The Burnt Man

Know a man's desire and you hold his world.

Deep in my homeland the drowsy heat draws languid resins from the trees, fills herbs with potency. A land  where the drone of the bees in the heat as they fly from flower to flower fills the air with a sonorous temptation to rest, lulling a man to sleep.

At last. I turn the key in the heavy lock, enjoy the sound of the tumblers falling dully. Secure, finally. I have her where I wish her to be.

Here in my silent towers, where the walls are so thick even cries of agony or pleading to the uncaring powers are stiffled and muffled. Where the glamour of her voice and her song cannot weave its bewitching thread into the minds of lesser men. There are many years of life left to me, perhaps beyond my own knowledge. When I am done with the work for my lord of the east, then, she is mine.

She is singing. In all my days I have never heard such. She has been singing for half the day. The first real sounds I have had from her ... and she is singing. As we neared the glooming hills and narrow passes she opened her lips ... and a thread of colour came forth. The sound comingled with the cries of the suprised birds, enticed them to open their throats and join her.

North and east with the elf beside me. Fate and fortune rise about me like the dust on the road. Here I ride, back into the north, the occasional wind chill as it blows from the further northlands, off the snows. Across the lands once enlivened by long forgotton Fornost. Even as I ride here, my linnet will be preparing her flock for its journey to scrabble about the ruins, inspire her to sing a new tale of Arvedui.

A delightful day. Yes. I rode with the elf maid obedient beside me, and my few men about me. North from the crowded, fetid encampment, out into the hills around the northmens' camp, Esteldin.

I watch her pull up the hood of the cloak that I have given her. Enveloped in its sable folds, clad in the black dress, her face shines softly, the moon in clouds. She has been enclosed in this tent for long enough, it is time to move her to more fitting accomodation.

I pull back the flap of the tent sharply. The first true light for her in many a day. I see her eyes open to receive the starlight, turning her face in yearning before, senses opened, the shock of the scene before her slaps her back to reality.

She sits. Because I tell her to sit. I am a man of passion, and dark humours boil within me now. She is wise to heed my words and do as I command.

I pour two glasses of the finest red that I have. The cut of the glasses deepen and intensify the rich colour of the wine. It is too crude to liken it to the blood of my man that she has caused to be spilt. My man, to me. To her and her ilk, just a Man.What can they know, secure within their timelessness, about what life is? About what life is, to a Man?

All mornin' He has me there in the word-hoard. Questions, over an' over, as if I aint already told Him all I was rememberin'. Least i got a drink of His wine. so now I know what Gyth gets.

Gyth got a snore like a fly .. buzz, buzz, buzz. Only Gyth could make a snore sound like yer wanted to dance. I know where she'll be off come mornin', so I'm gettin' there first.