Love

Written as part of the unfolding plot of Northern Charter

PLEASE NOTE: An image created by AI is appended to this story which some may find suggestive of violence. It does not show 'intense violence or gore' or a bloody scene or the likes, and is therefore, in my view, entirely PG-13 and in keeping with the site rules. However, it is only right and proper to forewarn accordingly.

Glancing at Linta, Tornimrad patted her desk, inviting the bird to hop through her window and onto it, the motion of the goshawk scattering a few papers. She looked slightly battered, as if she had met another foe, but the tube with the correspondence seemed intact.

She drew the letters coiled up tightly from inside and stroked the lacy feathers of the bird’s chest.

Dark waters swirled around Ceonbura as she fought to rise to the surface and escape into the air. She did not know which way was up, only that whichever way she tried to move the water pushed and dragged her in a different direction. Tossed about in the darkness, wishing she had learnt to swim better than she had, she eventually gave up, letting the current take her wherever it wished. In that moment beams of light filtered through the water and a figure appeared before her, reaching out both hands to cup her cheeks.

I will try to accurately document here yet again of what has happened in the meantime since my last diary entry. I may digress slightly within this journal as I believe I may have omitted some minor detail last time.

Cristran had visited my home the next day so that I could check that he was healing adequately after our encounter in the Old Forest.   I quietly marvelled at just how quickly he was healing, he had suffered this malady for far longer than I would believe any mortal could and he was healing at a hugely accelerated rate. 

The poem, written at the Poetry Improvisation Game at the Spire of Meetings, received word to use was "Lady".

***

I sit in tavern, noisy one.

Which goblet am I drinking?

The sun goes down, day is done...

About her I'm thinking.

The Lady enters, full of grace,

And walks among the drunkards.

Can't get my eyes off faultless face...

Alas, I am below her standards.

***

A year. It had been a year since the poem Eiragerd had written for her own self. Somehow, again, this date managed to surprise her. Yes, she'd had further growth and goodness in the year between.
But somehow, on the very day she thought would pain her again, she was given unexpected blessing.

(OOC: I read this while listening to this music piece, and as long as you read it somewhat slowly, it works beautifully. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v5zFnGRaO0E )

It was impossible. A dream. Or perhaps a nightmare, with how it tortured her. Still, his return could not be a nightmare with such gentle words...could it?

{ Being a letter left where it can easily found, on the kitchen table with a spray of Uthulós }

Seregrían to her husband Cutch, greeting: