Her Saffron Valediction
-
When each breath is a struggle, the exhale is also a victory.
Muriel stared at the ceiling. So many pots and bottles there, filled with colors and shapes. New ones. Ones she had never seen before. Not in a leaf, anyway. Not a flower either. Not even among those she loved to find and collect, far and wide, so long ago. Their sweet aromas all around. And they seemed so soft. How wonderful.
Not like the stiff straw of her bed. That, unfortunately, was something with which she was far too familiar by now. Rough. Dry. Terrible for the skin, she thought. Never mind her poor back. Who thought it was a good idea to make a bed out of straw? Does anyone want to wake with itches and scratches?
"Please lay back down, doyenne," spoke Darian.
She huffed. That is, before she insisted and sat up properly anyway. All the better to give him a proper squint. Darian was a tall fellow, so he had to crouch to enter through the door-frame of her humble cottage. Something else pretty to look at. At least.
"Don't you have a village to protect?" she snapped.
He didn't reply. He was inspecting the many bottles that lined the ceiling. Studying each of them, one by one. Part of Muriel secretly enjoyed all the little clanks his armor made as he moved, the way his sheathe would tap against the iron of his leg-plate, the way he held his helmet under one arm. He was quiet. Maybe he was practicing to take a vow of silence next. Another to add to all the others at this point.
"I'm not your grandmother, you know," she smirked. "You don't have to. Do any of this, I mean."
He finished his inspection. The many bottles and bowls of strange flowers and leafs were, apparently, to his satisfaction. Evidently. No doubt. No doubt at all, since he turned to face her, and gave a reserved smile.
"You're part of the village too. Even all the way up here," he replied.
About time he piped up.
"Men used to bring me flowers for other reasons," she sighed.
She turned her eyes towards the window near her bed. Down below the rolling hill, far far below, she could see the outline of the village. She tried to remember the last time she had visited. The last time she was able to use her feet. To step, the way she loved to step. To feel the earth beneath her. To move.
"Weep not," spoke Darian. "You will be cured soon enough."
"No cure for old age, dear boy!" she laughed.
The knightly man stood tall. His dark hair swept to the side, his teeth a cut of white across the black stubble that dotted his cheeks and his chin. Oh, you're confident now, aren't you, thought Muriel. Too confident. Maybe this time he would answer her questions, and properly. That would be nice, for a change.
"You think these flowers will fix me?" she began.
"They will," he replied.
"So sure about that, are you? Why is that?" she questioned.
"They're a rare sort of magic," he explained.
Muriel didn't reply. She gave him another squint instead.
"They will work. The healer confirmed it," he noted gently.
Where did he even find such magical flowers and leafs, she had long wondered? Clunking around, draped in head to toe in that iron armor of his. As if he could go very far in that! As if anyone could. Then she wondered why she was so annoyed with him, and felt awful. Shouldn't she be grateful? Why wasn't she?
Because he never answers when you actually ask, she thought. And even now she could tell he was waiting for her to yet again make the inquiry. To ask where he obtained the beautiful, supposedly magical flowers and leafs that would fix her.
But she didn't. Not this time.
She turned, instead, to peer out the window. Her eyes rose from the village to pan farther out. Farther, into the woods.
Into the Weald.
The forbidden Weald.
It was forbidden for anyone from the village to enter those unruly woodlands. The forbiddance was declared long ago, but that did not stop her from venturing there when she was young.
She remembered going.
She didn't remember much, but she did remember going. She also remembered the harsh scolding she received from the people she used to call "old." Now she was the old one. She saw her younger self in the birds that fluttered across and above the canopy, ready to go. To go far. To feel the wind on her face. To see new sights, hear new sounds, smell new smells!
To do anything but stay in bed, elderly and frail.
When she turned back to Darian, she saw him watching her, and her longing stare out at the Weald.
And then she saw something else.
He shifted his weight, his posture, his eyes. So she knew. And she knew, he knew that she knew, even before she asked. Darian's knightly facade faltered, and for a moment, her blooming stare coaxed from him a chagrin so palpable that she finally had her answer.
