn't ask her to dance. Yet at the same time I knew I should. She had proved her graciousness already, the worst that could happen would be to be turned down in front of people I hardly knew.
I picked my way through the crowd. I was close enough now to make out her laughter. My stomach started flip flopping with no remorse. It was now or never.
I approached her, cleared my throat to gently get her attention. When she looked at me, all other eyes on me faded away.
"M'Lady, may I have this dance?" I held out my hand as I inclined my head.
New Lands - April 4th, 2013
It was a strange land that I found myself in, a land I had not visited in ages.
Not that it was so different from any other land. There were trees and hills, grass and mountains, sky and ocean. But everything here was so new, so fresh.
I couldn’t name a single flower. Their petals shone with the brightest of violets and the deepest of blues. The woods gleamed a golden green in the sunlight. The dusting of snow only served to sparkle like diamonds as the air was crisp, not cold.
I felt out of place walking through, my armor dusty. The first stream to cross my path provided an antidote. I sat there, drinking in the air as I polished my plates. It had been ages since I felt this free, this alive.
I never would have happened upon this land had I never left the last war. Could I have been happy without ever entering this forest? Assuredly. But now, having been here, having tasted its beauty…my joy was further completed. What could compare to the wonder around me?
I wandered through the forest, staying in the sunlight to let my armor dry. Here was a clearing of flowers, there a glimpse of the mountains – snowcapped and covered in clouds. The birds were singing such songs. I had never heard music like it before in my life yet somewhere, deep down, I was singing along.
I could have spent days there and indeed did spend hours just being in that forest, unaware of times passage. But as the sun set in the west, painting the sky in gold’s and navy’s, a young lass caught my eye. She was sitting by the path, lost in a book. Her hair covered her face, bent over her reading as she was.
I dared not continue on without greeting her. Perhaps she knew the lord or lady of this land. Yet at the same time I feared interrupting her reading. She fit in to the forest – content, new.
The setting sun saved me further dilemma as the light faded from the woods. When the shadows covered her page better than the sky’s glow, she closed the book and rose – fluidly, in a single movement. She was as a dancer: coordinated and suave.
She hurried down the path, with a bounce in her steps that echoed my contentment perfectly. I cleared my throat to catch her attention.
You would have thought a dragon roared, how quickly she spun around. She stood there – poised, still.
Our eyes met and I found myself gazing into milk chocolate eyes, twinkling with life, brimming with mirth. I knew I had met a princess.
Not that it was so different from any other land. There were trees and hills, grass and mountains, sky and ocean. But everything here was so new, so fresh.
I couldn’t name a single flower. Their petals shone with the brightest of violets and the deepest of blues. The woods gleamed a golden green in the sunlight. The dusting of snow only served to sparkle like diamonds as the air was crisp, not cold.
I felt out of place walking through, my armor dusty. The first stream to cross my path provided an antidote. I sat there, drinking in the air as I polished my plates. It had been ages since I felt this free, this alive.
I never would have happened upon this land had I never left the last war. Could I have been happy without ever entering this forest? Assuredly. But now, having been here, having tasted its beauty…my joy was further completed. What could compare to the wonder around me?
I wandered through the forest, staying in the sunlight to let my armor dry. Here was a clearing of flowers, there a glimpse of the mountains – snowcapped and covered in clouds. The birds were singing such songs. I had never heard music like it before in my life yet somewhere, deep down, I was singing along.
I could have spent days there and indeed did spend hours just being in that forest, unaware of times passage. But as the sun set in the west, painting the sky in gold’s and navy’s, a young lass caught my eye. She was sitting by the path, lost in a book. Her hair covered her face, bent over her reading as she was.
I dared not continue on without greeting her. Perhaps she knew the lord or lady of this land. Yet at the same time I feared interrupting her reading. She fit in to the forest – content, new.
The setting sun saved me further dilemma as the light faded from the woods. When the shadows covered her page better than the sky’s glow, she closed the book and rose – fluidly, in a single movement. She was as a dancer: coordinated and suave.
