Post by FinlandiaWhiteEyes on Aug 14, 2011 19:03:17 GMT -5
It was a quiet morning, and the air seemed chill. Something was cold enough to raise bumps on Isolde's skin at least, though whether it was the air, or the fear in her own blood, she could not tell. The only sound was that of the wind stirring the branches of the trees, setting shadows to dance over the people who walked beneath their spring roof. They were trees she knew well; pale birches, slim aspens and oaks, sparse in number but as old as time. Whenever she was not needed for work around the house, which was rarely, she would walk beneath those branches, and listen to their voices. Her grandmother had told her that the trees were spirits, called nymphs, and that they whispered secrets to each other; secrets of magical power that could let you wear a deer's shape, or bind a person with a lock of their hair. The new faith made sure that nobody could understand those whispered magics anymore, so the old woman had muttered.
Whether they were truly magical or not, these trees were no strangers to the girl, nor were they enemies. Today, though, those whispers were conspiratory and sinister, and it frightened Isolde to hear them murmur to each other as the group passed. The light dappled the girl's fair skin, and it made the warriors' armour seem to sway with light, like a ripple flitting across a mirror lake. Her companions were silent, which was unusual for soldiers, and unmounted, which was very unusual for knights. The Duke who led them had decided that horses would be a risk in their task today, and it was he who had commanded utter silence as he led them through the forest.
They had rode into the little village the day before, trotting down from the big castle over the way on their elegant, dancing horses. She had stood staring at all of the bright colours and marvellous gallantry. Blood red lions danced on silver fields upon their banners and their rich surcoats. Armour and swords, made of the finest metal she had ever seen, shone with light, like the swords of gods, or angels. The Duke had seen her staring, but instead of a throwing her a rebuke, he had merely looked her over, and then gone to speak with her father. It was only after the noble party had left, the Duke giving her one last long look, that she learned the reason behind his visit to the village he owned, but cared little about.
"Tomorrow," her papa told her, "His Grace is going into the forest, hunting, and you're to go with him." She had stared at him, confused, for a long while. Then the meaning of what he had said, and that of her purpose on the hunt, became awfully clear.
"No, no, no!" she had pleaded. "Don't make me, please papa. Please!" Her father had remained cold and unyielding. She had fled into the woods, sobbing. Her grandmother had found her there, and comforted her.
"Bait the Duke wants of you, so bait you must be, Bluebell." The old woman's voice was infinitely sad, and the trees seemed as solemn as she. Neither sorrowed for her, but for what she must do.
"I don't want to, grandmama, I don't want to let them do it. To be the reason that-" It was more than the girl could take. Sobbing, she clung to her grandmother, who comforted her sadly.
"It's alright, Bluebell. Nobody will blame you."
The trees whispered otherwise, today. They looked down on their betrayer with judgment in their old voices. Not even the birds would sing for her, to lift her spirits. Then, all of a sudden, the trees fell away and the Duke ordered a halt to his company in the middle of a clearing. Isolde trembled with dread, and when the Duke motioned her forward, she ran.
She did not get far. One of the knights grabbed her around the waist, and dragged her back. The Duke slapped her, eyes blazing. He was not used to being disobeyed.
"Go. Sit. Wait." His commands were harsh and unfeeling. She stumbled to sit upon the smooth stone in the middle of the clearing. The nobleman issued one last warning;
"Do not interfere." His sword and his power were the promise of what would happen if she did. She sat upon the large stone, numb with horror. Her spirit felt dead to the world.
'Do not come today, please. Do not come.' For he was the one who kept them safe, gave them shelter, wood, food. He kept their winds mild and their water clean. 'Do not come, beloved. Do not come, I beg you.' The trees fell silent, agonising over the knights and spear that they hid amongst their boughs. Agonising over the death they concealed.
Any gods that there were ignored Isolde's silent pleas. The woods drew in a deep breath, and in the village her ancient grandmother looked up into the clouds, tears coursing down her wrinkled cheeks. He stepped into the clearing softly, ears pricked and eyes full of warm love. 'No! No! Run away!' But the unicorn did not hear her. He walked slowly over to her, and a light breeze fluttered through the clearing, into his face. The very elements were pushing him away, asking him to flee, but he did not turn.
He nuzzled Isolde with his soft nose when he reached her. She lifted her hand to slap at him, make him run. Then, in her mind's eye, she saw her village in flames, her parents and grandmother murdered, and the whole forest sift into ashes. She stroked her trembling hand over his soft white nose, and the unicorn nickered tenderly. He laid himself down before her, resting his lovely head in her lap. She touched his long, spiralling horn at the base, where it sprang from his white head, between those old, kind eyes.
The unicorn had looked over their village for generations. He watched over them from these woods, the last bastion of the old faith. She closed her eyes, body racked with sobs. The unicorn looked into her eyes. He seemed to be asking, in his silent way, why she was so sad. He would help, if he could.
"Run." She finally choked out the word. "Run!" He blinked, confused. Then she heard the clinking of armour, the slithering song of a sword, and it was too late. Three spears took their unicon in the side. His eyes widened with the pain, then his head went limp in her lap. The wonderful beast gave up his life with grace rather than a struggle. A mad recklessness grabbed hold of Isolde as she sat drenched in silvery blood. 'I won't let them take it.'
