A Winter's Afternoon in Westmore: Paris & Ewen
Clearly Lorraine had been serious when she'd made that comment about 'looking terrible' the day they'd arrived home, Paris mused. Lorraine had insisted that, after her mornings' studying, Paris come spend the afternoon in the duGryphon's quarters. She had fussed and seen Paris settled with a comforter in a window seat with one of the books Paris had brought down. And -- Paris smiled her thanks -- this was the third cup of hot syrup drink the housekeeper had brought, even though Lorraine was now back in the classroom with the little girls.
It was odd, being cosseted in Lorraine's pretty room. Odder still that -- the way she felt, languid, a little drained -- she wasn't minding it as much as she'd thought she would. Paris leaned back against the stone of the window seat gazing out at the grey sky, the silver castle, the occasional lacy flake. The window looked out through a frosty glass pane to a courtyard, with a bare tree, tall and strong, standing in it.
Part of her wanted to think about what needed to be done next, to think about her friends and their problems, to think about Prince William. Tears prickled her eyes. "I'm tired," she thought to herself. "Too tired to really think. I'll cry if I start thinking now and that wouldn't do at all. All I want right now is to remember the good times." She closed her eyes.
It took a little discipline but, once started, it was easy to drift from daydream to daydream. She really was tired. It was easier to picture than to think. The shift of light as clouds moved against clouds over the snow-drifted garden, shifting patterns of light in an elven tree, the smell of hay, the scent of jasmine, the warmth of the sun over vineyards, the spice of rosemary in her mother's garden.
"Lady Paris," the housekeeper's voice was soft, "there's Sir Ewen here t'see you. And I've a bit o' work t'do on milady's second best gown, if you don't mind me sitting over there." She nodded towards the table and chair next to Lorraine's tallboy. Paris smiled her gratitude and turned towards the doorway.
Ewen was standing there. He'd been there long enough to see the tranquility of her face at rest, to note the fine high cheekbones that were now just a tad too prominent, the strong line of the jaw over which the skin lay just a tad too tight. He knew her too well to think of her as frail -- but the thought crossed his mind nonetheless. The eyes she turned to him were just a bit too big for her face. But the smile was Paris. Paris, without a shadow of a doubt, glad of his presence.
He grinned in answer and made a theatrically sweeping bow. "My lady, forgive the intrusion."
Almost Paris laughed. He had hoped she would but he had not expected it. The winter had been hard on her, he knew. That was partly why he was here. He'd agreed to Lorraine's suggestion that their friend needed some 'looking after' these days. There was a twinge in his heartstrings. Strong and vulnerable, he'd seen her in both extremes. Would she ever let anyone really look after her -- until it was too late? He brushed the thought away, keeping his smile steady.
Paris said, "Forgive my laziness, my lord. I have been settled in so comfortably that I must have been dreaming. I was thinking of gardens. I suspect that I needed something like you to rouse me to something more useful."
Ewen pulled up a stool and sat near. "But gardens are eminently useful, my lady. And what better use of a bleak winter's day than to plan a garden for the spring. Will you be planting?"
Again Paris almost laughed. "There is no plot in Jouet Square for me, Ewen." She settled back and drew her knees up under the comforter. The softness returned to her eyes. "I was remembering my mother's garden and -- I hadn't thought of it until you started the thought -- but...." She looked at him, her eyes dark with old sadness and sweet memories. "When my brother and I were -- trying to -- come to terms with Maman's death -- I remember telling him that someday I should like to go back to Jouet and plant flowers where our house had stood. I -- you know, Ewen, I would still like to do that. To start a garden where ruin now lives. A little wilderness garden. With roses and thyme and forget-me-nots -- that can run wild and happy even if I'm not there to tend it. And I know I won't be. But I should like to know it is there."
She turned towards him and Ewen realized that, even worn down as she seemed, she was still pretty in this mood. "Ewen?"
"Yes, Paris," he kept his voice warm and soft. This was not a mood he'd been privy to very often.
"Do - do you suppose -- that I could ask your mother for a cutting from one of her roses? I - I think my mother would have liked yours very much."
