The most interesting part of my very boring math essay.

To think about what you, personally, think about is, while confusing, a most worthwhile endeavor. However, if you continue on this line of thought, you might end up thinking about thinking about thought, and then thinking about thinking about thinking about thought, and thinking about thinking about thinking about thinking about thought, and so on and so on until you are very much lost. I spent last Saturday just thinking, not about thought, or about anything in particular, really, but just... thinking. From this “experiment,” I have come to the conclusion that I am insane. We all are really; just look back and try to comprehend the way your mind works. Sitting there on a weekend, trying very hard to focus on a certain math project, for example, one might begin to stray towards slightly more appealing topics, like what you could be doing at the same time: say, going to a concert by a musician you really love, who happens to be performing just one state over. From the concert, you picture the last show the musician was in. From that, your mind strays to a different show and then, a character from this show. Then you recall the actor who portrays him; and then a different movie that actor was in, until, finally, you look up and realize you’re thinking about Harry Potter, and no one around you has any clue why you just started talking about Emma Watson’s new haircut.

I find that, typically, when I allow my brain to wander, I usually end up in a fantasy world or alternate reality as described by the most recent book I have read, movie I have watched, or TV show I have seen. This is, more than any other reason, why I do not watch scary movies- until I see something else that sticks more, that’s where I am. When reading Harry Potter, I attend Hogwarts. The Lord of the Rings, I live in Lothlorion, or maybe Gondor, or perhaps I’m a prisoner of Sauron’s. While watching Doctor Who, I become his companion, and travel through time and space. Thusly, always seem to have my head in the clouds, but more often, I’m really deep underground, hiding from the police as an Unwind, or winding my way through the tunnels of Moria. I believe this properly explains my dislike for realistic fiction- why be stuck in a desk at school in real life and in daydreams, when I could be exploring the Department of Mysteries?

Sometimes, however, my brain doesn’t cause me to be in an entirely different world, instead leaving me someplace entirely random, with hardly any idea how I got there. I often go off on seemingly unrelated tangents, but usually, there really is a set of thoughts that connects the original idea to the later one. For example, this afternoon, I found myself in a coffee shop with paintings lining the walls. Many of the paintings had quotes incorporated into them, and I occupied myself by reading them. At one point, I came across the one, “If ignorance is bliss, then why are so many people unhappy?” I found this highly amusing, as the statement above (one I happened to be familiar with) had been misquoted and misspelled. I then wondered where this person had gone to school, that they had such lovely handwriting but such poor spelling. Was English even the artist’s first language? Maybe she had crossed the border from Mexico so as to pursue a better life, and had achieved it in selling $10 paintings on the wall of a poorly frequented cafe. Maybe she had just never gotten enough education to do something better with her life, or maybe that was the highest she had ever striven for. Perhaps, even, that was all she wanted- who was I to say that her life wasn’t meaningful, or fulfilling, or happy? I had never met this woman; how could I possibly think I was intelligent or powerful enough to make that decision for her? This lead me to people throughout history who have placed themselves in positions that they felt allowed them to make these decisions, or even greater decisions than that, such as who could live, and who must die. In the Lord of the Rings, Gandalf says, “Many who live deserve death, and some who die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not deal out death in judgment, for even the very wise cannot see all ends.” I think this is a very wise quote, and one that should be remembered by anyone with enough power to make decisions that might cost lives. One such ruler, who’s not particularly famous here, but is rather infamous in Madagascar, is Ranavalona I, also known as the Mad Queen of Madagascar. While she was queen, nearly a third of her nation died. Was she truly evil? What thoughts went through her mind as she made the choices that led to this? No one but she has the answers, and she’s been dead for years. Thus, my rambling thoughts came to an end, and, thus, I managed to go from a quote on a wall to Queen Ranavalona I of Madagascar.

The Influences of Classic Literature on Today's Society (my most recent school assignment).

