History’s Lover
A Complete Short Story for Your Enjoyment
Excerpt from The Healer’s Creed Series
Loren Elias
Copyright Loren Elias 2013
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To the Reader: The following are the last journal entries of the Historian, Lucius in the months leading up to the his tragic death which, as you know, ignited the Great War that ravaged our beloved land and unleashed upon it the dark prophecy that none of us could have anticipated, and anticipated it had we, could have stopped.
~Lucius son of Shana, The Historian in 14th Harvest of His Reign, Planting Season
I am called The Historian, as my mother before me, her mother, and her mother’s father going back to that day upon the Mount. The last god departed brought them together in that place so long ago, called them to be teachers and protectors of this land and with this charge he bestowed upon my ancestors and upon me in turn great powers. I am not a god, ni, only one of their whimsical imaginings given breath like so many others. Was a blue bird not given the gift of song, the mole not the fast digging claw, the ant not overwhelming strength, the tiger not the terrifying tooth, so have I been given a great gift as those who have gone before me, a hand that can bring forth great things with merely a thought, a swipe of the dripping quill.
By my hand I could create a war in Brocacia, I could say it raged hot for many harvests past and casualties great, and the great war would arise from the land like a hillside flower bursting up from the dirt to greet the greater sun. Yes, a great war would arise and consume the land. But such a war is not. I can only write of peace there as this moment finds me. Yes, great power possessed beseeches of a man discipline yet greater. What havoc my quill could bestow upon the land so I must only write that which is, which was, as my fathers before me.
I have been called to keep record of our comings and goings, the great events that shape our lives. I’ve traveled Three Worlds a thousand times and more, collecting our stories, these stories of us all, as I have been called to do. I have trained and sent forth scribes to the far reaches that they might collect that which I cannot, being only one person after all. Those before me wrote of how we came to be here, now, I must write how we are, that those who follow me may continue in their calling capturing the life blood of the land, the joys and the sorrows, the rights and the wrongs, triumph and failure, evil and good, but never must I judge, only Time can do that. Only She can see that which rises and that which falls in perfect rhythm creating the eternal flow that pushes Her on, ever moving forward. Without struggle, without strife, without pain, without longing, without treachery, without bitter revenge would Time simply fade away. It is only the churn of perpetual conflict that pushes Her on from one era into the next.
But it is not these things that have this day called quill to page. I have seen many things on my journeys, met many wandering faces, noble, true faces, faces that frighten but none that compare to the one I saw this day.
Why should one face draw me having seen so many? Beauty? Yes she possesses it, beyond all measure. I could add nothing to her by the slant of my feathered stroke. Grace? Yes, refined as if by purifying flame. I am no dreamer but I know her, I see her interworkings, feel her thoughts. Virtue shapes her every glance. She sees the world, truly sees it as a maiden kept in a tower, peering upon nature’s beauty alas, her eyes glow with intrigue, with speculation, with awe at the great and the small. Not a detail escapes her. She sees the world and asks why. It shapes her visage. It dances upon her smile.
I would love to see the world through those dark shining eyes, gaze upon the wonder of that which our blessed gods have wrought, the magnificence of a thing so minor as the shifting hairs upon a caterpillar’s back moving across a fallen tree branch, a moist, shuttering gray moth just emerging into the world in new and wondrous form, or the great ant so small hauling a bit of grasshopper away to a place unknown, with her sisters many, each possessing a tiny piece, a great feast for them all. How i wish to be that ant now crawling upon her ankle as she watches with only calmness caressing her features. I watch as she tenderly brushes it away as it nears her knee so slightly exposed. And I quiver. So careful she is in motion, so careful to do not harm. Even the smallest among us, holds value in her heart. Yes, virtue defines her, compassion, patience, honesty, honor, self-sacrifice. She understands our Five Virtues that those called upon the Mount live by like no other. She lives them too.
I sit and I watch her, high upon my low branch. Does she see me here with my eyes wide and knowing, with my cascading brown feathers. Does she hear me when I surrender a low “hoo”? Dare I approach her as owl or ant or any living beast? Dare I allow her to see my true form? Could she love me truly if she gazed upon my beauty or would her speech ever be silenced by awe? I could not bear it. To never hear her voice, calm low speaking melody to the least of us. I am but the least in her presence, yet the least are the greatest in her sight.