He settled in on the chair, one elbow on his knee and his fist supporting his chin as he leaned toward her. "I think she would be happy to give you one. I think she quite likes you." His smile was soft, half a grin. "But she will worry about her cutting being away from daily care, like a child going into some rough and wild place."
Paris nodded. "There would be that. I should not do that. It would be wrong of me to ask for your mother's rose unless I was sure that it would flourish." She paused for a moment, "Well -- it won't happen until the orcs no longer tramp that part of the duchy any more. Perhaps then someone will re-settle and be willing to look after my garden for me." She smiled at him. "It was just a daydream, after all. A someday." Her face fell a bit. "Like so many other 'somedays'," she whispered.
"Hey," he said softly, trying to catch her eye. "Today's a someday. A someday meant for daydreams and sitting inside watching the snow fall. And chatting about planning gardens." He grinned at her. "It is winter, you know. Even magic grape vines rest now, and won't start again until another someday in spring." His grin faded as he looked out the same pane. "Though I think this spring will be a busy one."
There was the glint of an unshed tear in her eye, but she smiled even while not looking at him. The slightly sad smile that seemed too much part of her since her return. He was glad that his entrance had proved it wasn't the only smile left to her. Her voice held a note of shame. "I have been trying not to think about that. About all that is yet to be done. About the 'if onlies' and 'should haves'. She stirred restlessly. "I shouldn't be lazing here. I should be practising something or training somebody." Her lip quivered and she seemed to pull herself together stiffly, as though affronted by the weakness. Still, her next comment had a plaintive catch. "I don't know why I should be acting this way. There's nothing wrong with me." She looked at him. "Forgive me."
He moved smoothly from the stool to sit partly on her bench, taking her hand in both of his. She could see the Gryphon's housekeeper shoot a glance over her mending, but the old woman said nothing. "Hey," he interrupted. "You've had a lot of shocks. That journey was pretty tough, and the news you got here at the end, all at once, was pretty shocking." He reached up to gently brush an imaginary stray curl off her forehead. "Not all wounds show. Or can be cured by a poultice or a prayer. And none of it," he said very softly, "requires forgiving anything."
"Thank you," she whispered, while something inside started to scold her weakness. She tried to firm her voice, sat a little straighter. "What plans -- have you heard? -- has the Duke, come spring? Without -- Prince William -- it will seem so -- different, to me. But -- where are the points most at risk, do you know? Carcassonne?" she prompted.
His hand had pulled back from her face, and now rested on one knee; the other was still cupping hers gently. His forehead creased in worry. "Is that what you want to talk about? Will it help?"
Something inside her cried in its cage as she nodded.
He pursed his lips in thought, and moved back to the more comfortable stool. "Well, then, I'm not in the Duke's war councils, but I've heard a little. Fort Carcassonne could hold out against the orcs to its east indefinitely. There are still a lot of them there, dug in like their warlord commanded, who haven't moved. So, it would be pretty tough to dig them out, the Fort alone probably doesn't have enough people. With all those orcs a couple of weeks away to the west and northwest, the Duke doesn't dare send a large force east. I think he is just going to try to keep things held still on this side of the mountains until the succession is settled. Though I think I know which way he hopes it will go, I don't think he can do much to affect it." He studied her face intently.
It happened so fast that if he had not been watching he could not have been sure of what he saw. A shock of awareness passed over her face followed by a stab of raw pain. She was hit with the enormity of what William's loss meant to that settlement of the succession. Then her face crumpled and she buried it in her hands. "Oh, God, why?" she gasped brokenly. It sounded more like a plea or a prayer than anything else.
The railing and wailing inside had both shut down, both aghast that she had broken down in front of Ewen, aghast at the train of thought she no longer held in check.
"What," thought Ewen frantically, "could I have said to bring on this reaction?" Again he moved over to her bench, perching himself half on it by her side. His arms reached out around her shoulders and pulled her face into the rough wool of his tunic, her arms trapped between them. She buried her face in the material and felt sobs she couldn't control try to force themselves out. He thought he could hear her try to speak but it was choked and muffled. "I am -- Sir Juda -- all over again."
"Lord d'Lacey," she heard the housekeeper say from just by his elbow. "I think it's time to be going, sir. She needs her rest now."