Anyone who has ever visited a library or bookstore has seen, if not read, such popular literature as Harry Potter, the Lord of the Rings, and Percy Jackson, but is everyone aware of how strong the influences of other, less recent books have been on these series? Somehow, it seems that most people miss the allusions, themes, and other references that litter the pages of our favorite modern books. Everything from the very plot of a story to the names of the characters themselves may have been influenced by another work by another author, and modern literature is not the only thing in modern culture that’s been affected. Chances are, if one was to walk up to someone and refer to “Big Brother,” or say someone was like “Walter Mitty,” the listener would likely understand what that related to- and those are hardly recent concepts. The idea that literature affects only literature, and that we are free from it in our everyday lives, is an erroneous one. Classic literature has had a huge effect on modern, Western culture, with an influence on everything from the phrases we say to the works of writing we read.
According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a classic is “a work of ancient Greek or Latin writers or philosophers,” although it also defines it as “a work of art of recognized and established value.” Although a true piece of classic literature is, in the traditional sense, at least, a work from ancient Rome or Greece, the less formal definition also includes more recent titles, such as Frankenstein: The Modern Prometheus, by Mary Shelley, Dracula, by Bram Stoker, To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee and 1984, by George Orwell, among others.
One of the most easily describable examples of these influences in literature is the aforementioned world renowned fantasy series, Harry Potter. In fact, Harry Potter is even considered by some to be a classic. With careful examination, a multitude of references can be found in these novels. For example, there are dozens of names in the series that have been adapted to suit the personalities and futures of the characters themselves. Some of these are: Remus Lupin, who is revealed to be a werewolf in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (his name comes from the mythical founder of ancient Rome and brother of Romulus); Argus Filch, after the Greek Argus the All-Seeing, a watchman with 100 eyes; Minerva McGonagall, whose namesake is the Roman goddess of wisdom and war; and Sirius Black, who gets his nomenclature from the constellation Canis Major, more specifically the “Dog Star,” Sirius, which was considered godly in tales by the ancient Egyptians and Greeks. Dedalus Diggle, Olympe Maxime, Mulciber, and Bertha Jorkins are all other examples of the author’s habit to reuse old names, not to mention Hermione, one of the three protagonists in the story, whose name was taken directly from Shakespeare’s “Much Ado about Nothing.” (Granger 1.)
The influences of Romantic Era literature on today’s writing are just as evident as those of the Greeks and Romans. For example, many stories from this time period are now being adapted to suit modern audiences, or summarized and analyzed in books of their own. Some examples of these works are Frankenstein: The Darker Passions, by Amarantha Knight, Dean Koontz’ Frankenstein, by, fittingly enough, Dean Koontz, and Frankenstein Makes Me a Sandwich, by Adam Rex, among others. Additionally, returning to the idea of the effects of ancient literature, some people believe that there are only seven main plots, and that all books written after the original seven are merely these seven put in different settings with different characters. These seven plots are as follows: voyage and return, rebirth, tragedy, the quest, comedy, overcoming the monster, and rags to riches. (Granger 8.) Thusly, examples of writings that have been influenced by classic literature include The Lord of the Rings, Gulliver’s Travels, A Christmas Carol, Hamlet, Dracula, and Cinderella.
As previously stated, however, literature is not the sole object of influence in today’s society. The analogies made in everyday life to literature and movies (most of which have, in turn, been influenced or are based on this literature) are numerous. They are so numerous, in fact, that most people hardly notice them at all when used in conversation. However, an immigrant from a place with an entirely different culture and set of stories might have no idea what the “Cheshire Cat” was, and, thusly, the sentence “He grinned like the Cheshire Cat” would have little to no meaning to them. The famous William Shakespeare has had such a huge influence on the way Americans and Englishman speak today that several words in the English language were literally invented by him- words used every day, such as “dwindle,” “impartial,” “lonely,” “majestic,” and “suspicious.” (Granger 7.) Shakespeare is also known for penning common phrases. Some phrases originally used in Shakespeare’s plays that are still popular include “wear one’s heart on one’s sleeve,” “it’s Greek to me,” “eat out of house and home,” and “break the ice.” (Granger 6)
Incorrect or altered references are also common. Near Halloween, for example, shops are filled to the brim with green, stitched “Frankensteins,” one associates with Hollywood movies. As anyone who has ever opened Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein will know, the monster in the tale is not known as Frankenstein at all, nor does he have a greenish hue or bear bolts in his head. Bram Stoker’s Dracula, too, is a prime example of this, which has evolved so much that modern vampire literature involves not the blood sucking, darkly gruesome creatures of the Romantic Era, but instead beautiful, alluring, almost innocent vampires of Twilight and other modern writings that have followed in the path of its success.
It is clearly evident that the past continues to influence the future and the present, especially through the writings that have been handed down through the centuries. Whether the characters and ideals described in these tales remain the same or evolve until they are almost unrecognizable is beside the point, because the influence is there, whether it is noticed or not. From the Anglo-Saxon writers of Beowulf, to the Romans and Greeks, to Shakespeare, to Romantic Era novelists, and now to modern authors, what the public reads will continue to affect how the public speaks and what the public reads, and even how the public thinks.

NaNo. So Far.

My first thought was to run. The second, fight. Both seemed foolish in the face of such an enemy. Surely he could outrun me? But surely he could outfight me, too.

“Please. Please, don’t hurt me. I meant no harm, sir.” I was disgusted to hear my voice come out as little more than a whisper. “I’ll not bother you again. I didn’t see... Didn’t mean...” My voice trailed away as I looked into those smoldering, ash grey eyes.

How like his father, Richard, this man was in looks- but in personality, I knew they were as different as two men could be. His father, brave, courageous, patient, with salt and pepper hair hanging past his chin, always willing to offer a hand, and a piece of advice, no matter how gruff his manner. And the son, brave, but with a fiery temper, a love of battle and even death, hair shorn near his head to accommodate the helmet that so often graced his head, quick to anger and a dangerous enemy with hardly a spark of kindness in his eyes or, I guessed, his heart.

Still he did not speak, but merely advanced towards me, one hand on his sheathed sword, the other balled into a fist. My heart beat faster than I had believed possible. “This man is going to kill me, and no one will know what happened,” I breathed to myself. Was there nothing I could do to prevent the inevitable of my death at his hands?

A rasping voice issued from beneath the polished helmet.

“And what am I supposed to do with you? I can’t let you go free, you’ll surely tell, and we can’t let that happen, now can we? I suppose I only have one choice...” he mused. “Yes, it’s the only way...” His tone, unrepentant or regretful, suggested that this was nothing more than a game of chess, and this decision rather unimportant in the vast scheme of things, but I was sure that there was more in his mind than he let show. This unveiling of his plot, even if I had been the only witness, surely rattled him a small bit, mighty man though he was.

