Daughter of the Dark King V

“The view has changed so little,” the Dark King thought as he stood now on his parapet of old. He had seen many things from this place. He had watched his early kingdom grow, his middle kingdom flourish before the siege. He had made his plans and cast his spells from here during the final days of the siege and escaped with the heart of his realm intact, his court and men at arms.
His return had caused barely a ripple with the current inhabitants, not many thought to question the conviction in their minds that all was as it should be. The spell lay heavy on them and few would remember what went before. They would live out their lives happy that they had a king to rule them and keep them safe.
His gaze swept now to the gate and his finest work, the key that had turned the tide for his return and set all obstacles from his path. He looked now upon his daughter of days and wondered if the innocence he had put there was lacking amongst the rest of his realm, he wondered at her distraction on the field, he wondered at the riders lack and his bedazzlement at present. Had he done his work too well, given life instead of just artifice with his daughters light. Could it be that he could not retrieve his gold misdirection!

…

They had passed the time with light conversation, it didn’t seem important to know anything more than the curves of her face and the sidelong glance of her eyes when she was unsure of the acceptance of her ploys.
It seemed like time stood still for them while they talked, talked of nothing in particular, and drank of each other all.
Then suddenly she stopped. Her color still glowed but she stood transfixed, he had watched her eyes widen, still clear, but empty as her smile faded and her brightness was replaced by confusion.
The rider followed her gaze to what he knew he would see, the Dark King standing where he once had, and the rider felt it in his heart that he alone knew the King had stood such now for only a matter of hours.

Daughter of the Dark King V

She watched as he road the battlements a silhouette in shadow, in motion, against the first breathes of dawn just leaping into the sky. His ceaseless traverse had worn the stones, his lonely vigil the days , his determination the ages. His memory alone remembered the King and his spirit quickened at the thought that his watch had not been in vain.

…

The Dark King followed his daughter and her entourage, his people now assembled once again as they once were, his ministers, his soldiers, the women and children each in their place. The road led now to his home, to that place where he had his beginning so very long ago.

…

He had seen her far out on the road, a seemingly lone traveler with a rag-tag company following far behind. The call went out now as it had not for ages, none in the town understood its meaning. He knew her, though he had not seen her before, and he knew who would soon follow.
He had never believed that the King was gone, he had seen the feints, the mock retreats, the bandying of illusion. They had had the strength to defeat him but not the wisdom, in the end he had fooled them all but the watcher. So the watcher awaited his return and and attended to the vigil. The townspeople thought the rider a curiosity, though those who remained originally after the king’s demise knew his purpose, none living now remembered it. And so he watched the traveler approach with a rag-tag behind and golden light about her that could not be entirely hidden and watched the horizon for the King and his host.
The townspeople gathered now to the walls as word went out throughout the city that events of interest were afoot, and they watched as the traveler drew near to the gate. She neither turned nor looked behind at what followed, but looked at the closed gate and up at the young horseman on the battlement above, as the clatter of his horse’s hooves fell silent.
This scene unfolded to the Dark King’s gaze, his host now a crescent on the horizon as seen from the city walls, and the wariness of his stance at the horseman’s presence belied the horseman’s unexpected stand.
“What name have you?” rang a voice from the plain, a voice that sounded of clear water and sunlight and bright open eyes; there was no response from the battlement to the dark King’s Daughter’s challenge.
Silence followed as all watched from the walls, the voice they had heard was wise, or so it seemed, and all would be well; but the rider did not answer and the silence drew into the murmur of many.
The King watched in puzzlement, his daughter’s expression unreadable as if she would use her stillness to pry aside the horseman’s shroud and read what lay behind, and her beauty pierced the rider’s heart even then as he waited and watched and prepared to defend his battlement.
The rider wove his spell, the king and his host looked on as a mist spread forth from the walls, to the plain, to the host’s feet. They looked up as the mist stopped, curling, and began to retreat back to the wall. The mist had flowed around the Dark Kings’s Daughter, parting its way to right and left as she watched the riders amazement at the spell gone astray.
He was strong and handsome, she thought to herself, though grim even in surprise.
“What name have you?” she asked again, more quietly this time.
“I am called Stone my lady, and what name would you have that you stand so boldly on my plain!”
“I do not know,” she answered, “I have only been for three days and two nights and do not yet have one; would you give me one to suit, kind sir?”
He ignored the clank of opened gates, opened as if to a visitor as the Dark King approached. He treated with a disregard the Dark King and his host as they entered. He cared nothing for the spellbound city and the Dark King’s puzzlement as he passed. He cared only for the fearless innocence gazing up at him from the plain, whose brow began to furrow and question for the first time he own existence. “Why do I not have a name like others,” she asked quietly, “nor clothing not given by another only yesterday, nor knowledge of what I do except that I must move forward?”
“I do not know all your ways my lady, but I can guess at many and would like to teach you what I suspect; I will begin with a name if you will have it, I will call you Cloud because you hide the light of day and give of it only sparingly.”
“I will have this name, Cloud, you say; if you will meet me at the gate so that I may see you more clearly and lift the mist from your shoulders – is it heavy?” she asked as she peered at the rider and his cloak in curiosity.
“Nay, it is not heavy, and I would have that it remain, as it has always been there and I would not feel myself without it; leave it so and I will meet you.”
“Done!” she cried, and the delight in her voice went through him like a shining spear.