Gently, he released her and stood up. The formidable housekeeper interposed herself immediately between the two of them. "Perhaps you can call again tomorrow, your lordship."
She could hear Ewen backing up to the doorway, but kept her face buried.
"I'll, I'll do that, ma'am. Paris," and he stopped, unable to continue. "I'll see you tomorrow," he finally said.
She was pretty sure he was gone before the tears no longer had control.
After talking with the housekeeper, Lorraine was really reluctant to let Paris go home that night. But taking her to the 'school' dinner and dance would be equally impossible. So Lorraine contented herself with telling Calais, when he stopped by after his work to pick Paris up, to make sure the two of them took good care of themselves.
[S: What set Paris off was the realization that William would not be part of the succession. Which led to the thought that she could ally with one of the successors and let the sword be used as a symbol - which would be totally against her orders from Prince William to stay neutral. If he is dead, then she is free to do just that. She already feels she ought to have done that in the first place. That is, she should have stayed at Prince William's side and protected him. Then, at worse, they would both be dead. It wasn't his orders that sent her away; she gave the orders herself. Thus it is her fault that he is dead. (In the most simplistic view of things.)]
[GM: I think William came close to ordering you to stay away from him. In a nice way. :)]
[S: Yes, I know that. :-) But this is - what? - 24 hours after learning William was dead. And another 24 hours of trying to put into words why she felt so badly so that Ewen wouldn't think that it was anything about him. And muffing it. 'Cause guilt is something Paris does well. By the end of the week she will have worked part of this out. But right now she is not being very just to herself. All she can really think about is the horrible-ness of it -- and the fact that she _could_ have chosen a different course of action than she did. ]
[GM: And it wouldn't surprise any of us (Ewen and me :) ) if in that 24 hours you had moved from denial to anger, which could have been part of the upset that Paris showed. The "I am Sir Juda" would have given him something to think on.]
Second Day
The next afternoon was blustery. The wind whipped the bare branches of the courtyard tree wildly despite the protection of the castle walls.
Paris stood when Ewen was announced. He had taken the time to correct the dis-arrangements the weather had effected on his appearance. He glowed with health and the energy generated in pitting himself against the weather. It gave him a vitality that made him quite handsome to Paris' eyes.
For his part, Ewen saw a Paris tight-strung, travel journals and notes spread around her. Whatever energies her lassitude of yesterday had been attempting to recoup were burning frantically today, a wasteful expenditure, clear to his eyes. "My lady," he said gently, bowing slightly over her hand. No theatrics today. He wanted to say, "You should yet be resting" but contented himself with a comment on the weather.
"You're cold," some of her energy focussed itself on his face. Then she turned to the housekeeper. "Could we have a warm drink for Sir Ewen, please?"
Quickly Ewen added, "Only if you will sit down and drink some too, Sir Paris." He gave the housekeeper an anxious glance and was answered with a shrug and a nod at the untouched mug, no longer steaming, near the window seat. "Freshly warmed," he smiled back at Paris. "It would be good for us both."
Paris looked guiltily at the window table and hastened over to take her mug. As the housekeeper took it from her, Ewen moved to his stool. He reached over and drew Paris to the window seat as he tried to distract her. He started a description of the appearance of vineyards swathed in their overcoats of hay for the winter. Almost as though she didn't quite know what to do with herself, Paris sat down and tried to listen.
She jumped up again when the housekeeper re-entered with the tray. Mugs and a small platter of sweets. But the older woman clucked, "My lady, you are as fidgety as a hen today" and so Paris sank back into her place.
Holding his mug Ewen looked across its rim at Paris. "Drink with me, Paris," he said softly as she was about to put her steaming mug on the table. "A toast to 'somedays'." He'd caught her eyes and she stopped, examining his face with a mixture of worry and relief. "Some - days," the words came out with a catch to her breath.
She took a sip. Then she tried a bit of a smile although her eyes were worried and she held herself as though repressing the nervous energy. "I am sorry -- to have spoiled -- the someday that was yesterday, Ewen. Are - are there -- other somedays that you think about? That are -- important to you?" Although she spoke with hesitation, it seemed as though each phrase focussed a little more of the flame that was Paris, concentrating on Ewen. She had managed to place the mug once again on the table and was holding her hands tightly clasped, as though their movement had to be focussed as well.