My voice, first a whisper, rose to a panicked squeak as I pleaded for my life, swore never to tell a soul what I had seen, the things I had heard.

I knew he did not believe my promises. A military man, he had, of course, learned early how much a person would admit under torture, or, far more appealing, a simple bribe- a sack of coins under the table and a listening ear. No threat of his could save his secret if hot irons, knives, and sharpened stakes were involved. Yes, it was far better to rid himself of the possibility of discovery when he had the chance. Cleaner, simpler.

The metal sword clanked a little against the leather sheath as he withdrew it. My whine once again settled to a low mutter, whispered almost to myself, for there was no hope through pleading now, as there had been no hope all along.

I had no chances. To run was futile- I could see the bow and quiver slung over his shoulder, and knew he had deadly accuracy. Behind me, the slope of the hill and a long plain before the dread Forest. Before me, my enemy, and an empty field beyond where the Army had camped the day before. I would be shot down like a rabbit before I had taken twenty paces. As far as fighting went, I had no sword, no bow, no spear; my only weapon being the small eating knife I kept at my belt. Why had I been so foolish? And now my foolishness would cost me all I had.

He grinned now, seeing his plan unfold in his head. I was but a nuisance, now he had the solution. A bug to be swatted. And soon.

“Death is but the next great adventure,” I told myself. “And surely there is no pain after all earthly connections are gone. At least I shall be free of heartache, and fear, and physical injury...” But such positive (if they could be called such) thoughts were, of course, useless. I was frightened beyond belief. I needed a miracle, but I had never seen a miracle in all my short life. No, nothing but hardship, and short times of happiness which left even more hardship in their shadow. But, they say, a light can reveal itself from the shadows, even when all other lights have died. And so it happened on that fateful day, and so I came to write this from the relative safety of the Otherworld.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Halt!” cried the mage, in a slow voice that spoke of both wisdom and justice. “Do you mean to slay this young girl? She is but a child, not yet to womanhood, and seems scarcely strong enough to lift your sword. Have you no honor? What wrongs she may have done that caused you to deem it prudent to kill her, I cannot guess!”
The way in which the mage had simply appeared, as though he was made of nothing more substantial than smoke, seemed to have temporarily stolen the knight’s breath. I could only hope it had stolen his courage and bloodlust as well. Soon, however, he regained his composure, determined not to be outdone by a mere traveling magician (or so I’m sure he viewed him at the time).
“My business is my own, as is my honor. Meddle not in my affairs, and I shall meddle not in yours. Leave me be, conjurer!” He spat as he brandished his sword.
“Wisdom, I see, is as inconsequential in your mind as honor, and respect to those of your elders. Foul traits in a knight, indeed! I had not realized such men were accepted into our Army. I always felt they valued bravery and courage, indeed, but not such an insatiable hatred that young children and old men may fear for their very lives. I have been mistaken. Let us go, miss, and leave this recreant to his business, which he feels is so very important.”
“Fool! The girl is my business- take her and you die, as well.”
“I disagree, sir.” One wrinkled hand upraised to the heavens, the mage blinked and Richard’s son crumpled in the grass. The mage showed no emotion at this impossible feat, but merely looked down at me once more and smiled. “Let us leave him to his fate. Follow me, miss.”
And so I did, for there were few other options left available to me at this point.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
I expected us to fly, or something of the sort, but we merely walked in silence. I was terrified by the mage’s very presence, and oftentimes he seemed quite unaware of mine, but seemed quite content to stride along, humming softly to himself over his long, crooked nose. This left me ample opportunity to examine his appearance. He did seem friendly enough, apart from his ability to destroy lives with a glance. His eyes were a piercing blue, his beard and brows a bushy gray. The odd thing was, the man carried no pack- no sustenance, no shelter. And yet, this seemed not to bother him in any way, and, indeed, he looked well-fed and had no aura of unkemptness. Still, he worried me. An old man, indeed, he was spritely, and, even after a long day of monotonous travelling, he had no shortage of energy. I lacked the courage to question him on just where exactly we were heading to, and since he expressed no desire to explain, the subject was not broached.
Each evening, he would light a small fire in the normal way, then march off into the distance, returning several minutes later with enough food for the both of us. It was meager fare, but enough for us to get by, and I had lived on much less in the past, when my mother was our sole provider, and her children were so plentiful she scarce remembered our names. Each night, sleep dragged at my weary body, urging me to abandon all fear until the morning, but, each night, determination and dread at what might happen if I drifted off kept me wakeful. This pattern continued for many days, until-
Crisp, pale, autumn sunshine wipes the terrain clean. The clear light of dawn fills the air. It is a beautiful day, and in my experience, beauty means pain.
Calm, sunny days always fall on days when my emotions resemble something more similar to the gloom and rage of a thunderstorm, or the dark, eerie stillness before a tornado. To say I was paranoid, therefore, would most definitely be an understatement. My fear soon showed itself to be not without reason, however.
The day began as usual. As the sun rose, I aroused myself from the stupor I had collapsed into after almost a fortnight with little to no sleep. The wizard, however, still demonstrated the same irrepressible energy he had first exhibited. Soon however, things began to turn for the worst, in an unexpected and perilous way.
For the first time since I had met him, he spoke to me. His voice seemed unaffected by its lack of use, and the melodious tones spread across the still countryside.
“Silent one! I wonder that you do not express an interest in our journey, or in anything at all, it seems. But, ah! Do not worry, for soon it will be made clear to you, and speech will not be necessary.”
I was relieved at this, for I was unsure of whether or not I could still speak.