She hurried down the path, with a bounce in her steps that echoed my contentment perfectly. I cleared my throat to catch her attention.
You would have thought a dragon roared, how quickly she spun around. She stood there – poised, still.
Our eyes met and I found myself gazing into milk chocolate eyes, twinkling with life, brimming with mirth. I knew I had met a princess.
Terminated - October 29th, 2012
I couldn't see anything. But what I heard was worse. It was a sound that ripped at my heart, that tore at the very foundations of my identity.
I lay there for what felt like hours, hoping, praying the sound would go away. It didn't. If anything, it increased - pressing in harder, stronger, closer. I couldn't shut my ears to it, I couldn't block it out.
All I heard, all I could hear was this sound.
All I heard was silence.
There was no din of battle, no shouts of triumph, no cries of defeat. Silence. Just silence.
I was scared to open my eyes. So long as I didn't see anything...this might just be a dream. No, not a dream, a nightmare. If I could outlast the silence, if someway, somehow none of this was real.
I stayed there for hours. The silence never changed. No rustling of leaves to relieve my torture, no footsteps signaling humanity, no birds to wake me up with the sunrise. Silence. Darkness.
Darkness. Silence.
I knew what I should be hearing, I remembered what I had heard before this silence began.
I had been in the field, a scout deep in the woods. Alone. I was employed by the King, working for His daughter. I had been taken away from the main battlefield, taken away from where I belonged but I am a knight, I obey my orders.
Still, even away from the battle, I should hear something. I should hear leaves blowing in the wind, deer padding by, birds singing to usher in the morning, the chatter of squirrels arguing over where they hid their stash last winter.
Not silence, anything but silence.
Yes, I had dozed off once or twice as a scout, I hadn't been the scout I should have been. I was a knight, not a scout. I should have been on the battlefield. In the thick of the action. That's where I thrive. Instead I was out scouting. But I obey my orders.
But this...this silence?
I opened my eyes. The silence was no dream, the nightmare was real. I was not on the battlefield where I should have been. I was not even scouting where I had been. I was not in the infirmary. I was not in any of the places I should or expected to be in.
I was alone.
I had been terminated.
I had been removed from the battlefield when I wasn't even there, retired from service while on forced leave.
I reached my hand to my back, expecting to find a knife buried in my heart.
There was nothing.
But the searing pain remained.
And so did the silence.
The silence pressed in, its reality making it even louder than before.
I lay there for what felt like hours, hoping, praying the sound would go away. It didn't. If anything, it increased - pressing in harder, stronger, closer. I couldn't shut my ears to it, I couldn't block it out.
All I heard, all I could hear was this sound.
All I heard was silence.
There was no din of battle, no shouts of triumph, no cries of defeat. Silence. Just silence.
I was scared to open my eyes. So long as I didn't see anything...this might just be a dream. No, not a dream, a nightmare. If I could outlast the silence, if someway, somehow none of this was real.
I stayed there for hours. The silence never changed. No rustling of leaves to relieve my torture, no footsteps signaling humanity, no birds to wake me up with the sunrise. Silence. Darkness.
Darkness. Silence.
I knew what I should be hearing, I remembered what I had heard before this silence began.
I had been in the field, a scout deep in the woods. Alone. I was employed by the King, working for His daughter. I had been taken away from the main battlefield, taken away from where I belonged but I am a knight, I obey my orders.
Still, even away from the battle, I should hear something. I should hear leaves blowing in the wind, deer padding by, birds singing to usher in the morning, the chatter of squirrels arguing over where they hid their stash last winter.
Not silence, anything but silence.
Yes, I had dozed off once or twice as a scout, I hadn't been the scout I should have been. I was a knight, not a scout. I should have been on the battlefield. In the thick of the action. That's where I thrive. Instead I was out scouting. But I obey my orders.
But this...this silence?