Ewen frowned in concern for a moment, then carefully opening his arms wide and grinning his trademark grin, "Nonsense. Paulo would just press that someday in with some others to make 'a wine with character," he said, mimicking the others earthy tone. He nodded, making a decision. "Like mixing it with a somedays when we aren't penned inside and can be out and doing." His voice softened, "You want to be out and doing so much that it hurts, doesn't it, Paris?"
She looks at him, startled. "Yes. No, I shouldn't. I - don't know." The fidgeting started up again. She couldn't keep her eyes on his face. "I - There's so much I should be doing that - that it's not easy - thinking about what I want to do. It - it doesn't matter what I want, really."
"Oh, it matters," the words were almost torn out of him and she stared at him again. Recovering, he grinned. "If you want to be up and about, than - let's! Let's at least promenade the corridor. It'll give you a little exercise and," he grinned at the housekeeper, "nothing can happen to us with the duGryphon guards within call."
Paris' giggle ended in a choking sound, but Ewen felt a moment of triumph. He'd heard the giggle.
The housekeeper bustled out a shawl and, as Ewen helped wrap it around the thin form, he was struck again by the images of two nights before. He'd helped Paris take her pack and shield down to the stables. It was the sight of her once-magnificent roan that had given him pause. He'd hoped that it was only the poor lighting in the hallway - and that his arms had deceived him when he'd held her, but - her horse, her beloved Beaujoulais (He had to smile. He though perhaps that name had been given because of him. Hoped so. Hadn't brought himself to ask.) was as skeletal as she was. The catch in his stomach was almost as bad as when he'd caught her fainting in the mine of Gillian and feared she was dying. Old Man Winter must have nearly killed her and her Jouet friends. He'd wanted to keep her talking - half the night if she'd have let him - but, instead, he'd saddled the horse and boosted her up, telling her not to keep her brother waiting. She'd leaned down and kissed him softly. And when she turned the horse and rode off, he'd realized that his face was wet. A little. From her tears. He'd nearly gone after her. Wanted to break something. Wanted to do something. And went up to have a word with Lorraine.
Ewen offered her his arm in the formal manner and she had taken it. They walked the hall. He'd wondered what he would say, how to get her to talk about what troubled her so. How not to cause her to break down again. Although - he had to admit it. Holding her clinging to his tunic - had been a lot like having his arm around her in the vineyard. Before she had learned to trust him. It was - knowing that she - his magical Sir Paris - actually seemed to need him. But - always - Always! - something got in the way. Like those guards would if she started crying again today.
"Sir Paris," he started, "please tell me about the Knight of Swords."
Her glance dropped down to her badge. "It - is one of the court cards of the Tarot deck. Swords ... the symbol of chivalry, the element of Fire, the - difficult suit. The Knight of Fire and Steel." She looked at him with solemn eyes. "At present, it is a symbol of me, and I am a symbol of it. It is the card of skill, bravery, defense, address, war, destruction, resistance, ruin."
Hastily Ewen added. "You say the Tarot is a deck of cards, but - I recall long ago - it seemed you spoke of it as a place. That the grapes came from - the Empress of Tarot."
She nodded. "It is - both. A place on the other side of the Mirror. A deck of cards. And a deck of people. People who have choice, People who have no choice, and gods - who have no choice but their province. The Major Arcana have no choice. They seem to be people or gods. I think the Empress was once a human queen. But now she rules the province of cultivated fertility. I - am only human. But I have choice. I once thought I'd have the choice between defense and destruction. But I am not so sure. I - try to defend. But - so much of what I care about - seems to get destroyed anyway."
Ewen said, "I - I think I understand how that worked with Sir Juda. He defended against the orcs, so he said. Yet he destroyed the - Mirror? You yourself said that he was without justice. He stopped his walk to turn and face her. "But that's not you. You wouldn't do that, I know. But please, please, don't destroy yourself instead." He turned again, pulling on her arm to get her moving again. "I may be just a farmer, but I know the best stories are when the hero returns victorious. As Lord Gryphon said, better to win and come back than just win." They took a few more steps. He started to say something, paused, then spoke. "So, what kind of people are they -- the Major Arcana -- that they associate with gods?"