Could her eye ever gaze upon me in wonder as upon the ant? It is more than I could hope for but I could never approach her. I can never hope to hold her. For she is daughter of Ruric, the King who has made it his life’s quest to see those of us called upon the Mount by the last god departed expelled from this land, yea, killed found he the chance. With all of our power, still he hunts us without relent. Will he ever catch us? I cannot say but as if by design hath he laid forth the perfect lure in the gentle face of that angel sprung forth from his blood. Alisha is her name. I can only watch her from a shadow with true form hidden from wandering eye. What harm can befall me from this high column? What harm but the ache in my heart?
~Lucius, Son of Shana, The Historian in 14th Harvest of his reign, Planting Season
I saw her again today, and now I feverishly write. As I perch high upon a low branch in the gardens of the castle, I watch her. If Ruric knew of my presence how enraged would he be. But he does not for I remain disguised from eyes that might wonder, might think. I remain perched as I preen and tilt my head this way and that as such a bird might do. Yes, from my hiding place, I see her sitting upon the pond’s edge watching golden speckled carp swimming about. I watch her silken black hair dance upon the breeze. I watch brown eyes narrow in consideration. I see her brow curl in thought as she watches the ripples expanding as wide tails brake the surface, creating an expanding disturbance upon the water. I watch curiosity shape her perfect face. Would the sheer of a smaller tail produce a lesser ripple? Would a greater one make the rings expand faster? Her every thought brings forth action as she tests that which mulls in her mind. I would like to sit beside her to share in her delight; alas it is a thing I cannot do.
~ Lucius, Son of Shana, The Historian in 14th Harvest of his reign, Hot Season
I saw her again today as the rains of Planting have now departed, leaving only the unforgiving heat. I find her in the stables with many a fine horse settled into stalls for the night. With her hair now plated with blue ribbons across her back, she is building something, something unknown to me, likely to any, something only conceived is her mind. As The Historian I can only write that which is; I am sworn to it in solemn creed, but my fair Alisha sees that which can be, she looks beyond that which came before us, that which is. She observes the movement and the still of nature and conceives of that yet unconceived. She is no sorcerous; I would have recognized her in an instant. Yet levers and pullies caress her mind as she pushes herself onward to create with her very human hands that which even the gods could not imagine. I can only watch in awe as her mechanisms take shape. Sometimes they do not work at first, but as I watch, she throws a thumb to her chin like she often does then she makes the adjustment and like magic, her creation co
mes to life. I share her joy at the sight of an idea fulfilled. I want to dance with her as she celebrates her victories many. I want to touch her. But she is like a treasure I can never truly hold.
~ Lucius, Son of Shana, The Historian in 15th Harvest of his reign, Harvest Season
I could not find Alisha today. I looked for her high and low, out in the garden, the stables, through windows tall and narrow and windows wide. Nowhere could she be found. I do hope she is alright.
~ Lucius, Son of Shana, The Historian in 15th Harvest of his reign, Cold Season
Cold Season has arrived with all of her triumphant glory. The air has turned against us, bringing with it a bitter chill. Blue skies fled many days past and now gray holds them in an eternal loving embrace. Blustery white now sweeps the hills. I could stand all of it, including the cold were it not for the unrelenting eastern wind tumbling frigid gale upon frigid gale across my already frozen wings, but I must see her. I perch high on wooden beam within the castle. I have found her at last. Shaking the cold from my feathers I shiver and puff, pulling one frozen foot up into my chest then the other as I watch her below, sitting in a gold kissed chair in front of a round mirror as she drags a heavy wooden brush across black shiny lengths again and again and again. I shiver again and her eyes catch mine. By way of the mirror, they meet. She turns to face me in an instant and I see that wondering face, that curled brow, those frost licked cheeks, that thumb across her chin but this time, this time all of it, every movement, every gesture I’ve grown to treasure is for me. She rises. I watch the long gown now sway across the plush rug as she walks past her high post bed and approaches with eyes ever locked upon my feathers. I try not to notice her; my head tilts and sways.
But still she speaks to me. “What are you doing here, silly?” She says through shifting thoughts. “The blizzards have taken the land. You should have long ago left for the southern forests of Angharad and yet here you are. But we both know why. I’ve seen you before in the gardens, in the stables, in the forest, along the hillside.” She spoke in the voice I had heard so many times, but now she directed it at me.