I opened my eyes. The silence was no dream, the nightmare was real. I was not on the battlefield where I should have been. I was not even scouting where I had been. I was not in the infirmary. I was not in any of the places I should or expected to be in.
I was alone.
I had been terminated.
I had been removed from the battlefield when I wasn't even there, retired from service while on forced leave.
I reached my hand to my back, expecting to find a knife buried in my heart.
There was nothing.
But the searing pain remained.
And so did the silence.
The silence pressed in, its reality making it even louder than before.
A Winged Messenger - 10/04/2012
I busied myself around camp – the sun was slowly approaching the western horizon and the crisp fall air let me know that tonight would be a poor night to be without a campfire. The gathered wood lay beside the stone right, waiting patiently as I made the last few adjustments to my makeshift tent.
A breeze blew through the cam and carried with it the hooting of a nearby owl. I paused, it was too early in the evening for owls to be out. But there it was again, an unmistakable hoot this time.
Curious, I hooted back.
In a flurry of feathers, a brown and white five pound bird dropped out of the sky and collapsed my makeshift tent. My surprise quickly gave way to a sigh of frustration and then a smile as I helped to free the owl from the remains of my shelter.
I knew this owl; he was the messenger bird of my lady. I glanced down at my leg, the bandages were still needed to keep the swelling in check but I was back out in the field. What a wonderful gift this message from her would be.
“Hey, I know you. What you’d wreck my tent for Leroy?” The owl gently hooted and ducked his head, almost like he understood me. That was what I loved about Leroy, for being a bird he was smarter than most young squires. And far better behaved for the most part too.
I untied the letter from around Leroy and set him free to go find his dinner. The mice in these woods wouldn’t be bothering me tonight.
Her letter was tied with a navy blue ribbon, a telltale sign this was from her and that she wasn’t just lending out her messenger owl.
I wrapped the ribbon around my finger and unrolled the letter. It was crinkled – normally her letters were in pristine condition.
The letter was short; her large handwriting filled the page with the few short sentences.
“I’m alright, there’s no need to worry. Please pray for me though.”
In smaller lettering at the bottom she included instructions for me to send Leroy on with this message to her Father. He was off at the front lines, I was scouting in the field, and she was with the rearguard defending the castle.
Here I was, alone in the field, my tent in shambles and all I could do was sit there. At some point Leroy came back. He perched on the log next to me, watching me with his unblinking eyes. There were moments when he was the most understanding being I knew. Somehow, somehow his eyes showed that he felt your pain.
And so we sat there as the sun raced toward the horizon, as the sky turned red, orange, and gold, as the moon and stars came out, as the light faded.
There was nothing to say. Here I was, out on a mission, and my lady was hurting. I couldn’t send Leroy back with a message since he needed to deliver the same letter to her Father as well. I couldn’t even keep the letter to reassure myself that her hands had written it, that she was still functioning. I knew nothing about what was happening with her squadron in the rearguard – had the enemy snuck around all of us scouts and pinned them down?
I was empty. Crushed. Deflated. Hollow. An aspen bark shell, ready to fall apart at any moment.
My heart broke within me…and there was nothing I could do.
Eventually I started moving. The fire was all but ready to go so I started with that. Leroy, normally quite curious, somehow knew that I needed space.
Once the flames were climbing so high that I could actually make out details in the flickering light, I turned my attention to my tent. I was no longer concerned with making it warm, I just needed a cover should it start to rain.
Once the tent was up, I invited Leroy inside and fell asleep in full armor.
The next morning was not kind to me. The night had been full of nightmares as my imagination kept me awake. Fog had rolled in. My back had stiffened due to sleeping in my armor, and the embers and ashes from the fire last night were cold. Leroy was far too perky for that hour in the morning but fortunately for me his breakfast needs took him away from camp.
The time alone was spent getting out of the heavier armor and getting a fire going. Soon I had enough warm water for a mug of tea.
I sat there by the fire, letting the warmth from my tea spread through my extremities. My body was regaining feeling but my heart was still numb.