Paris frowned in puzzled thought. "I am not sure that there's all that much difference between the Major Arcana who are gods and those who are not. Each seems to have his or her province. Each seems basically human in appearance although each has -- powers. For instance, the Magician can rewrite anything that was written about in the past; in essence, he knows the past. The Hermit knows anything in the present -- anywhere. The Hanged Man can describe the Future -- unless it concerns one of us with Choice. Knowledge of Past, Present, or Future. Are these not 'godly' powers? Yet none of those three is classed as a 'god'. However Learning and Doing are both classed as gods: the arcana of the Sun and the Moon, Yellow and Blue. Nor is Justice classed as a god although he said he was brother to Dying, Red, who is a god." She shrugged. "It is, as yet, something I do not understand. And I am not sure how much 'associating' they do with each other. The Emperor and Empress speak to each other. The Emperor certainly commands the Charioteer. Temperance spoke of a time before the last Choice when she-- it would seem -- associated rather closely with Nature, whom we have guessed is he now represented by the card called the Devil."
"What sort of people were they before they became Arcana? Well... the Emperor now is he who was King Essen, husband to Queen Branwen. Who the Emperor was when the Change came, I do not know. Prolerian was his name. But there is some indication that he was father to the princes who became Justice and Dying, possibly husband to she who became and still is Empress. And it is my guess that she who is Fortitude was their daughter as well. That is merely my guess. The present High Priestess I need not guess about. She was once my dearest friend, Genelle, daughter of the padre of my village. But she is more than that now, seemingly merged with the many High Priestesses who have come before, died, and been replaced in the deck. She gave many names after her transformation. And only occasionally could I still see a trace of my friend. They were wise and good people. Now -- they are Major Arcana. They -- gave up what they were to take up the province that their card represents."
"It doesn't seem to be the same with the Minor Arcana. We -- just seem to match our card. I don't want that to be so! I don't want to be a knight of death and destruction. Any more than I want people to die in a civil war! Or - or for Prince William to be gone!" She swayed a little, unsteadily, and Ewen quickly moved his arm around her, to better support her. She did not shrug him off. She spoke with quiet passion, "But justice and injustice have little to do with what I want. And nothing at all to do with happiness. Cups is the happy suit. If there is one. Not swords. Not swords." Paris swallowed. "Not even cups, if William... Oh, Ewen! He's not supposed to be dead." She looked up blinking hard. "And if I keep thinking about it, I may have to weep. And that would not do." She took a deep breath. "Tell me, Ewen, tell me what have you been doing this winter. After Gilliam-town. Please?"
He understood the implicit request. "Um. Came back. Made - your report to the Duke. I reassured Paolo that you would believe that whatever he thought best would work for dressing the vines for winter." His eyes twinkled at her. "And shortly thereafter I had to listen to Paolo and Jean Giles - the cellarer - debate just how long magic grape wine would have to be cellared. And whether it made any difference from which 'growth' the grapes came." He smiled. "They'll be a lot more confident next year. But I was happy to grab the chance to do escort duty to Carcassonne. Sir Fulk's people were trying to sow the LongNight season crop of wheat. Duke Evan had managed to get some seed-grain when we were still trading with Pelier, it turns out. I made just the one trip. I didn't want to miss - " abruptly he switched tacks. "It wasn't a quest, after all. Just a chance to get a bit of traveling done. Tillage for the spring crops - beans, peas, oats," he gave her a sideways glance, including her in whatever thought made him smile slightly, "should start this month. If ever these storms let up. It's been a strange winter."
"It's been a strange year," Paris' soft comment almost echoed Ewen's.
Ewen nodded. "Luckily we vintners don't have to start the outdoor tasks until there's little danger of frost. The vines stay safe under their straw overcoats. You'd be amazed how they're already sprouting when the straw does come off. And it's the weaker new growth that always produces the best and most abundant fruit." He gazed at her. "The old root stock provides stability, strength. But it's the new that provides the richness, the intensity, the magic in the grapes. If it's properly tended and not allowed to over-extend itself." He covered the hand on his arm with his other hand, warming it. "If it produces too much, too fast, it burns itself out and destroys the entire vine." Ewen's voice had grown soft. "We'd like to prevent that, if possible."