Of course she had seen me. How could she not. She saw everything. Not a spider wandered across cracked marble that did not catch her inquisitive eye.
“Come down from there. It’s not very becoming at all to invade a young lady’s bed chambers. But I suppose I’ve not been out in the gardens much these many days as my tutors have kept me locked away in the study learning and relearning their lessons. I suppose this is the only place you could find me.”
I look at her with two round black eyes and away.
“Come down from there,” she insists. “Do you not know when you’ve been outed? Who are you? A witch with a long pointed nose? A warlock with wild, wind driven hair?”
Revealing myself may seem a simple thing, but I know in whose house I find myself. Does Ruric wait just around the corner, await the verity of my shape that he might strike? For her, it is a chance I am willing to take. So slowly I descend as muscle and bone takes shape beneath hallowed light. I kneel there upon her plush rug, then rise before her as one scorned. My head hangs low beneath stringy blond falling from my shoulders to cradle frost brushed cheeks.
“I knew it was you.” She says with a smile. “The one called upon the Mount. How many stories will go untold, Historian, because you chose to linger in our gardens.”
I reach up to swipe falling hair away from my face and true eyes meet for the first time. I cannot speak. Never one lacking words, I know none.
She speaks for me. “You should not be here. You know how my father feels about those called upon the Mount. Why do you come to this place? A place that can only be your death?”
“For you,” As if having wandered through a labyrinth great at last words find my tongue.
She smiles as she straightens her gown. “No good can come of this, you know it, Historian.” She is right, but I have come too far to cower away.
“Then no good yet remains in this world.”
Alisha’s brown eyes stray then return to me. Words part her solemn lips. “A sad thought that would be, but each time I see a shivering moth escape her chrysalis to greet the new world I know the falsity of such a thought.”
I watch the words leave her lips and hold hope in my heart, but dare I ask. “It would be a fine thing if I were to be permitted to call upon you again.”
As the words leave my tongue a laugh meets my ears, a laugh tender and kind of her possessed, then she speaks. “A comedy I find your words. Why do you ask when already you have been at my side these many seasons? Said I ‘no’ you would just take new form I do not know but I assure you I would find you. Again and again for I know you now. But I do hope to see you in this form more often.”
~ Lucius, Son of Shana, The Historian in 15th Harvest of his reign, Planting Season
I went to see Alisha today but she sent me away saying that her little cousin had come for a visit and that he would reveal us. I know not what a little boy could see, but she speaks it with such fervor that I spare not haste in departing. With sadness I leave her standing there in the garden, but there will be another day. Our days spent together have now been many. On oft occasion, Ruric’s daughter welcomes me down by the pond side and speaks to me though I remain hidden away from sight. She meets me in the forest behind the castle as she wades through the darkness beneath to find me there waiting for her on the other side. We could talk for hours on virtue and valor, things that are and things that she imagines will be, but our meetings end with their beginning as she must hurry away lest we be found out. Each time I watch her leave the weight falls upon me great. I cannot rise. I cannot fly. I can only long for her next tender embrace. I think I love her and she me, but can anything come of this? As her father hunts us one then the next, will there ever be a place for our love. Not in this world perhaps. As our fingers part again and again, we bid farewell. We know each time could very well be the last.
~ Lucius, Son of Shana, The Historian in 15th Harvest of his reign, Planting Season
I received word that Ruric has found us out, has locked my Alisha away in his high tower. I must go to her. I cannot stay away. I will take her from that place. I will bring her back to my high sky fortress; take her from the dangers of the wicked world below. Ruric will not release her without a fight. His great army will rise before me if I think to steal his only daughter from that tower, steal the one that we love, both of us, as if one in the same. I leave now, and so this is the last I write. When I return with her, I will write more as a Historian is called to ever write, that which is, that which was but never that which he wishes to be. If this be my last line, then you will know that my final breath was for the fair Alisha.
END
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If you liked History’s Lover then you will love the books of The Healer’s Creed Series where you’ll read more about the events that followed the final line he wrote and the way in which their forbidden love changed the world forever. You’ll meet an intriguing cast of characters living in a world brought about as they fight for their people, for that which they love, for their very lives.
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