“We shall part ways today. I doubt you shall feel much sorrow at our separation, as we have scarcely been close, but I am deeply curious about you, and I know that you shall do great things- terrible, perhaps, but great. Remember our company, Melorie, and take this token as a sign of my protection.”
Mind reeling with shock and surprise, I gingerly accepted the brooch he held out to me.
I coughed, and cleared my throat, desperate to thank him for the gift, however meager it appeared. “Th-thank you, m’Lord,” I choked, voice cracking.
“Lord!” he chuckled. “I am but a traveling magician- a conjurer, if you will.”
Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared those weeks ago, he vanished, leaving me alone in an unknown land, with no sense of direction, doubting very much that I would ever bring about anything great or even slightly significant, except perhaps dying.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
I sank to my knees in the scruffy grass and pondered my situation. Again, I was left with few options. In some ways, searching for some sign of civilization would be my best option. Then again, the characters I was likely to meet in the middle of nowhere were bound to be unsavory, to say the least. I had been fortunate in the mage, and, as yet, my fears about his character seemed unwarranted, but, deep down, the nagging suspicion that we would meet again clouded my mind. It seemed my greatest worries at this point were vagabonds and thieves, who, while dangerous and a definite problem, seemed rather mundane after facing Richard’s son and his great plot, which also dragged at my weary head.
Such thoughts would do me no good at present, and so I did what I have done since I was a small child- slowly, carefully, I visualized the thought in my mind, folded it carefully, and tucked it into the crevices for safekeeping until I could pull it out, examine it carefully, and divine its meaning.
I drew my thoughts away from such weighty matters as destruction and betrayal, and, instead, gazed at the brooch held tightly in my clasped hands. Relatively small, with a deliberate, minuscule Celtic knot pattern, it was the only evidence to show the “travelling magician” had even been there at all. So focused on the unique object was I that I, in an unpresidented show of unobservance, didn’t see the lone rider breech the horizon, nor did I see him pause, listening, at the edge of my vision, as though fearful of pursuit. I did not see him gallop towards me on the wind, fair hair flowing and horse’s mane whipping. I did not see him slow to a trot as he neared.
I did see him as he slid off the horse gracefully with the poise of a dancer, and I saw him raise his sword with the elegance of a trained swordsman who fights not to fight, but for a cause. I saw him tilt his head to the right, and look at my crumpled form with raised eyebrows.
He squatted down next to me. When he spoke, his voice was coarse, and hurried.
“I had not expected company so far from friends. I do not expect it now. Prove to me, girl, that you do not seek to supplant me, and raise your favor with the foreign King.” He spat the last word like poison on his tongue.
With little thought, I unclenched my fist, and offered up the brooch to his eyes.
They, so lately narrowed in suspicion, widened with the shock of one who has received token that a friend, long assumed dead or fatally ill, remains among the living, or has recovered. Such was his surprise that I quickly tucked the brooch into the folds of my cloak in fear that he might snatch it from me for a closer look. He did not however.
Stuttering, he spoke but one word. “Malidan?”
“I-I know not of whom you speak. This talisman was given my by a mage of great power, who rescued me from a terrible foe, and with whom I travelled for many days. He told me not his name.”
Awe was in his voice as he spoke once more. “You have been blessed beyond knowledge, little one. He must have thought highly of you to bestow upon you such a princely gift. Keep it well! It may prove your salvation in times of danger.”
“Lo! Another riddle to ponder! Why must the noble speak always in tongues? Explain to me, good sir, how this may help me? What sign does it show, that wields such a weighty power? Naught has been made clear to me in many days. And, more important still, who are you, who rides so far from friends, companionless?”
He laughed; a great, deep, booming sound.
“I? May I not ask of you the same? A friend of Malidan’s commands my respect, but still, I cannot help but to be curious as to your destination and means. But, alas! I have little time to discuss such matters, and you shall soon share my haste. Come, ride with me! There is room to spare upon my charger. We must not be caught in the clash of war, and you little more than a child!”
“In age, perhaps, but in experiences and sorrow I have shared the lifetime of a war-trodden cripple. Do not judge by size and maturity of body alone! Maturity of mind may yet be considerable, though one has not yet reached adulthood.”
“Ah, never fear, miss. I merely felt concern for the safety of one so small- I do not doubt your nobility, or intelligence, nor indeed your suffering. But, haste! Haste! The paths of war run swift!”
Jumping to his feet, the warrior leapt to his horse, and swinging himself up, grabbed the collar of my cloak and lifted me up as well. I felt deep curiosity about this man, and what connection he had to the mage, Malidan, but I felt also considerable fear at the approach of the Army- for I knew who may still travel with the Army, and the hatred he felt for me.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Fleeing from a battle was clearly not this knight’s instinct. Nor, indeed, was it mine, for I, too, had lived a militaristic lifestyle. As far as pasts go, mine lacks the individuality of one well raised, and, instead, follows the same rut of the lives of many peasants, although, certainly, it is interesting, although sorrowful as well.
I was born poor, as so many are, and, raised with little education or luck, so I remained poor, as so many do. In a country where success is based on social status, my mother’s children knew from the start that there would be little fame, glory, or wealth in our futures. No, at best, the boys would become servants or laborers, and the girls might marry into a slightly higher class and become servants or laborers. At worst- well, we chose not to linger too long on options then.
To say my mother was unkind to us would be, truthfully, unfair. Life certainly had been unfair to Elani of Athelflai. Beaten down and careworn, Lani wore a constant frown, lines carved into her forehead from years, if not decades of harsh treatment. Bent with sadness, her cowered frame emaciated, Lani did all she could for her numerous children, hard reminders of the abandonments and deaths that had plagued her tired life.