"You found them in the Weald, didn't you?" she asked, her eyes alight above a brightening and excited smile.
-
"Bring your blade," she softly spoke.
Her voice was a gentle rustle, barely above the faint crunch of steps against the litter of withered golden leaves among the graveyard garden. Leaves which had shed from her hair's canopy of foliage, past her skin of moss and bark.
"Will I need it?" asked Bertram.
He watched her water the flowers. They were soft, curled, and yellowing. Their colour more faded than the shock of blonde hair which draped the young man's forehead, barely concealing eyes that followed the arc of water.
"You might," she replied.
Her eyes rose to meet his, irises beginning to shimmer with amber.
★ ★ ★
"Leave or die ... Ten seconds, then I strike!" threatened the man.
Initially, the adversary was exactly as Bertram had expected. It was him. The one he was warned about. The man wrought in iron, more metal than flesh. From helm to greave, covered in dark gray armor. The man who had encroached into the forest, the enchanted borderland between the civilizations of men and women and what they called the Weald, but which Bertram called home.
Bertram should have loathed him.
Here was the one who cut a jagged path through Bertram's home. The man who swung his toxic sword at Bertram's friends, who drove the forest into hiding and who stole bits and pieces of the tree and flower folk. Bertram expected a man who held no love, no reverence or awe for older ways. A blind and stupid man, shunning a beauty he could not perceive.
Bertram arrived well warned and prepared for a fight. That is, should he have encountered this strange man. An encounter in the middle of which Bertram now very clearly was. Bertram thought he might at least leave the man bloodied, with a warning to step aside and not interfere with Bertram's work here or ever, and to more generally stay clear of the Weald. The man's open hostility should have all but confirmed Bertram's resolve.
Yet Bertram's resolve began to fade at the mere sight and sound of the man.
It was not upon the iron greaves, nor the iron armor, the helm or shield or blade that Bertram focused. Nor was it on the substance of the man's shouts and threats, those specific words used or the volume of the shouting. Rather, it was upon the man's eyes. Past the visor. Past their blue, wet, and flickering orbs. Past the hostility seething in the man's stare.
More than wrath, hate, or malice... more than anything, the man was afraid.
The iron-wrought man's fear became palpable when his voice cracked. The near-choke sound of faltering, when he spoke of the one Bertram was here to meet and escort. When he asked Bertram if he was "here to take her away."
The woman named Muriel.
Muriel, whose voice Bertram barely heard call out the name of his adversary from somewhere past the cottage window: "Darian?"
By now Bertram's resolve to fight had faded entirely.
Harsh gusts raked the meadow's tall grass, before calming to stillness and quiet. The sky parted, and bright light washed over the field between Muriel's cottage and the Weald, and over the two men. The parting sun shone but for a moment, swiftly followed by a gray veil, as another thick cloud swept over.
"Her time's come ... hasn't it?" began Bertram, as gently as he could.
Darian stepped forward, assuming a battle-stance. His eyes wild. His ears obviously shut.
"She is poorly of mind and body. Is she not? She must away with me," continued Bertram all the same, and quickly this time. Now it was his turn to to hesitate.
Darian stepped forward.
Bertram stepped back.
Darian threw aside his shield. He gripped his blade with both hands. His hostility and forewarning by now all too clear.
"I don't want to fight you," hissed Bertram, the pump of his heart growing harsher and the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to prickle and stand on end.
But iron flashed.
Darian’s sword was already mid-swing, a blur of violence fast coming Bertram's way.
Bertram barely cleared his bronze blade from its scabbard for a frantic, clattering parry that had him reeling. His heels dug furrows into the earth.
Their swords clattered and clashed again and again, each time ringing louder than the last. The shriek of bronze against iron drowned out any other sound, and neither man could hear the cries coming from inside Muriel's cottage.
-
Innocence and youth are siblings too soon parted.
What an odd turn of phrase, thought Muriel. Her memories were foggy, adrift in the soft comfort of the vapors of time. These days, and more often than not, she would find such quips and idioms when she struggled to remember something, someone, or somewhere.