Paris, in a somewhat stifled tone, asked, "What is it that the vines reach for so, to over-extend? What can be the ideal they strive for?"
"The sun, Paris. Simply the sun. For their own sake the vines need to be pruned, trained, kept compact and healthy. That way they can best use the sun's warmth."
"Pruned. Trained." Paris' voice faltered. "Oh, Ewen, it has been a very harsh winter. It would be good to be in the sun again."
They'd reached the end of the hall again, the farthest point from the duGryphon door. "I can provide a little warmth, Paris," Ewen's voice was husky as he drew her towards him. Paris felt herself on he edge of tears again as he bent towards her. "You are my magic flame. Be warm, " he murmured and kissed her. Paris found herself clinging to him, lost in pain and confusion and the warmth he awoke in her with the first real kiss she'd known in months. But, somehow, the maelstrom seemed just a bit more tamed when he released her and began the promenade again. "Oh, Ewen, I have missed you," she whispered.
Third Day
It was one of those glorious days that turn winter into a glittery jewel, shadows marking the snow with purple and blue only a shade different from the brilliance of the sky. Crisp. Pure. Cold and sparkling. You could hear the snow on the sunward side of things drip into icicles.
Having been directed back down and into one of the practise yards, Sir Ewen strode across the cleared space towards a far corner. The trace of ice on the cobbles gave a gentle scrunch to announce his presence. The slim figure which had been whaling away furiously with a sword at the practise pell did a quick turn and caught the 'head' of the pell with a firm rap as he said, "Sir Paris?" He had no question concerning her identity. He had studied that form, those moves, the tilt of her head as she sized up a target -- in life and, for hours in his memories. It was the wisdom of what she was doing he questioned. It was her choice of activity and time that worried him.
The brief flame of a welcoming smile lit her face as she tossed back her mane of dark curls. But the eyes were wary as well as warm. "Sir Ewen." She followed his glance to the pell. Her smile twisted half-apologetically as she straightened from the martial pose and moved over towards him. Her breath came quickly in gusts of steam. Gently he started, "Should you be-" and cut himself off, reaching to retrieve her abandoned cloak from the empty weapons rack and draping it over her shoulders. "You shouldn't let yourself cool down too fast in this weather," he smiled, searching her face carefully.
Her smile flashed briefly again. Catching her breath, she exhaled softly. "I needed the work out, Ewen." Softer still, but grimly, "There's an awful lot of pain and anger to get out right now. It is better," she nodded at the pell, "to work it out here than to take it out on those around who care about me." Her eyes on his face were definitely worried.
"But not," he peeled one of her hands off the sword hilt, "until you take up my colours, you know." He started chaffing her blued fingers between his gloved hands. "Feel ready to come into the Hall and have a warm drink with me, Sir Paris, after my cold ride?"
Surprise and pleasure, quickly subdued, coloured the look she gave him. "If -- after the poor company I've been.... Certainly I will come with you, Sir Ewen."
Settled in front of the fire, Ewen looked at his companion carefully again. A flame seemed to burn within her too, but whether self-consuming or merely the passions of the shocks she'd endured surfacing for the moment, he could not tell. Today that internal fire blazed, focussed, controlled, still restless. Without it, she would seem frail, still too thin and worn. With it she was as he knew her to be. Fire. Steel. Magic. "You seem -- better today, Paris. Recovering physically, I mean," he smiled.
"I have to regain my endurance someday, Ewen." She held her hands towards the fire. "I decided that this someday might as well be sooner rather than later." She looked at him. "What I really wanted to do today was to take horse and ride and ride and ride until I no longer was thinking in circles. But that would not have been fair to Beaujolais. He has given so much of himself for me lately. Until he is back to full stone and normal gloss, I should not ask him to give still more, randomly. I would seem ungrateful to Duke Evan and his horse master to so abuse a gift."
Ewen had been looking at the mug in his hands as she spoke, turning it back and forth. When she finished, there was a silence that stretched. She was about to speak when he started first, voice low. "I did some research." He glanced up at her, his grin momentarily on his face. "And you know how I love studying." He continued looking at her, but the grin disappeared. "There has been a lot of discussion about your meeting with Sir Juda. About what he said." There was a pause. "Among all of that speculation and dissection, there were some things said that, well, made me think of some things that you never would have been taught in class."