It was no wonder she died young. Although she had never been able to supply her family with much, her death still came as a heavy blow to my siblings, now left more alone in the world then ever before. We tried to stick together, but separations occurred with alarming rapidity and frequency.
Those girls of an age to marry did so as soon as was possible, and not all to caring, loving husbands.
All of us worked hard, and fought for our right to life.
Some lost the fight. Our youngest died of scarlet fever. The eldest unmarried was stabbed and robbed, and bled to death in my arms. Three went out to the fields one day and never returned.
As the death toll mounted, I feared more and more for my sake and the sakes of my remaining siblings. The orphanage was no place for anyone- I was determined to keep us out of there, where it was a blessing to die soon, rather than suffer for years in squalor and disease greater than in the streets themselves.
I took my three youngest sisters, Nicol, Breena, and Dorin, and fled from the cruel memories and the dead of Athelflai. We had nowhere to turn to, no hope of salvation, but I knew the Army was on the move, and where the Army is, there are hungry men in dire want of hearty food. And where there is want of food, there are women, helping to serve the men. I had never admired this way of life, nor the suggestion it implied, that women were less suited to hard labor than men, but it was a place of relative safety, and it would do, in my opinion.
So we came to join the women in the army. It was by no means easy work, and encompassed everything from medic to cook to messenger, and everything in between. Thus our lives passed for four years, with our achievements being limited to daily chores, which must be repeated again the next. Thought was suppressed as well- rising at daybreak, and collapsing onto cots near dawn, sleep was immediate and dreamless.
The separation of our family increased even further in the months we travelled with and served the Army. One woman, the wife of a soldier, saw our labor and took pity on us. When her husband died in battle, she was left with no reason to stay behind, continually reminded of her loss. Before she left us forever, she made us an offer.
We would amount to little more if we stayed in the Army. We knew this, and had known it all along, but it was a cruel shock nonetheless to hear it stated so coldly and tactlessly by one little better off than ourselves. Left with a small sum of money and an abode back in her homeland, this lady said that she could take Nicol, and give her something better. She would be raised as a slave, but with the care she might give a daughter. It was one of the most difficult choices I have ever had to make. Nicol, always the weakest of the survivors, seemed always near to illness, and even as we spoke to she seemed to teeter on the spot, lost in the magnitude of her future.
In the end, we lost our Nicol. So fearful was she at the imminent loss of her only remaining family, and always frail in nature, Nicol caught a terrible fever and spent her last days quaking and shuddering, wrapped in a thin blanket in the medic’s tent, quarantined from the rest of the camp to avoid spreading the disease. Thus, she died alone, screaming out for her mother, and the father she had never known, trapped in a last spasm of grief and betrayal.
The woman took Breena shortly after; her second choice and second favorite. The eyes of my little sisters, wide in shock as both were lead away, far from friendly faces or family, will haunt me for the rest of my life. I vowed to keep Dorin safe from such hardship, and to do whatever was in my power to make her life better. The Army is no place for a child, so I took her to one of my elder siblings for safekeeping, intending to plead at their steps, wailing and pulling my hair, if it was necessary. I would not lose another sister, especially not Dorin, who I loved dearly. She was taken in by Motta, who had stayed in Athelflai. Still I long to see my Dorin, and one day soon I shall, and, when the time is ripe and I can care for her, whisk her away from the harsh hands and tired visage of Motta to wild, scenic landscapes filled with fruit and berries, and clear mountain springs.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
My musings were rudely interrupted by the jarring of the saddle. As we had ridden, the terrain had changed subtly from rolling, grassy plain with little to see in any direction, to a rockier, more sparse landscape. The horse, already weary from days of heavy riding, snorted, sweat running in rivulets down its brow. Steam rose from its warm back, and the charger’s cream white eyes widened.
Stumbling and tripping along, I knew we could go but a little further before the horse would truly crumple from exhaustion and lack of rest and care. Surely there was a need for speed and hurry, but it would hardly be productive to run the horse to the ground, and then travel on foot the rest of the way to safety. No, it was necessary to stop and let the horse eat some, and quench its thirst before continuing.
“Good sir-“ I began. “Your horse, strong though he is, seems in dire need of refreshment, and of rest. Shall we find a suitable place to halt? Or must we continue, though it may be the death of your proud steed?”
“Danger is near upon us, miss. To rest so close is foolhardy to the extreme. But, so also, I deem it would be foolish to fly for a ways, then travel dreadfully slow for miles untold. Nay, it must be the first, much as I regret it.”
“As we have halted,” I said, tenuously, “and as we shall remain here for some time yet until your horse is satiated… might you not tell me of your Quest? Why do you journey, as you so nobly put it, so far from companions and friendship? What does the name of Malidan spark in your tired mind? Be he friend, or foe? From wither do you come?”
“Ah! So many questions, little one! I shall answer them, fear not. And then, indeed, I shall have questions in turn for yourself, for I am not but a little curious as to how you came to be in your present condition and state.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“You ask of my Quest. It is a tedious tale, and one I do not share with pride.
“Knighthood, in my country, can be achieved in one of two ways: through birth, and riches beyond compare- bribery to the state- or by honest means, and hard labor, difficult to the extreme and highly taxing, although wonderful for character and physical strength.