Daughter of the Dark King IV

The Dark King watched her as his daughter found the edges of the forest and left behind the blades of grass, each in their turn, offering up the light he had given each to her as she passed, and each shimmering into peace and rest after such long service – long at least for such as they were. He watched as she lay to rest herself under the forests eaves.
He rested himself now as his people became once again as they had been long ago. He had left the keeper here, and the tramps, and the whispering grass, to bring the people here and hold them hidden in safety against his return.
He bid the tramps build a great fire as the night encroached, and they danced around it and let the light go freely where it would.
His mind retreated to past remembrance of his defeat, driven from his realm with greater spells than his own. The Wing and the Wind had been his means, and with these he had ruled his people well, but they were not for conflict. He had left the keeper and her cottage and this had not been suspected. He had left the fool at the crossroads and those who pursued him had thought this their own. He convinced the people of the village that they were who defeated him and made mighty conflict at the gate before curling unto himself to wait the ages, and those who pursued him thought him gone forever, and for long smoldering ages he knew no better himself. But he awoke as he knew he would and found none who remembered the old spells, and created for himself his daughter and began to lay his plans.
His people took shape in the night, awakening as if from a dream, and the tree tramps clothed them in the embers glow. The Dark King drew back to himself the Wing and the Wind, means of another age, and his people recognized him and were glad. The tree tramps fluttered away then on the dawn’s first breeze for their master had bid them serve his daughter now and protect her.

…

The Dark King’s daughter awoke to the morning sun to find the forest gone, naught to see now but the grass and the distant camp where the changeling forest had been.

Daughter of the Dark King III

The leaves rustled, they were deep and green and rich, and they were almost within reach. The walk was long, an hour, a day, perhaps an age; but it was long and the wood looked inviting and cool under the eaves.
She knew them, though she did not know why, the tree tramps. They could be seen in the deeper wood as she approached, some tossing sunlight in autumn’s colors to the wind that shook them and shattered there peace, some smiling as it abated, becoming once again just trees. Their’s was a light much like her own, though she did not know it, and they cast it about more freely never having had visitors and all.
She stopped at the wood’s edge for a time, watching, and letting the cool green grass tickle her toes; it was long and played both between and atop them. It whispered to her then – the grass, and bid her stay and take root with the rest.
“The rest?” she said, mostly to herself.
She was surprised when the grass answered in its wispy tone, “The rest who stopped here to let the grass entertain them and chose to stay, this place is of them, with green leaf and thickened bough they are all – all except the sprites, the tramps you know, and her!”
“Her?” she asked, but the grass had fallen silent and lay now silent at her feet – in shadow. A dry wind passed over her and took her comfort and she stepped into the wood, if that is what it was, to rest and watch the tramps play in the sun.