And then my heart broke. Tears flowed down my face, wiping away the week’s dust and grit that had accumulated.
In that moment, as the tears flowed, I bowed my head and did the only thing I could do to help her. I prayed. It was not a prayer to be remembered for its fancy language or eloquence. I was honest with God, I was hurting. And while the tears were drying, the fog lifted, the sun shone through, and somehow, though my heart still lay broken within me, somehow I knew that I would get through today. There was a peace and a joy in addition to my helplessness. There was a comfort that I knew could only come from one place.
As I spread out my hands and began to sing, Leroy flew in and gently perched on my arm. His hoots were in time (or if they weren’t I never would have noticed) with my song.
“Praise God from Whom all blessings flow,
Praise Him all creatures here below.
Praise Him above ye heavenly host,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
A breeze blew through the cam and carried with it the hooting of a nearby owl. I paused, it was too early in the evening for owls to be out. But there it was again, an unmistakable hoot this time.
Curious, I hooted back.
In a flurry of feathers, a brown and white five pound bird dropped out of the sky and collapsed my makeshift tent. My surprise quickly gave way to a sigh of frustration and then a smile as I helped to free the owl from the remains of my shelter.
I knew this owl; he was the messenger bird of my lady. I glanced down at my leg, the bandages were still needed to keep the swelling in check but I was back out in the field. What a wonderful gift this message from her would be.
“Hey, I know you. What you’d wreck my tent for Leroy?” The owl gently hooted and ducked his head, almost like he understood me. That was what I loved about Leroy, for being a bird he was smarter than most young squires. And far better behaved for the most part too.
I untied the letter from around Leroy and set him free to go find his dinner. The mice in these woods wouldn’t be bothering me tonight.
Her letter was tied with a navy blue ribbon, a telltale sign this was from her and that she wasn’t just lending out her messenger owl.
I wrapped the ribbon around my finger and unrolled the letter. It was crinkled – normally her letters were in pristine condition.
The letter was short; her large handwriting filled the page with the few short sentences.
“I’m alright, there’s no need to worry. Please pray for me though.”
In smaller lettering at the bottom she included instructions for me to send Leroy on with this message to her Father. He was off at the front lines, I was scouting in the field, and she was with the rearguard defending the castle.
Here I was, alone in the field, my tent in shambles and all I could do was sit there. At some point Leroy came back. He perched on the log next to me, watching me with his unblinking eyes. There were moments when he was the most understanding being I knew. Somehow, somehow his eyes showed that he felt your pain.
And so we sat there as the sun raced toward the horizon, as the sky turned red, orange, and gold, as the moon and stars came out, as the light faded.
There was nothing to say. Here I was, out on a mission, and my lady was hurting. I couldn’t send Leroy back with a message since he needed to deliver the same letter to her Father as well. I couldn’t even keep the letter to reassure myself that her hands had written it, that she was still functioning. I knew nothing about what was happening with her squadron in the rearguard – had the enemy snuck around all of us scouts and pinned them down?
I was empty. Crushed. Deflated. Hollow. An aspen bark shell, ready to fall apart at any moment.
My heart broke within me…and there was nothing I could do.
Eventually I started moving. The fire was all but ready to go so I started with that. Leroy, normally quite curious, somehow knew that I needed space.
Once the flames were climbing so high that I could actually make out details in the flickering light, I turned my attention to my tent. I was no longer concerned with making it warm, I just needed a cover should it start to rain.
Once the tent was up, I invited Leroy inside and fell asleep in full armor.
The next morning was not kind to me. The night had been full of nightmares as my imagination kept me awake. Fog had rolled in. My back had stiffened due to sleeping in my armor, and the embers and ashes from the fire last night were cold. Leroy was far too perky for that hour in the morning but fortunately for me his breakfast needs took him away from camp.
The time alone was spent getting out of the heavier armor and getting a fire going. Soon I had enough warm water for a mug of tea.
