Hell and Blood! Hellfire! And Happy Holidays!
Posted: Fri Dec 23, 2005 3:16 am
It seems that I lack the basic skillz to upload an icon. I can't manage an inserted illustration. And yousendit is rejecting my MP3, so this whole all-media Holiday post is in the toilet.* Woe.
But I CAN send a moopy vignete starring Caer-Caveral, and by hell, I'm going to do it.
Just because I'm like, intoxicated by this new-found form. And ahead on w0rk. Sort of. Happy Holidays!
A Christmas Caveral
Beyond Andelain's borders the Land lay rigid as a frozen corpse, caught in
a rictus of irremidial wrong. Twisted bough and tortured vine glittered in the unforgiving cold, arrested and exposed in their final throes.
But within the interdict of Andelain, winter lay in stainless slumber on the hills. Oak end elm, stately in their chaste nudity, lifted their filagreed fingertips to the scarcely winking stars, and long lavendar shadows, discrete as lace, stretched over slopes of trackless white.
All things slept, save Andelian's sleepless defender.
Caer-Caveral measured his steady pace along the ridges and through the hollows, staff in hand. His solitary trail lingered behind him but a moment, then vanished itself in pale effacement. In the still indigo night his alabaster robes glowed like a sigh, and his song was hushed, desultory, and sorrowful.
O Little Hills of Andelain
How still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and --
Caer-Carveral halted in consternation, like a man surprised. Andelain's music paused. In the sudden silence several branches stirred, shedding a
delicate shower of frost. Caer-Caveral soothed them with a gesture and began to walk again.
Andelain I help and hold as best as I can do
While world's ruin ruins wood and wold
I maintain
an even strain
through woe and grief and pain
...vain...
...explain...
...final gain, feign distain --
"Bah," rumbled Caer-Caveral in disgust. "That one will never serve."
Hail and hallows, sing for pain
Little root and branch and drain
And the mountains in reply
echoing their sweet refrain...
Starshine and solicitude coalesced directly athwart the Forestal's path, and High Lord Mhoram stood revealed. Compassion silvered his humane mein.
"Ah, my old friend. You are troubled, I see."
"Go back to sleep, Morham. It's -- " Caer-Caveral bowed over his staff, and finished with a heavy sigh that made the branches above them sag. "It's nothing."
"You carry too many burdens, Forestal. The Land's need is harsh, but you too need the occasional break."
Caer-Caveral lifted his chin. "That is a word of Despite, shade, with all respect. A Forestal needs not a break. A Forestal is a servant, not a salaryman."
Mhoram glowed quizzically. "Salaryman?"
"Oh, sorry," fluted Caer-Caveral. "My former world intrudes. I find," he continued abashedly, "that as Covenant's return draws near, I regress. My humanity is growing stronger everyday. Old memories long dormant awake: old passions and fears resurge. It's senility, perhaps. The ages weigh on me so, Mhoram."
"Of course they do," agreed Mhoram kindly. "Yours has been a great labor."
"Labor, schmabor," lilted Caer-Caveral dismissively. "Baby not me. I just need to sack up."
Mhoram smiled. "Your -- rebirthing has not passed unseen. High Lord Elena in particular has been concerned for you."
The Forestal started, then groaned in dismay. "She's -- she saw -- it's that obvious?"
"She has been watching you with great tenderness these final days."
"Oh, no."
"She condoles thee."
"Please stop."
"And she sends you a message."
"No. I require no messages. Shut the hell up, Mhoram, for God's sake."
Mhoram drew a bottle from his sleeve and held it up in the moon's silver light. "Behold a result of the breaking of Law, which is not always bereft of Hope. Such breakage may spell destruction, or it may pressagea New Age. It may even result in the passing of small seasonal gifts over the boundary of Life and Death."
Caer-Carveral went still. The Hills held their breath. "Is that... is that Felalanthia?"
"It is."
