Winter seems to have forgotten when it was suppose to arrive. Christmas was a few months ago and we finally get some real snow. The Sun will arrive on the morrow and steal this scene away, but for now, I’m going to sit inside, drink tea, study and write and generally enjoy myself. Today holds no tensions for me.
The fear that so many people struggle with, I think, is of being heard. No one wants to expose their hearts to the world to be judged and be open to the possibility of being ridiculed.
When the hard eyes of humanity is focused on one individual, the soul trembles in trepidation. The words are difficult to form, but they are released from the cage of the throat and out the gates of the lips none-the-less. The voice, if not carried correctly, will be ignored and shrugged. If carried on like a breath of wind, it will be renowned and glorified. More often than not, however, the voice is ignored and the soul is left alone to its shame.
Then is born the fear to speak at all. Even if the voice is only heard by individuals who take time to look at the words that are scribbled down on a page.
Don’t be afraid. Those who don’t care don’t matter, and those who care, matter. Words can not bite their owner, only those who carry malice in their hearts.
That entry that I promised more than a month ago. Apologies, but schooling has been keeping me under its heel. That, and I purchased a new computer, so I’ve been playing with that for a bit. Enjoy and please let me know what your initial reaction is. Coming slowly but surely.
The first thought that came to Wrath’s mind, was his family’s safety. This strange man with strange powers was scary and could not be trusted. If he could duplicate objects and merge them back together and then sit on a dusty chair and leave the dust undisturbed, what else was he capable of?
Obviously the man couldn’t be trusted, that much was apparent. Those who dabbled in the dark arts should never be trusted. They were necromancers, and those who cavorted with that sort were always dead in the end. Wrath tried to think of any possible reason why this man – if man he be- would want to target his family. Money, obviously being the first reason. However, sometimes these kinds of men were after something darker. The blood of a child, a dear wife, or even the whole family. Always to worship the evil Dark. Yes, Wrath had to destroy this man. This…necromancer.
Wrath bolted out of his room with the force of a thousand stampeding horses 8, breaking a hinge on his way out. The halls were a blur, his hair flying about in his eyes. His feet stomped, not caring how much noise they produced. His family would be in the dining hall eating like they had said. Inside his chest, he felt a scream of frustration welling up and forcing its way out. Eventually it came, and it echoed off the walls and marble floor. He screamed and screamed and screamed. Madness, anger. Hundreds of years of fear was pouring out of his throat as if he were on the front lines of an army. A thousand souls outside screamed with him, sharing his frustration.
The necromancer could not kill his family, must not. They were his happiness, his joy. A scum of society, a demon, was not about to take that away. Else he would die. He would burn the city, kill his god and bring about a new kind of pain to the world if that happened.
Wrath pushed his legs harder, screaming all the louder, cursing them for not being able to go faster. The palace was too damn big!
There! The dining hall. He could hear his family laughing, oblivious to the danger that they were in. He stumbled into the dining hall and was greeted by a wonderful, if surprising, sight. Relief flooded and Wrath felt himself grow weak with it. No one was being butchered, everyone was safe. It was a sight of his family happily spending time together. Let the strange man steal his gold, his jewels. He could get those back if that was really what the man was after, it was his family that was irreplaceable. His wife was spooning pudding generously into each child’s bowl. All were smiling and laughing, and a fire burned merrily in the enormous hearth. Servants stood by the doors, straight faces all with laughter flowing in their eyes.
Yes. They were safe. All safe. No blood magic here. No one was lying on the floor with their throat slashed open like some goat.
Wrath watched them. A smile spread on his lips. Happiness, yes. This was why he continued to dwell. Did not turn to the madness that lurked in the streets of the city. Did not give himself up.
A while passed. Maybe even days, again, time here did not matter very much. Wrath thought of it as both blessing and curse. The children played, their mother bouncing their youngest on her knee and singing over and over to the giggling child:
Come sweet Mocking Jay.
Do not be shy.
We want to see thou play
And listen to thee sing to the sky.
Come sweet Laustic.
Do not be shy.
We wish to hear music from thine beak
Until dawn dost fly.
The child would sing the words back, often putting his hands to his face, making a beak and then laughing afterward at his own cleverness. Servants stood diligently, never blinking, but watching their masters play with enthusiasm. The hearth burned eternally, always bright, cheerful. If Wrath could ask for heaven, this would be it. Now he remembered happiness.