She took the unicorn's head in her hands, and closed his eyes. Then, tears streaming down her face, the young maiden put the point of his horn upon her navel. She would have forced herself onto it, spilling her blood to mix with his, and ending her sad traitor's life, but the Duke yanked her away, his sword in hand.
He gave the pure creature a kick, and muttered to one of his men, "Take the horn." He slid the longsword, alive with light like the sword of an angel, into the dead beast whilst the girl stood sobbing amidst the accusing voices of pale birches, slim aspens, and oaks as old as time.
Whether they were truly magical or not, these trees were no strangers to the girl, nor were they enemies. Today, though, those whispers were conspiratory and sinister, and it frightened Isolde to hear them murmur to each other as the group passed. The light dappled the girl's fair skin, and it made the warriors' armour seem to sway with light, like a ripple flitting across a mirror lake. Her companions were silent, which was unusual for soldiers, and unmounted, which was very unusual for knights. The Duke who led them had decided that horses would be a risk in their task today, and it was he who had commanded utter silence as he led them through the forest.
They had rode into the little village the day before, trotting down from the big castle over the way on their elegant, dancing horses. She had stood staring at all of the bright colours and marvellous gallantry. Blood red lions danced on silver fields upon their banners and their rich surcoats. Armour and swords, made of the finest metal she had ever seen, shone with light, like the swords of gods, or angels. The Duke had seen her staring, but instead of a throwing her a rebuke, he had merely looked her over, and then gone to speak with her father. It was only after the noble party had left, the Duke giving her one last long look, that she learned the reason behind his visit to the village he owned, but cared little about.
"Tomorrow," her papa told her, "His Grace is going into the forest, hunting, and you're to go with him." She had stared at him, confused, for a long while. Then the meaning of what he had said, and that of her purpose on the hunt, became awfully clear.
"No, no, no!" she had pleaded. "Don't make me, please papa. Please!" Her father had remained cold and unyielding. She had fled into the woods, sobbing. Her grandmother had found her there, and comforted her.
"Bait the Duke wants of you, so bait you must be, Bluebell." The old woman's voice was infinitely sad, and the trees seemed as solemn as she. Neither sorrowed for her, but for what she must do.
"I don't want to, grandmama, I don't want to let them do it. To be the reason that-" It was more than the girl could take. Sobbing, she clung to her grandmother, who comforted her sadly.
"It's alright, Bluebell. Nobody will blame you."
The trees whispered otherwise, today. They looked down on their betrayer with judgment in their old voices. Not even the birds would sing for her, to lift her spirits. Then, all of a sudden, the trees fell away and the Duke ordered a halt to his company in the middle of a clearing. Isolde trembled with dread, and when the Duke motioned her forward, she ran.
She did not get far. One of the knights grabbed her around the waist, and dragged her back. The Duke slapped her, eyes blazing. He was not used to being disobeyed.
"Go. Sit. Wait." His commands were harsh and unfeeling. She stumbled to sit upon the smooth stone in the middle of the clearing. The nobleman issued one last warning;
"Do not interfere." His sword and his power were the promise of what would happen if she did. She sat upon the large stone, numb with horror. Her spirit felt dead to the world.
'Do not come today, please. Do not come.' For he was the one who kept them safe, gave them shelter, wood, food. He kept their winds mild and their water clean. 'Do not come, beloved. Do not come, I beg you.' The trees fell silent, agonising over the knights and spear that they hid amongst their boughs. Agonising over the death they concealed.
Any gods that there were ignored Isolde's silent pleas. The woods drew in a deep breath, and in the village her ancient grandmother looked up into the clouds, tears coursing down her wrinkled cheeks. He stepped into the clearing softly, ears pricked and eyes full of warm love. 'No! No! Run away!' But the unicorn did not hear her. He walked slowly over to her, and a light breeze fluttered through the clearing, into his face. The very elements were pushing him away, asking him to flee, but he did not turn.
He nuzzled Isolde with his soft nose when he reached her. She lifted her hand to slap at him, make him run. Then, in her mind's eye, she saw her village in flames, her parents and grandmother murdered, and the whole forest sift into ashes. She stroked her trembling hand over his soft white nose, and the unicorn nickered tenderly. He laid himself down before her, resting his lovely head in her lap. She touched his long, spiralling horn at the base, where it sprang from his white head, between those old, kind eyes.
The unicorn had looked over their village for generations. He watched over them from these woods, the last bastion of the old faith. She closed her eyes, body racked with sobs. The unicorn looked into her eyes. He seemed to be asking, in his silent way, why she was so sad. He would help, if he could.
"Run." She finally choked out the word. "Run!" He blinked, confused. Then she heard the clinking of armour, the slithering song of a sword, and it was too late. Three spears took their unicon in the side. His eyes widened with the pain, then his head went limp in her lap. The wonderful beast gave up his life with grace rather than a struggle. A mad recklessness grabbed hold of Isolde as she sat drenched in silvery blood. 'I won't let them take it.'
She took the unicorn's head in her hands, and closed his eyes. Then, tears streaming down her face, the young maiden put the point of his horn upon her navel. She would have forced herself onto it, spilling her blood to mix with his, and ending her sad traitor's life, but the Duke yanked her away, his sword in hand.
He gave the pure creature a kick, and muttered to one of his men, "Take the horn." He slid the longsword, alive with light like the sword of an angel, into the dead beast whilst the girl stood sobbing amidst the accusing voices of pale birches, slim aspens, and oaks as old as time.
*worships tree*