"I cannot accept."
"You can."
"It is unbecoming a victim soul, a servant of the Forest, to drink and swill like a Clavemember."
"I believe High Lord Elena disagrees. She says, you have a body again, and a human heart. You feel the cold and walk with the memories of your former world." Mhoram proffered the gift. "Forgive me, Forestal, but in your former world, this was an time of festival, I take it? You sing as though it were."
Caer-Caveral answered not, but the music curling from his feet took on a
faint flush of embarrassment.
Lord Mhoram grinned. "Then all is well. Take this gift, stoic defender of Law, and rejoice in your festival."
"I shouldn't," hummed Caer-Caveral.
"You should. And," added Mhoram, "High Lord Elena charged me to say: Joyous Former World Festival, to you."
There was a dreadful moment of hesitation. Andelain's life suspended in ravished immobility. Then Caer-Caveral stretched forth his hand, and the
amber bottle of Felalanthia passed from Death into Life. A shiver of spangles rolled over the hills like a tide.
"Please tell her -- " Caer-Caveral gripped his staff. "Please convey my thanks to High Lord Elena, and my best wishes for an untroubled repose."
"I will." Mhoram raised both hands, palms out. "A joyous Festival time I
wish you, Forestal."
"Sleep in peace," intoned the Forestal, but the specter had already passed, leaving only taintless snow and gentle shadows.
The amber bottle had weight, and the cork's husk fell away in papery wisps, fluttering like celestial feathers to the cold congelation underfoot. The Forestal saluted the Land, and the Land's Lords, and many other things, and lifted his voice in song once again.
Andelain was perplexed by his unwonted volubility, but comforted withal.
End
*If you want the MP3, which is a bona fide recording of Caer-Caveral's last Christmas, please email me at Cyn.Martin@gmail.com.
*The heart wrenching illustration for this ficlet is parked on my drive.
*I'd love to talk to that Forestal who hangs out here. I'm all about the forgotten lore. Calling a Forestal isn't totally fatal anymore, nu?
Someday I'll figure out the posting curve. In the meantime, HH.
But I CAN send a moopy vignete starring Caer-Caveral, and by hell, I'm going to do it.
Just because I'm like, intoxicated by this new-found form. And ahead on w0rk. Sort of. Happy Holidays!
A Christmas Caveral
Beyond Andelain's borders the Land lay rigid as a frozen corpse, caught in
a rictus of irremidial wrong. Twisted bough and tortured vine glittered in the unforgiving cold, arrested and exposed in their final throes.
But within the interdict of Andelain, winter lay in stainless slumber on the hills. Oak end elm, stately in their chaste nudity, lifted their filagreed fingertips to the scarcely winking stars, and long lavendar shadows, discrete as lace, stretched over slopes of trackless white.
All things slept, save Andelian's sleepless defender.
Caer-Caveral measured his steady pace along the ridges and through the hollows, staff in hand. His solitary trail lingered behind him but a moment, then vanished itself in pale effacement. In the still indigo night his alabaster robes glowed like a sigh, and his song was hushed, desultory, and sorrowful.
O Little Hills of Andelain
How still we see thee lie
Above thy deep and --
Caer-Carveral halted in consternation, like a man surprised. Andelain's music paused. In the sudden silence several branches stirred, shedding a
delicate shower of frost. Caer-Caveral soothed them with a gesture and began to walk again.
Andelain I help and hold as best as I can do
While world's ruin ruins wood and wold
I maintain
an even strain
through woe and grief and pain
...vain...
...explain...
...final gain, feign distain --
"Bah," rumbled Caer-Caveral in disgust. "That one will never serve."
Hail and hallows, sing for pain
Little root and branch and drain
And the mountains in reply
echoing their sweet refrain...
Starshine and solicitude coalesced directly athwart the Forestal's path, and High Lord Mhoram stood revealed. Compassion silvered his humane mein.