Her days of youth and innocence were long past. Long enough for her to discover her thoughts wandering to the strangest places, about the strangest things. Happy and colourful things. The sight of wind shaking leaves, the scent of lilies, and the sound of burbling waters.
So happy did these things make her that she would pause to enjoy them whenever she could. Muriel would find herself unwittingly lost in such thoughts even in moments of emergency or danger, amidst the shouting of men and the clashing of swords, just outside her window.
★ ★ ★
Others might be duped, but not Darian.
The stranger in gold and scarlet armor had approached. Made his way across the field, now standing just outside Muriel's cottage, a few feet away from Darian's drawn blade and defensive posture. Not quite enough feet, thought Darian.
At first glance, the stranger appeared to be a man, just like Darian. A man with coppery skin and bright blonde hair, but a man all the same. Yet the stranger had come from the Weald, and thus was no man at all.
Darian could see the signs.
The stranger wore anything but iron. What initially seemed like golden armor was actually bark with yellow leaves, mixed with softer metals like bronze or copper. The stranger's dark red cloak may as well have been a mantle of foliage. And the stranger's open-sheathed blade was likewise some manner of copper or bronze. No match for my iron, thought Darian upon first noticing.
The worst detail, however, were the stranger's eyes. They were amber. Like the colour of tree sap or resin. Darian had met men with eyes of brown, blue, green, even gray or mixed eyes, but never the stranger's odd and glowing orange shade. Not in a human. Not in a man. He had only ever before seen such a shade in the Weald.
"I am Bertram, servant of the autumn," said the stranger.
"You'll soon be dead if you don't turn around," interrupted Darian.
The stranger's tone of voice was a mild, clear, and calm one. One Darian knew was designed to soothe and trick the listener. Darian refused to be tricked. Muriel was inside the cottage behind him, and all of his instincts were screaming. Creatures of the Weald were known to abduct townsfolk. To take them away, never to be seen again.
"You here for Muriel?" continued Darian.
"I am," replied the stranger.
"Here to take her away?" pressed Darian, his voice barely faltering, and only for a moment.
"Yes," said the stranger.
The stranger's response was too calm and too casual for Darian's liking. So calm and so casual that it infuriated him. Darian raised his blade and reached for his shield. The Weald might have taken people in the past, but not this time, thought Darian. This time would be different. It was the Weald's turn to mourn.
"No," snarled Darian, the steel in his tone slicing through the air. "Leave or die."
Darian's threat froze the stranger.
A soft breeze rolled through the meadow. Folding the tall grass. Gently clattering the window shutters of Muriel's cottage. Billowing Darian's dark hair and the stranger's red leafy cloak.
The two stared at one another. Darian's focused and wide eyes locked upon the stranger's calm and bright ones. Too calm, thought Darian once again. Too calm about all of it. By what right could this stranger threaten to take Muriel away, a kind old woman who never hurt anyone let alone a beast from the Weald? That the stranger would dare now stand his ground and stay silent was too much for Darian to bear.
"Ten seconds, then I strike," warned Darian.
"Her time's come," began the stranger.
The stranger continued to speak. He said something Darian could not quite hear over the buzzing anger in his ears. Darian did not care for the stranger's words. No doubt they were all lies and trickery anyway. And in a tone that almost sounded like pity, surely meant to mock. How dare the Weald send a snatcher to steal Muriel away? A snatcher named as a man, dressed as a man, speaking man's tongue. Did they plan to infiltrate the village now? To walk amongst them, disguised as men and women? To lure their victims away, vanished forever?
"You're the one whose time has come," interrupted Darian.
Darian's whisper was colder than the iron of his now lunging blade. With a spark and clang, their swords met. Darian's iron clashed with the stranger's bronze.
Darian meant to swiftly end the intruder. The duel was on.
-
Winter. The age old enemy, which brings the cold, the dark, and the lack.