I sat there by the fire, letting the warmth from my tea spread through my extremities. My body was regaining feeling but my heart was still numb.
And then my heart broke. Tears flowed down my face, wiping away the week’s dust and grit that had accumulated.
In that moment, as the tears flowed, I bowed my head and did the only thing I could do to help her. I prayed. It was not a prayer to be remembered for its fancy language or eloquence. I was honest with God, I was hurting. And while the tears were drying, the fog lifted, the sun shone through, and somehow, though my heart still lay broken within me, somehow I knew that I would get through today. There was a peace and a joy in addition to my helplessness. There was a comfort that I knew could only come from one place.
As I spread out my hands and began to sing, Leroy flew in and gently perched on my arm. His hoots were in time (or if they weren’t I never would have noticed) with my song.
“Praise God from Whom all blessings flow,
Praise Him all creatures here below.
Praise Him above ye heavenly host,
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.”
A Broken Leg - 9/14/2012
I gingerly walk take a step. Placing weight on my leg still hurts. I haven’t seen the skin on my thigh in over a fortnight; it’s been bandaged so thickly.
As I stand there, wobbling and shaky it suddenly hits me: I’m walking. No quickly, not fast, not steadily but I am walking. God truly is a God of healing and miracles.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have been there either but that was my own stupid fault. I knew that climbing over those rocks was a bad idea, especially in full armor. I knew that climbing over those rocks when I was supposed to be guarding her was an even dumber idea. And I did it anyway.
I slipped. My armor was too heavy for the road I was on and the ground gave way beneath my feet. Instead of falling flat right there, instead of answering her worried shouts, I tried to get up and go back. Well, if the ground won’t hold you once, it certainly won’t hold you twice.
I fell. My foot got caught in a tree root on the way down. Saved my life but it broke my femur. I can’t remember
much after that. The sun beating down on me as my vision went red. Hearing her scramble down the slope after me... Her tears falling hot and fresh on my cheek…she moved me to free my foot…her cry…alone…voices from the trail… “There’s two down here”… two sets of strong hands lifting me up…waking up here…fading in and out of sleep for the past three weeks…I shouldn’t be alive today.
They haven’t let me see her yet. From what I’ve heard it sounds like she suffered a coma when she fell trying to free me. My sin nearly killed her.
I lean heavily on my leg - maybe the shooting pain can erase my guilt.
Stars burst in front of my eyes, I fall again, crying aloud. This time I fall onto the straw mat, gasping for breath. The guilt remains.
There’s a voice from the room next to mine: “Is that you?”
Her voice. She’s alive. She’s recovering.
“Yes, it’s me.
“I’m so sorry my lady.”
Tears spring forth, washing the weeks of dirt and grime off my face in two thin streaks. They drip from my beard to splatter on the floor.
Her next words are not what I expect. They’re…kind.
“You’re forgiven.”
We talk for a few moments. She’s honest enough to call me on my stupidity. She’s strong enough to rightfully demand that I do better. She’s graceful enough to forgive me. She’s wise enough to be wary.
As we talk I start to carve into the wooden wall that separates us. It is a promise, a reminder to me. A promise made for any who see it to hold me to. I will not fail again, nor will my mistakes lead to another’s pain like this. I’m
through. Enough is enough. The line is drawn, the gauntlet is thrown down. I will rise to the challenge, I will rise.
Her voice trails off; she’s still in great pain. I bid her farewell.
I rise from the mat where I fell. The pain is still in my leg. But it is in my heart and my head as well.
Every step I take it feels like my heart is beating through my rib cage, like the fragile protection around it will give way and shatter. But yet it holds.
Every step I take I see her eyes, red with tears. Blood drips down her face from a gash in her forehead. A gash that I and I alone and responsible for. I can’t get the image out of my mind.
Yet even as my heart beat threatens to give way, even as her wounded face fills my mind…I hear her words echo in my soul. They’re her words but they are not her words. She’s quoting Someone. She’s quoting the other person I’ve failed, her Father, the King. She’s quoting Him as He hung stretched out, betrayed by the very ones He loved. Her words, His words…they mingle together. In my soul they echo and grow louder each time.
