Glimpses

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Here's some very short stories of mine (if stories they can be called). They're vastly different in style, and may or may not have anything to do with each other, but at least three of them are (like so many of my stories nowadays) supposed to take place in the Land of Argyle.

I might write more like these, and if I do I'll probably post them here as well.

Hope you enjoy them.


*****


A Glimpse Of...

Winter Travel

A coin clinked against the cold stone of the solitary shrine beside which we rested; weary from wayfaring night and day. We raised our gaze to meet his eyes, but the rugged Man from whose hand the coin had been tossed marked us not, or so he would have us believe. Withdrawing his arm he passed us with not a word nor glance our way, widened his strides, hasted downhill, trudging on towards whatever little destination he might have called his. Pretend not to notice he did, yet saw we not all a little twitch on his brow, a slight hardening of his face, a dark flare in his eyes?
Scyld rose, watched the Man shrink to a black speck against the snowy white land and be gone. He spake:

Hesitation. Hand stayed he
a second short on seeing us.
Eyes were wary: were his thought
that we might steal from Sollist's stone?

Brand said:

Much knows he not, were that his notion,
of Argon's steadfast, the Sons of Stone.

Sfard rose then, and took the piece of gold that had belonged to the Man.
"Tai!" he spat, tossed it aside, swearing.
Soon afterwards our heavy feet trod the road again. We laid four golden kelts upon the shrine ere we left; praying to Sollist for sunlit days and swift passing on safe roads, but the impure tai was left in a drift of snow, a flash of hollow glory in the white like a false star fallen down.
We passed over hill and plain, through wood and vale, under sun and stars, there were much to see, much to mind, the leagues were long, the cold was biting. One night during my watch the image of the Man came back to me. I heard myself quietly mumble:

So say we - might he, then, wonder
how much of Men Mountainfolk know?


The Living Past

His flute fell silent now, but that last note lingered sweetly in the air, and longer yet in his ear, as it is wont to after a hauntingly fair melody. His gaze was distant, dreamy - maybe a little teary. It was set on the fire's last fading embers. Closely surrounded, almost cramped by dusty, overladen bookshelves he sat there. A low and quivering sigh escaped from his lips' prison.
At that hour Dusk settled on the outside world. It was as if the fire finally dying allowed Dusk to spread. One could almost see him creep out of the gloomy corners of Wodan's library; out, out to prowl the streets, to steal from roof to roof, to kill mountains and distant shores.
But the fluter heeded not Dusk. His hand still grasped the flute, but it lay idle on his side. Distant, thoughtful, dreamy - maybe a little teary. His gaze was set on the fading embers.

A soft voice filled the silence:

Flames were dancing, fluttering on the hearth that
first of days - she smiled and so shyly bade me
sing. I sang. I thought that a silvern star did
kindle within her.

The hearth. That same hearth. An ever so soft smile did cross his lips, for he knew, he knew she was not far away, and she waited. Oh, that smile of hers, that sweet smile, with the little gap between her front teeth - that smile would greet him soon.

He lit a candle.


Loneliness

He looks down upon a blue world, the Moon. Naught but his own pale sheen does stand between the world and utter darkness. The night is no longer young. It was long since the night was young. Silence, serenity. Sleep. But - a candle in someone's window. A song from within. A simple song, slow, soft, sombre.

Dreary, dreary waiting hours
Grey, grey gloom
Longing, longing waiting hours
Alone in my room.

Blissful, blissful blessed moment
Bright, bright light
Brief, brief blessed moment
And back is the night.

But only the Moon hears, and he does not listen.


Love

His eyes, those dear little eyes, were all moonlight and tears. And her own – hazy with tears and a fear yet nameless. She sat upon the bedside, in the dark, and he close beside, in silvern moonlight. And she knew that he whose heart is the most joyous of all, he felt, he felt... Sorrow.

Why sorrow?

She looked upon him, in his eyes. Moonlight and tears… But he smiled. His was a smile so soft, so sad.
Her eyelids fell shut. A moment's quivering stillness, a frozen second, and then - his hands touched her face and held it. Tender yet firm they were, as if they held something very frail and very precious; a bird, maybe, a fair bird which might, unless guarded and loved with care, flap its wings and fly, fly, fly to ruin. A shiver did ripple through her body when two warm, trembling lips pressed themselves gently upon her brow and kissed it long. Then low sobs shook her, and she shed her tears freely, tears which the soft lips tenderly kissed away.

Then with his sweet, broken voice he sang to her this song, and every word did speak his love.

Be at rest, be at peace,
grieve not so, leave your sorrow,
shed your tears, be at ease;
even now there is a tomorrow.

Solace come, may you calm
heavy heart, hurt and troubled.
Take my hand in your palm –
halved is care, comfort doubled.

Like two birds that huddle close
ease their pains, forget their woes,
we will cheer your sprites anew;

like a bird in autumn storm
finds refuge where it is warm,
so your heart will find it too.


A Shroud Trek

(The picture which this is based on.)

Deadies who have failed to take me for lunch:

I

He took the pen off the page, closed the journal and carefully put both in a little bag, just beside a couple of dried pears. Having checked it hung safely by his waist, he got on his feet, adjusted the sword a bit and straightened the shirt of mail, thinking about dried pears. He gave a soft whistle.

Then, back south, gaze straight ahead, he was off again. Dried pears were on his mind.