“My father, poor as he was, though rest his soul, was not a knight, nor did he amount to much in his lifetime that shall leave a lasting mark on this world, although he did depend much on the influence he was sure to have in the next. I dreamed, in my boyhood and youth, of strategy that could affect the military world beyond comparison, as might put me in a position of highest power and respect. Footmen were below me- I pitied the archer and the broadswordsman, even as they passed, haughty and proud, through the muck of our ruined streets, shooting cold glances at the plagued beggars, huddled in corners out of the wind.
“I dreamed of cavalry, and courage valued above all else, as glorious, thankful maidens were rescued honorably from the cruel clutches of dreaded sorcerers dressed all in tattered black. I dreamed of receiving the honor of knighthood, blessed by the King for deeds of untold grandeur, unmatched by any other.
“The tales of companies of knights that roamed the countryside, doing good and asking no payment, sparked my imagination and led me to believe, in my innocence and ignorance, that all men of power were great, and kind, noble and just.
“My mother, weak and tired, did all she could to keep me in this happy cloud for as long as she could, bless her. The terrors of war, the horrors and thievery… Sins unsurpassable committed by knights after ransacking and destroying a village just like my own, full of innocents- mothers, wives, children- this would have broken me, robbed as I was of a father figure, a living, breathing role model.
“So I left my mother’s home, determined to seek out these courageous, kingly men who had only ever lived in legends. I found, instead, the Army fortress, where, greeted roughly by an impish boy no older than myself, I began a new life.
“The ordeal of training is one I care not to recollect. Let it suffice to say that I passed through the political power levels in the Army slowly and with much care, all the while looking desperately for the characters I had long dreamed of. None surfaced, of course. Finally, I rose to such a position that it was necessary for me to realize that there were no just, heroic men in power, only those who thought themselves good, and those who longed for more power and more gold.
“However, my motives had also changed through my years in the military. No longer did I dream only of misty morns and snorting chargers, armor-clad knights and damsels in distress. The practical had invaded my daydreams, and a family, a quiet life, a source of steady income now seemed more desirable than my wildest childhood fancies. But, alas! Such dreams were to prove useless, for, as my goals and hopes shifted to a lower level, so the fates made my first dreams a definite possibility on the horizon. The War, which caused and continues to cause such horrible nightmarish scenes of death and destruction, provided also, at the time, the glow of hope for my boyhood wishes.
“Already employed in the military, I was one of the first to be deployed. Little did we know who or what we were fighting for. Of course, higher ranks told us the propaganda and lies spread by our supporters, but the truth would have torn us apart- the reason, certainly, that we were not informed. Civil war and discord in the ranks is best avoided by withholding the truth, or, (darest I even suggest it?) allowing the troops, the mere soldiers of no high intelligence, think for themselves, and come to their own conclusions about their positions on certain issues.
“Thus did I learn slowly the true meaning of war. Do not consider me unskilled in the art of killing, nor unexperienced in the ways of the sword, ax, and bow! No, consider me merely inexperienced and unskilled in the area of destroying lives and families for no reason, ravaging the countryside, burning crops, razing cities, and mercilessly slaughtering children.
“No clean battles, superiors screaming instructions, polishing armor, or thrusts and jabs could have ever prepared me for the horrors of a true war. Blood gushing, the screams of the dying, the cold, hard glint of metal in the sunset… The crows, plucking at the corpses of the fallen, and the surviving men, staggering along, searching for the last treasured belongings of the dead as well. Animal instincts kick in at such a situation, for even the fearless may toss and turn at night when faced with such a moral dilemma- does one fight, and show bravery and courage, loyalty for your king? Or does one do what is right, and recall the codes of honor, which surely shall forbid such despicable acts as pilfering the last possessions of one who died defending that which he believed in?
“I dared not dwell too long on this, sure as I was of the proper answer and the problems it would, in turn, cause if I voiced my concerns to my fellow soldiers. Instead, I followed mindlessly the orders of my King, that daemon of deceit and trickery. So many I slew, so many families rent apart. A single death or loss of life, I knew well from experience, can destroy a person or a group. My mother lost my father, and her personality was dimmed forever. Children on the streets, tears streaking their grimy cheeks, old widows clothed for mourning- such ghostly figures haunt my dreams, and shimmer before my waking eyes.
“Woe! How dearly do I wish that I had not committed such atrocities. Death, death! How I pity the dead. More so, so much more, however, do I pity the living, and those who live without love or light. How sweet it must be to set aside all earthly sorrows, and leave such hardships to those left still to populate this earth. But how bitter, indeed! For thus we pass on the dangers are worries of life to those not yet ready to bear them.
“After too long, I realized my mistake, and, fleeing the den of corruption and moral sickness of the Army, I left to make amends to the world for my terrible wrongdoings.
“For many years, I travelled, doing, perhaps, not the good of the legendary knights of yore, but all that I was capable of. I would like to think that my efforts created a small change for the better in the world, or at least in the lives of a few, but that is up to the higher powers to decide. After months uncounted, I came back, at last, to my homeland, to find, with the deepest regret and shock, that not all was as I recalled.