“Father, forgive him.”
I am forgiven. What a beautiful, agonizing thought. There is no retreat from the battle of recovery ahead. And I will fight this battle. Not only will I fight it but He, her Father, my Father…He will win it. He will call my name when the war is over and I will rise. Though I am guilty, my sins are taken away, crucified with Him, and I am given His righteousness.
I will rise.
And I take another step.
As I stand there, wobbling and shaky it suddenly hits me: I’m walking. No quickly, not fast, not steadily but I am walking. God truly is a God of healing and miracles.
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have been there either but that was my own stupid fault. I knew that climbing over those rocks was a bad idea, especially in full armor. I knew that climbing over those rocks when I was supposed to be guarding her was an even dumber idea. And I did it anyway.
I slipped. My armor was too heavy for the road I was on and the ground gave way beneath my feet. Instead of falling flat right there, instead of answering her worried shouts, I tried to get up and go back. Well, if the ground won’t hold you once, it certainly won’t hold you twice.
I fell. My foot got caught in a tree root on the way down. Saved my life but it broke my femur. I can’t remember
much after that. The sun beating down on me as my vision went red. Hearing her scramble down the slope after me... Her tears falling hot and fresh on my cheek…she moved me to free my foot…her cry…alone…voices from the trail… “There’s two down here”… two sets of strong hands lifting me up…waking up here…fading in and out of sleep for the past three weeks…I shouldn’t be alive today.
They haven’t let me see her yet. From what I’ve heard it sounds like she suffered a coma when she fell trying to free me. My sin nearly killed her.
I lean heavily on my leg - maybe the shooting pain can erase my guilt.
Stars burst in front of my eyes, I fall again, crying aloud. This time I fall onto the straw mat, gasping for breath. The guilt remains.
There’s a voice from the room next to mine: “Is that you?”
Her voice. She’s alive. She’s recovering.
“Yes, it’s me.
“I’m so sorry my lady.”
Tears spring forth, washing the weeks of dirt and grime off my face in two thin streaks. They drip from my beard to splatter on the floor.
Her next words are not what I expect. They’re…kind.
“You’re forgiven.”
We talk for a few moments. She’s honest enough to call me on my stupidity. She’s strong enough to rightfully demand that I do better. She’s graceful enough to forgive me. She’s wise enough to be wary.
As we talk I start to carve into the wooden wall that separates us. It is a promise, a reminder to me. A promise made for any who see it to hold me to. I will not fail again, nor will my mistakes lead to another’s pain like this. I’m
through. Enough is enough. The line is drawn, the gauntlet is thrown down. I will rise to the challenge, I will rise.
Her voice trails off; she’s still in great pain. I bid her farewell.
I rise from the mat where I fell. The pain is still in my leg. But it is in my heart and my head as well.
Every step I take it feels like my heart is beating through my rib cage, like the fragile protection around it will give way and shatter. But yet it holds.
Every step I take I see her eyes, red with tears. Blood drips down her face from a gash in her forehead. A gash that I and I alone and responsible for. I can’t get the image out of my mind.
Yet even as my heart beat threatens to give way, even as her wounded face fills my mind…I hear her words echo in my soul. They’re her words but they are not her words. She’s quoting Someone. She’s quoting the other person I’ve failed, her Father, the King. She’s quoting Him as He hung stretched out, betrayed by the very ones He loved. Her words, His words…they mingle together. In my soul they echo and grow louder each time.
“Father, forgive him.”
I am forgiven. What a beautiful, agonizing thought. There is no retreat from the battle of recovery ahead. And I will fight this battle. Not only will I fight it but He, her Father, my Father…He will win it. He will call my name when the war is over and I will rise. Though I am guilty, my sins are taken away, crucified with Him, and I am given His righteousness.
I will rise.
And I take another step.