"Ah, my old friend. You are troubled, I see."
"Go back to sleep, Morham. It's -- " Caer-Caveral bowed over his staff, and finished with a heavy sigh that made the branches above them sag. "It's nothing."
"You carry too many burdens, Forestal. The Land's need is harsh, but you too need the occasional break."
Caer-Caveral lifted his chin. "That is a word of Despite, shade, with all respect. A Forestal needs not a break. A Forestal is a servant, not a salaryman."
Mhoram glowed quizzically. "Salaryman?"
"Oh, sorry," fluted Caer-Caveral. "My former world intrudes. I find," he continued abashedly, "that as Covenant's return draws near, I regress. My humanity is growing stronger everyday. Old memories long dormant awake: old passions and fears resurge. It's senility, perhaps. The ages weigh on me so, Mhoram."
"Of course they do," agreed Mhoram kindly. "Yours has been a great labor."
"Labor, schmabor," lilted Caer-Caveral dismissively. "Baby not me. I just need to sack up."
Mhoram smiled. "Your -- rebirthing has not passed unseen. High Lord Elena in particular has been concerned for you."
The Forestal started, then groaned in dismay. "She's -- she saw -- it's that obvious?"
"She has been watching you with great tenderness these final days."
"Oh, no."
"She condoles thee."
"Please stop."
"And she sends you a message."
"No. I require no messages. Shut the hell up, Mhoram, for God's sake."
Mhoram drew a bottle from his sleeve and held it up in the moon's silver light. "Behold a result of the breaking of Law, which is not always bereft of Hope. Such breakage may spell destruction, or it may pressagea New Age. It may even result in the passing of small seasonal gifts over the boundary of Life and Death."
Caer-Carveral went still. The Hills held their breath. "Is that... is that Felalanthia?"
"It is."
"I cannot accept."
"You can."
"It is unbecoming a victim soul, a servant of the Forest, to drink and swill like a Clavemember."
"I believe High Lord Elena disagrees. She says, you have a body again, and a human heart. You feel the cold and walk with the memories of your former world." Mhoram proffered the gift. "Forgive me, Forestal, but in your former world, this was an time of festival, I take it? You sing as though it were."
Caer-Caveral answered not, but the music curling from his feet took on a
faint flush of embarrassment.
Lord Mhoram grinned. "Then all is well. Take this gift, stoic defender of Law, and rejoice in your festival."
"I shouldn't," hummed Caer-Caveral.
"You should. And," added Mhoram, "High Lord Elena charged me to say: Joyous Former World Festival, to you."
There was a dreadful moment of hesitation. Andelain's life suspended in ravished immobility. Then Caer-Caveral stretched forth his hand, and the
amber bottle of Felalanthia passed from Death into Life. A shiver of spangles rolled over the hills like a tide.
"Please tell her -- " Caer-Caveral gripped his staff. "Please convey my thanks to High Lord Elena, and my best wishes for an untroubled repose."
"I will." Mhoram raised both hands, palms out. "A joyous Festival time I
wish you, Forestal."
"Sleep in peace," intoned the Forestal, but the specter had already passed, leaving only taintless snow and gentle shadows.
The amber bottle had weight, and the cork's husk fell away in papery wisps, fluttering like celestial feathers to the cold congelation underfoot. The Forestal saluted the Land, and the Land's Lords, and many other things, and lifted his voice in song once again.
Andelain was perplexed by his unwonted volubility, but comforted withal.
End
*If you want the MP3, which is a bona fide recording of Caer-Caveral's last Christmas, please email me at Cyn.Martin@gmail.com.
*The heart wrenching illustration for this ficlet is parked on my drive.
*I'd love to talk to that Forestal who hangs out here. I'm all about the forgotten lore. Calling a Forestal isn't totally fatal anymore, nu?
Someday I'll figure out the posting curve. In the meantime, HH.
Yowzah! What an entrance! 