Darian had a list of the things he hated. Of threats that hurt the people he cared for. Winter was near the top. Above the bandits who waylaid caravans on the roads out from the dale. Above the goblins who rushed the village fences when they grew brave enough. Above the cowards who fled in times of need.
Near the top, but not quite. For what he hated most was the Weald.
Not so much the woodland itself; though, it was coming close, he thought. Rather, the monsters that lived within it. The creatures. The fauna. Beasties. Wildlings. They came in all manner. Wee fluttering devils who wielded thorns like knives. Demonic trees which trundled forth and hurled boulders. And other types and sizes in between, each a more imminent threat than the last.
Each denying the village what it needed. Timbers. Fibers. Berries, mushrooms, nuts, seeds, herbs. Food. Water.
Medicine.
All of it in the Weald, and none of it reachable. Any men and women who would try gather some meagerly amounts were met with those miserable monsters. The villagers learned long ago not to enter the Weald. How long, Darian couldn't say. Not months. Not even years. Much longer than that. Years and years, if not decades, of needless hunger, sickness, and death.
But not anymore, thought Darian.
It was merchants who would save them, he had wagered. Traveling merchants. Who brought with them all manner of goods. So he saved what he could. What precious gems he found on his patrol routes. Chunks of stone with hints of gold in them. Fine pelts from deer. All to trade. To buy, from the merchants.
From one merchant he bought what he would soon realize is the the greatest weapon of all. A bestiary. Knowledge of all manner of monsters, including those Darian knew were the very same as those in the Weald. He learned their fears. Their weaknesses.
From the second he purchased the iron helmet. And from the third, the chest-plate. From the fourth and fifth, the blade, shield, gauntlets, leggings, boots. All bought, he possessed a complete set of iron armor and weaponry.
It was well worth his effort. An investment, he thought. One that paid off, at least at first.
Armored in iron, was able to walk safely into the Weald.
He became a moving, gray metal statue. The symbol of the village's progress. Of its potential, he thought, as he trundled through the mosaic of colours. The Weald was even more alien than he could have ever anticipated. Its trees, leaves, flowers, insects, birds or something like them. All oddly shaped, slanted, too different, far too different than what any reasonable man might think to find, he thought.
They all buzzed and glowed and moved around him. Moved away, he noticed. The flutterers, the strange animals, even the trees avoided him. Split their own bark, it seemed to him, as though to lean away. As though he was toxic. Aye, that's right, thought Darian. I'm toxic. Get away from me, and I might not hurt you.
But he knew it wasn't him they feared. It was his armor. His weapon. His shield. The bestiary was right, he thought.
They all feared his iron.
★ ★ ★
"Well? Will you admit it?" insisted Muriel.
She flapped her wool blanket at his face, jolting Darian from his quiet recollection.
"The medicine. You found it in the Weald. Admit it!" the old woman pressed.
She was right. Of course she was. He found the medicine in the Weald. Where else to find such disturbing things? Such vexing flowers and daunting leaves? At some point medicine becomes indistinguishable from poison, thought Darian.
He wasn't sure whether he should tell her. Her eyes were like fireflies, flickering and dancing. For a moment, Darian thought she seemed twenty summers younger. The very thought of the Weald obviously excited her. A misguided fascination, he thought. Still, seeing her this way brought him some comfort. Even as she started striking him with her straw pillow. She was stronger than she looked. She was getting better already.
If he had but a few more moments with her (truly, thinking back, it was a matter of moments), he might have told her. In retrospect, he was sure of it. If only to see her happy for a little while longer.
"Stay here," he instead warned, after his eyes rose to peer through the window.
Darian's attention was locked. Even far away, he could see it.
Muriel murmured something, said something, asked something. But Darian didn't entirely hear her. His helmet was already on and blade in hand. He was already out the door and walking quickly. He had other priorities. Urgent priorities. One urgent priority in particular.
He was on an intercept course.
Hurrying in a perfect and straight line, the very same path and opposite the trajectory of the gold and scarlet silhouette ambling out of the Weald's edge, toward him. Toward Muriel's cottage.