“My hometown, where I was born and raised as a child, had never been a prosperous place. I grew up in the slums of the village, and therefore was exposed to its worst, but even the so called “wealthy” areas of town were little better off. Thus, I had never expected great beauty and betterment upon my return, but what I instead discovered was pathetic and disgusting beyond all human ability. Little more than a ghost town, inhabited by vengeful specters and the moans of those long dead, my place of birth was ruined beyond all hope of a return of productivity. The streets, once filled with brightly colored cloth, the scents of market and horses, and the laughter of children, content to play while they might, be they starved or decently fed, now echoed only with the wail of the wind and the slow crack of each hoof my horse placed on the cobblestones.
“For an afternoon I roamed my forgotten town, desperate for some sign of why it had been abandoned, why such utter and wanton destruction had been wreaked upon it. Bones lay in every corner; dust clouded each windowsill left as intended, untouched by the greedy hands of foes. Dried blood caked doorsteps, and a single rag doll, faded with age and lack of use, lay abandoned in a narrow street, thrown aside in haste and fear.
“A single great question rattled in my stretched mind- who had done this, and for what purpose? The enemies of my country had not travelled this far into the heart of the country; this I knew. I would have seen the signs, had danger been so close to the doorstep of the mighty Empire I called home. No, surely, this was some form of civil war, some chaos from within, a mighty parasite gnawing away at the very centre of my homeland.
“And indeed it was. The King, the propaganda I mentioned so early on in my tale? Thus it comes into play. Ah, how the innocent seek reassurance in their actions! How the terrible and cunning play on this innocence, and use it to achieve their own sickly ends! Our demon King, may he rot and burn in the eternal Fire, sought power greater than that which he had already under his control. He sought land, and riches beyond desire of mortal man- and man indeed, he is not! Not a man, but a monster. His scheme for raising gold and silver for this most deeply draining of adventures? Tax the people to oblivion, and then, when even that failed to fill his eternally empty coffers, he raided his own towns. See now my horror! See the way I tremble in disgust at the very idea of it? A raid, with all the death and destruction of war, against unarmed civilians. And our own people! How brainwashed, how desperate for someone to follow are the men we trust with our lives!
“Learning of this terrible betrayal, I flew into a rage, and for a while, I was untouchable by human or beast alike. Like a hurricane I trampled the landscape, riding hither and thither across the land, until, nearly dead with exhaustion, I collapsed, to think, and mourn for the dead.
“I came to the weighty conclusion that I must tell the warriors of my country how they have been deceived, whether they believe me, or no. I may be called coward and deserter. I may be hanged for telling falsehoods and lies. I may be written off as insane, and carted away to an institution for those with naught but lint in their skulls. But I shall have done what I could to avenge the fallen, and make their deaths more meaningful. The first words of truth shall, I hope, stick in the brains of the men, who, I still believe, have, deep down, courage and valor as core values in their lives. They may not believe me, but perhaps this will plant a seed that shall, overtime, blossom as the evidence of this despicable man’s misdeeds come to light, and the winning soldiers return home, proud and valiant, to find not support and friendship, but bones long turned to dust, and the pleading of innocents on the wind.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
This tale left me shocked and silent. I had guessed at a depth behind the cool eyes of the knight- a rouge of the best type, it seemed- but never had I thought that his character would be of such noble build, despite his upbringing or training. His intelligence, which had, at first, seemed minimal, now shown through his coarse manners and lack of formal education as the pure rays of truth and an aptitude for responsibility.
His quest, so impossible and yet so noble, filled my heart with a desire to do more than just ride the flow of events that seized me and tossed me about. I aspired to make my own future, and try, despite the odds, to defeat the prejudices of the powerful against the lowly, and create a place for myself, though I be both peasant and woman, in the halls of the great. Ah! My imagination knew no bounds, and thus I fell into the same trap as he, as a child.
Still he crouched by his horse, gazing at me, awaiting my remarks on his sad, sorry tale. I had none; the words simply would not come, so stunned was I. Here was a man who had done something good! Here was a man who had attempted to weigh the balance, and create betterment where before there had been wrongs.
“You are silent! All is well, for we must depart this place. Come, let us ride! I shall ask you what I wonder as we travel, if it suits you, for, as now, the Army of my illusioned people lies far ahead, and the pursuing army of the enemies lies behind.”
“Alas! Now do I truly see. The “army of enemies-“ such is a title given by your people to mine. Our bretheran war while we pass the time of day! And yet I am divided, for you support not the values of your own, nor I the values of mine. Are we then united in disillusionment?”
“I fear it must be so! And yet I am still curious to hear of your connection to the enemy- I mean to say, Army of your fellows. Also, my curiosity mounts with your statement that you have been disillusioned in a similar manner to myself! Speak, speak, I beg of you, and let me learn your story as we ride, so that I might judge your character and learn what I may do to assist you or protect you from harm, friend. And still the connection of you and I to Malidan, the sorcerer, has not been described or explained. I wish to wait until after hearing your experiences with the man to recount my own, if it pleases you.”
