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piosenniel · 11-07-2005, 04:16 AM

Giledhel

Day or night was of little consequence to Giledhel. The past few days had found her increasingly restless. And at first she had shrugged off the odd moment of prescience; the sudden chill that prickled between her shoulder blades. ‘Goose walking over my grave,’ she laughed, a hollow sound, echoing dully against the cold, broken stones. But now, the air seemed to have grown heavier about her quarters. It pressed in on her; thick and weighty as those cloud-laden storms that drew in from the west . . . from the sea.

She had seen the sea once, though she recalled it as if it had been in some long ago dream. Looking out the slit window in the crenellated western wall of the fortress, it had beguiled her eyes. The sun had caught the smooth surface of the water as it rushed to shore. Shining silver with the light, it had splashed up upon the low lying rocks there at a distance; white spume flying into the air as if small flocks of lacy, white birds flew sunward and then disappeared. And while it was lovely at first to look upon the sea, it frightened her more and more. How had it come here, to beat almost against the fortress’ foundation? Where had those lowlands gone that had spread far out from the fortress’ grounds? The lush forests of pine and balsam that hewed the rocky slopes of the great hill with their persistent roots. She could not manage the apposition of the two images – the present and the one remembered . . .

And so the present reality was elided.

Giledhel’s memories slid easily over it. Her eyes turned inward to the accustomed scenes of long ago. She had been happy, then. Malris had loved her . . . did love her. He was the center of her life; she adored him. And it was her perception that he returned her love in kind that gave strength to her.

Time now stretched into one long day for her . . . the day before a grand party she was to throw. Thousands of years passed for the minutes and seconds of this day . . . this safe day . . . this familiar day . . .

She shivered again, the long fingers of her pale hands clasping at her unseen shawl, pulling it tighter about her shoulders. This day was passing. She could sense its ponderous movement as it began to slip away from her . . .

A new day was coming . . . the guests would indeed arrive . . . she could feel it . . .

11-07-2005, 04:16 AM	#142
piosenniel Desultory Dwimmerlaik Join Date: Mar 2002 Location: Pickin' flowers with Bill the Cat..... Posts: 7,779	Giledhel Day or night was of little consequence to Giledhel. The past few days had found her increasingly restless. And at first she had shrugged off the odd moment of prescience; the sudden chill that prickled between her shoulder blades. ‘Goose walking over my grave,’ she laughed, a hollow sound, echoing dully against the cold, broken stones. But now, the air seemed to have grown heavier about her quarters. It pressed in on her; thick and weighty as those cloud-laden storms that drew in from the west . . . from the sea. She had seen the sea once, though she recalled it as if it had been in some long ago dream. Looking out the slit window in the crenellated western wall of the fortress, it had beguiled her eyes. The sun had caught the smooth surface of the water as it rushed to shore. Shining silver with the light, it had splashed up upon the low lying rocks there at a distance; white spume flying into the air as if small flocks of lacy, white birds flew sunward and then disappeared. And while it was lovely at first to look upon the sea, it frightened her more and more. How had it come here, to beat almost against the fortress’ foundation? Where had those lowlands gone that had spread far out from the fortress’ grounds? The lush forests of pine and balsam that hewed the rocky slopes of the great hill with their persistent roots. She could not manage the apposition of the two images – the present and the one remembered . . . And so the present reality was elided. Giledhel’s memories slid easily over it. Her eyes turned inward to the accustomed scenes of long ago. She had been happy, then. Malris had loved her . . . did love her. He was the center of her life; she adored him. And it was her perception that he returned her love in kind that gave strength to her. Time now stretched into one long day for her . . . the day before a grand party she was to throw. Thousands of years passed for the minutes and seconds of this day . . . this safe day . . . this familiar day . . . She shivered again, the long fingers of her pale hands clasping at her unseen shawl, pulling it tighter about her shoulders. This day was passing. She could sense its ponderous movement as it began to slip away from her . . . A new day was coming . . . the guests would indeed arrive . . . she could feel it . . .