He straightened up, still looking at her. "There was something said about his commanding huge armies in the field. And the losses...." He looked away, out the window. "People are different after being in a battle where there are losses they know. I know we were all different after Simon." For a moment there wasn't any sound but the steam rising from their cups, a hundred images running through their minds. "Juda must have been one of their best commanders to have that many under him. He would only have gotten there by being good, by being in battle after battle." He turned back to look at her. "You won't have ever seen any of those people who come back from such wars. We haven't had many, and not many people fight for so long. Most of them lose something, and start to lose themselves. Sir Gryphon is an exception. A rare exception. The others lose themselves or, and I think this happened in Sir Juda's case, lose their ability to feel for others. They focus only on one thing, to the exclusion of everything else, see the world only in terms of honour or land conquered or such. But, even knowing about these losses, we have to have people, our best people, fight for home, our lands, our everything." He reached out for her hand. "You are the Knight of Swords because you are our best, I think. Because the fire in you, the steel in your spine, won't let you do anything else. And, unlike Sir Juda, you feel for others too much. It will destroy you if you try to face it alone. And if you are not careful, if you try to face it alone, it will destroy you before you reach the 'room at the base of the tower'."
Paris tried to grin. "So ... I feel too much?" The grin crumpled and she bowed her head over his hand, trying not to break down again. It almost hurt to breathe. In a moment she could admit painfully, "You are so right. And it feels like it will certainly destroy me. I - I don't have the strength not to feel." She lifted her face. A couple of tears had managed to escape despite her efforts. "I try not to feel alone in this. Really, Ewen, I try. I am a gleaner in the fields, taking up the bits of "home" that I find, gladly. It - means so much to me that you, Lorraine, the duGryphons, still have a place for me." She wasn't as careful with her words as usual. Usually she tried hard not to let people know how much she looked forward to them, how much she - loved them, the glimpse of 'home' they offered. She did not want them to think that she expected it. She knew that, over time as people grew older and away, it would change. But now it meant almost as much as life itself. "It helps. Believe me, it helps. I think I almost lived for 'homecomings': giving my report," she swallowed hard, "to Prince William. Being debriefed by Sir Gryphon. Seeing Lorraine. Seeing you. Fitting into place." She tried a half-smile. It didn't work very well. "It makes the pain so worthwhile. But, as things change, I realize that I embodied so many of my ideals in - in the people I care about. The ideals that I must live by are - so much colder - by themselves." She swallowed again. "I don't want to be the Knight of Destruction, Ewen. Like Sir Juda. And I need to reach that room, to finish the Quest. I owe it to Prince William. But -" she winced and whispered, "here I am again, not knowing how to not feel too much."
Ewen rolled his cup between his two hands as he listened to her. "You aren't just the Knight of Destruction. You are also Paris of Jouet. The Lady of the Grapes." His eyes looked at her in a way that was intensely warm. "And much, much more to me. I don't want you not to feel ... too much." He looked down at the cup in his hands, and there was a long silence as he struggled with words. "I want to help you. Somehow. But I don't know what to do."
'Find me a Place!' a part of her wanted to beg.
'No!' commanded the other. 'You need too badly with nothing to offer. Nothing but emptiness, duty, and disbelief. No!'
'I could love him. I do love.'
'No. We hurt. The feeling of need may not be love. We are ... too lost,' the commanding voice seemed to crack.
Paris pulled the pieces back together. "Oh, Ewen," she sighed, but it caught in almost a sob. "I don't know either. There's too much pulling at me right now. I - want to use you as a touch stone, a piece of - warmth and sanity. But there's too much I have to understand. That I'd rather run away from. It's not safe, not fair, to you. I - hear my own words to my prince and they don't make sense to me anymore." She looked at him, the warmth in his eyes comforting her despite herself. She whispered, "But they will. Someday. Pray for me."
"Looking Terrible" copyright 2000 P.Shea & S.Knowles. The contents of this site are copyright 2004 Sheryl A. Knowles unless otherwise specified. All rights reserved.