…

“Who are you?” said the Dark King’s daughter. She had seen her as she walked moving deeper and deeper into the wood. She had followed the tramps for a time, as they slipped away from her every approach, then tired of pursuing them as they fled. She spoke now to a dark haired woman who sat weaving grass in the shadow of a cottage. It seemed odd to her that anyone would build a cottage so, with the sun rising behind and setting for it’s front door’s pleasure.
“Is this your cottage?”
“I am the keeper here, and yes, this is my home.” said the dark haired woman as she turned her dark and somber eyes from her work to look for who had spoken to her.
“Why do they flee?” said the Dark King’s daughter.
The dark haired woman did not answer, she merely looked more closely at her visitor.
“Do you wish to rest here, are you alone?” the dark haired woman asked, and peered around and about her as she answered.
“I am alone and would rest for a short while with you if I may.”
“None may rest here for just a short while my dear. If you sleep the grass will take you and give you autumn for your eternal fair. But my, you have no shoes, let me get for you some that I have made of the grass, to comfort your feet and speed you on your way. You are young yet for autumn’s rest, as all here would tell you if they could.”
She turned away then into her cottage and returned with eyes aglow and trembling hands holding slippers woven of golden grass which she brought and placed at her visitors feet. She looked once again about her as her eyes grew wide with wonder as she spoke.
“Upon your feet my dear, upon your feet!”
So the Dark King’s daughter came to step into the slippers of sleep as had all the rest who had come here and asked for a moments rest before her. But her feet did not spread to root as had the rest, nor her shining hair to leaf and branch, but only did a smile cross her face and a light shone from her breast, the like of which the Autumn Keeper had seen before.
“How old are you?” she asked with dark and widening eyes.
“I have been for a day, and slept a night, and have clothed myself against the nakedness and the cold. And now I have slippers against the stones and dust – and you?” she said as she admired them delightedly.
“I have been autumn here for long and long again, I have gather my sleepers as I was bid and lived well for my time, which I see now has become very short, very short indeed!”
“Thank you for the slippers my lady, but as you say, I must go. Is there a path I should follow?” the Dark King’s daughter said as she stepped away. But there was no answer as she sought the sunlight once again, and a moment again to watch the tramps before she left the forest behind.
And the Autumn Keeper watched as the king approached, satisfied now to go to her final rest.
And the Dark King took her, and the wing covered the forest and the desert wind withered to dust the cottage. The Dark King waited now as the people he had hidden began to awake one by one, as leaf retreated and root crumbled away.

Daughter of the Dark King II

She awoke to the first inklings of the dawn’s morning chill, shivered, and this was new to her. All that was around her was deserted; and the village, though it looked no different than before, was empty of light and life and curiosity. She remembered now only the confusion and the fleeing people. She felt naked now, as she had not before, and cold, and looked away from the village now for warmth and freedom from the nakedness.
She turned her gaze to the horizon, turning slowly as the distant view passed first the first then the second point of the compass, settling on the third as a place to reach, as there was a sign there in the distance with arrows that could barely be discerned; one to the left and one to the right, and from her very feet a path that traveled there. And the shadow that followed slipped from the well’s rock side to the dust that fell from her heels as she walked, and the curling wind made no sound as it carried it along behind her – waiting.

His words came to her on the morning mist as she walked, whispers, it seemed at first, that grew more clear as she approached. She liked the voice she heard, not hearing so much the words as the kindness in it; her light grew in the mist as her heart quickened to the sound of it.
“Mere madness, it must be, that this single droplet of a tear could be not more, nor less, water than the sea,” the jester said, for a jester he appeared, with peaked hat and leotard, sitting at the crossroad with the arrows and the branching of the road.
“How should I live for the moment it remains in the midst of my cup hands.”
And indeed there was a tear whose light shimmered with a glow that lit his face ever so slightly, and lent it kindness.
“How so?” said the Dark King’s daughter, “except with the kindness that I see and hear!”
And the jester looked through the shimmer of his madness and saw her, and her light, and her nakedness; and he felt his madness fall just a little from his eyes. At this he whimpered and clutched closer to him his tear and let it take him once more to comfort and safe blindness.
And the jester heard her say, “My nakedness does not become me, will you help me?” and he could not refrain. He arose and danced round about her waving hands in weaving motions, faster and faster he danced and the fabric of his moving hands made silk of the morning breeze and he clothed her with it.
“Even clothed with the morning breeze you cannot pass. I hold these crossroads by madness as the village holds the gate by sin.”
“I saw no sin in the village as I passed,” she said, “and it is empty now. I left because I was cold and naked and alone, and am much safer and warmer here.”
She smoothed the silk in the sunlight and delighted in it. She smiled at the jester now standing before her and his madness slipped once again at the light of it, and he clutched all the more his tear as she asked. “To whence do these crossroads go, of these two which do I choose?”
“I do not know,” said the jester, “none come here to the village and none leave.”
“I will take the left way then because it leads toward the sun.”
He looked at the way she choose and at the way his madness stood in her way. He looked at his tear and its light from which the spell came. And as he looked she bent and kissed his pale cheek in return for the silk and the kindness in his voice. She did not see his tear wash away in his outstretched hands, nor his gentle sadness turn to fear as his madness passed, and his eyes cleared, and his mind became as it once had been – thin and shallow like a child’s.
And the Dark King saw him and his spell dispelled, his tear washed away, and took him, and the wing covered and the desert wind dried and blew away all that had ever been there. The Dark King rested then at the crossroad where there was no one and there were no arrows to show the way, King now of this unknown crossroad…
His daughter did not look back, but walked onward letting the sunlight wash the cold from her cheeks, warming the silk made from the morning breeze, smiling at the kindness she remembered.