“As you wish, sir.” We mounted the horse and were off. As we plodded along, I debated with myself as to the best way to recount my experiences to the rider, who, as of yet, had not told me his name, although I was now well aware of most of his life story. Was mine a controversial tale? That is a decision best made by each individual listener. I viewed it as solid fact and my own personal set of emotions, but another might construe my actions as disloyalty to my people and homeland, or a lack of regard for my ancestry and kinsman. Thus I must relay my story in a way most agreeable to the man I now knew a rather lot about.
You have heard my story, and, as such, I shall not present to you again the encounter with Richard’s son that began my current adventure, my meeting with the sorcerer Malidan, my reminiscing on my lost or dead brethren, and all else that I did up until the time I met with the lone rider I now travelled with.
He, although blessed (or cursed, depending on your viewpoint) with a much more exciting, interesting tale than my own, seemed deeply interested in my own, and asked many questions.
One, as I had, of course, expected, was my name. This, indeed, was another point I had struggled with internally as we had ridden. This man’s story caught my attention, but was it as true as he had suggested? As a younger girl, I had listened long, dumbfounded and curious, as storytellers had woven their webs and caught heroes and villains alike in their nets at the nearby market fair. Was this nothing more than that? Had there been really grains of value to be found in his narrative? And if not, was he truly to be trusted? Darest I give my own name, in the chance that he might really be a spy for Richard’s fell son, Derlon. But again... was Derlon even aware of my name? I was little more than a pest of a fly to him. Flies are caught and killed, not studied and understood before their untimely and violent deaths.
“Melorie,” I answered, sounding much braver than I felt. “And your own, good sir? I cannot continue to refer to you as that forever, nor can you, in turn, always call me ‘little one,’ for I am not very little at all, anymore… at least not in heart.”
“Ah! Melorie… I must indeed call you by this, for it is beautiful and provides the perfect image of grace, poise, courage, and wit that I believe you to contain. Keep your name close to you! It will be a comfort in darkness.”
This did seem an odd thing to say, for I had no intention whatsoever of letting my name escape, or, indeed, go much of anywhere without me, but I did not press him on that count.
“I thank you, both for your kindness and your advice. And your own, sir! Speak it to me, so that I, too, might just your character by that single defining word.”
“Alas! It has not the great loveliness of your own, but I am known as Hlada, as was my father, and his grandfather.”
“Hlada!” I called. “Now indeed I can refer you to those I meet who seek a kind traveling companion who tells good stories. Hlada the Bold!”
He laughed. I had known he would- some things are clearly evident in a person’s character from the moment you meet them, and I was keenly aware of the strength of this man’s humor.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
“You have heard how I first encountered Malidan, and the extent of my travels (though intriguing they were not) with the same, as you have wished. I must ask the same of you, sir Hlada-“
“Just Hlada,” he interrupted. “I do not care to identify any longer with the people who gave me knighthood.”
“I understand… Hlada.” The lack of respectful term was odd to me, but acceptance was a trait I highly valued, and therefore I followed his wishes, odd as they may seem to be in my culture. “Might you explain to me what business you have with the mage, and how you two came to be acquaintances?”
“Again, the story is a long one! I will try, however, to summarize it and make it as concise as I may without missing crucial details. Where to begin? I suppose the mage began to be a part of our lives when we became a part of them. If you look carefully, I’m sure you can find him, too… at the edges of childhood memories, the almost forgotten pieces of nonsensical daydreams. Where someone influential is, where one destined for great evil, great power, great misfortune, or great love is, there he shall be, shaping the course of humanity bit by bit. Do not think he is an angel, rescuing those who are noble and just! Nay, for just as often he spares the wicked. What precisely he is, I do not know… nor do I believe anyone else is more knowledgeable on his origins and his purpose.
“Perhaps he is a messenger of Fate? Perhaps he is all that is left of the Old Ways, and wanders endlessly, searching for those who believe. Or perhaps he is something that transcends all human knowledge; an embodiment of all that is good and evil in our world and the next. I know not! But he is always there, yet makes his presence known to so very few.
“I suppose I first became truly aware of him when I left to join the military, and learn to fight for those who I then supported, mindlessly. At practice, one day, I dueled with another young man, dull swords only, yet no armor in sight. He, already weary with much hard labor, became duly annoyed with how I, fresh and not exhausted as he, fought easily as he stumbled. I beat him, fairly, and turned, confident that I was among noble men and need not fear attack after the mock battle had ended.
“You see the direction this tale will no doubtless take. He, not quite the honorable soul I had been hoping for, charged me, in his anger and bitter disappointment, attempted, I assume, to cut me down from behind. Whether he meant to merely injure me, or make it so I might never best him again, I know not. Either way, his mission proved unsuccessful, but not by any fault of mine!
“Malidan, who goes by many names- Darkhelm, Rider of the Night, Grey One, the White Wizard- Malidan protected me from that blow, which may have proved fatal had he not intervened. Malidan saved my life, saving me for some purpose. What purpose that may be, I know not, but I am, as yet, confident that I will be the cause of or contributor to something great- terrible, perhaps, but great- for why else would I have been spared, while so many others, much more worthy and noble than myself, were not?

//I've written less than a page more since this, so I'm not going to bother finding my laptop and saving it again and sending it here and whatever, so... hope you enjoyed! I need criticism! (: