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Away
From the Sun
by
Jennifer Morton
"Don’t watch
the sun so closely, child," her mother warned
gently, "You’ll harm your eyes."
The young girl
simply laughed, filled with the invincibility of
childhood and a future that stretched unendingly
before her. Expression mired in insolence,
the girl turned her pale face skyward, once again
gazing steadily at the sun. Its diffused light fell
softly onto the girl’s dark head, highlighting
silken threads of a lighter brown in her nearly
black head of hair. Stormy gray eyes flashed
imperiously at the golden orb, as though daring the
passive woman by her side to order her again.
So intense was
her gaze at the sun that she missed the momentary
flash of ill disguised pain that haunted her
mother’s eyes before being smothered by lighter
tones of a dark sadness. "As you wish then,
Ilandere, I cannot stop you," the older woman said
impassively, dark navy eyes shining with regret,
but voice betraying nothing. The mother turned and
left her daughter without another word, and the
young girl’s eyes burned from the sun’s harsh glow
forcing droplets of teary rain to fall from her
cloudy gray eyes.
He arrived during the night when the moon was still
high enough in the sky to light his path and Ilandere’s
view of his fair head. She thought him beautiful
from the first moment she laid eyes on him. An
ethereal
beauty that spoke of sunlight and made her long to
gaze at him in length. She did not see him again
for
some time.
The moon had begun to wane in the sky, shrinking
from its nearly full figure that lit the sky
the night of
the mysterious arrival to a slender crescent. The
horizon was flushed with a light brush of pink,
heralding the
approaching dawn. The wind whispered softly as it
danced through the eaves overhanging Ilandere’s
balcony
and carried with it a sweet fragrance of the new
spring blossoms.
Slowly, the wind was transforming
into a
haunting melody. Each note hung cold and clear in
the night air before dropping and fading into a new
tone,
its pitch first cresting a rising crescendo before
dropping abruptly into a deep valley only to rise leisurely once
again. Ilandere found herself captivated by the
melody, leaning out as far as she could manage
along the
railing of her balcony, straining to catch a
glimpse of the musician.
The pale moon, partially obscured by stormy gray
clouds, offered little light in the inky blackness,
but just
beyond the large green hedges, Ilandere saw the
silvery flash of a flute.
In the next instant, she was racing down the
servant’s staircase, slippered feet flying nimbly
and silently
down the stairs. At the door into the garden, Ilandere took a moment to compose herself and
steady her
breathing before pulling the thin, diaphanous robe
tighter around her gown, suddenly wishing she had
taken
another moment to change.
Then Ilandere noticed the
silence.
She held her breath as she strained her ears in an
effort to pick up the alluring strains of the
flute, but the
night was serenaded only by its normal admirers. A
barn owl hooted a subdued tenor from the tree while
sleepless crickets chirped in a chorus of high
sopranos. Fear clutching at her heart, Ilandere
began to sprint
once again, agile feet carrying her along the
springy grass and towards her previous destination.
Panting, the
girl halted where she had caught the brief flash of
metal from her balcony, disappointed eyes taking in
the
empty and silent alcove.
"Looking for someone?" An amused voice questioned
lightly from behind her. Ilandere spun around
abruptly,
simultaneously taking a cautious step backwards.
The flaxen-haired man standing in front of her
merely
laughed, and Ilandere felt a cold fury welling
within her.
"What right do you have to laugh at me? I do not
know who you imagine yourself to be, but I assure
you, it is
not wise to laugh at those who you know not." Gray
eyes swirled in a tempest of emotions.
"And I assure you, little child, that you would do
well to hold that impudent tongue of yours securely
in your
cheek." The taller man countered, sky blue eyes
flashing with indignant injury.
"Child?! You would have the audacity to call me as
such? Ignorant simpleton, know you not to whom you
speak?" queried Ilandere, hands placed firmly on
her hips.
A heated anger filled the cool eyes of the tanned
man, inciting his emotions and words. "I care not
to whom I
speak. For no matter your name, I know you already.
A spoiled brat accustomed to always being waited
upon and receiving your childish desires. Oh trust
me, I know you well."
Pale skin blushing red with humiliation and anger,
Ilandere opened her mouth to retort again, when she
suddenly caught sight of a fully risen sun. Its
light had dwarfed that of the crescent moon even
though its
rays still had tendrils trailing below the horizon.
"I must go," she whispered hastily, unsure why she
did not
part from the man’s company with an insult instead,
but having no time to ponder her reply. The sun was
risen, and Ilandere had been awake for far longer
than she had thought. Servants were no doubt awake
by
now, and she would be hard pressed to return to her
room unnoticed. Using the same grace with which she
had descended, Ilandere left the garden’s early
morning light, retreating through the household’s
door. The
stranger was left standing alone in the garden,
flute clutched tightly in his hand, and sunlight
transforming his
hair into spun gold.
The next night, the barest sliver of the moon hung
on the horizon, its light already being
overshadowed by the
dawn’s soft glow. Ilandere, although she would
never freely admit it, had waited the night within
her room, by
her curtains, or on the balcony for a glimpse of
the elusive player and the haunting melody that
drifted on the
wind. Exhausted from the previous late night,
Ilandere rested her dark head on the marble
railing, and as the
gray clouds gathered on the horizon, her eyes
drifted closed.
Two more weeks passed before Ilandere once again
heard the music, floating along the cool breeze of
the
dawning morning. She soon found herself once again
in the same alcove of the garden, breath held in
fear of
being heard, and heart hammering in her chest as
the eerie melody sent chills racing along her spine
and
skin. She closed her eyes, drifting with forgotten
memories as the music washed over her. Letting the
notes
carry her from the earth and away towards a perfect
place, to a time when her father still lived, and
she was
not looked upon with the same scorn directed
towards her mother.
"Back again I see." Ilandere was startled abruptly
from her thoughts, only now realizing that the
music had
stopped. The tall tan blonde was standing in front
of her again, and the sun was nearly completely
above the
horizon. She had barely made it back to her room
unnoticed the last time. She knew her luck could
not
possibly hold out a second time. If she did not
leave now, her early morning wanderings would be
discovered.
"I... I must go," she told him hastily, turning to
flee before she ever received an answer. She did
not make it
very far. The man held her thin arm in a strong
grip, the large fingers securing her in place and
preventing her
from escaping.
"No, no you don’t understand," she
told him frantically, struggling in vain to loosen his hold
and keep the panic from her voice. "I must go now!
My stepfather..."
"Just tell me your name, and I will free you."
"Ilandere," she said automatically before tearing
her arm from his now slack grip and racing along
the grass.
"Ilandere," he repeated to himself. Testing the
name as he rolled it experimentally off his tongue.
"Moon
woman," he stated in both an acknowledgment of her
name’s meaning and her ethereal beauty.
The tall blonde wandered through the well kept
gardens, his mind still occupied with the morning’s
peculiar
encounter, and the lithe form of the wraith-like
young girl who always seemed to disappear while the
rest of
the world was first stirring. Even now as the sun
was sinking lower in the sky and the servants were
cleaning
the last remnants of a busy day from the fading
walls, he could not forget the slight girl. Could
not forget her
young, slim face, nor small figure. The beauty of a
child that would one day grow into a stunning
woman, a
child that had yet to mature. He saw the same
beauty in the ordered trim of the gardens, in the
budding rosy
hues of the flowers with their closed blossom and
delicate petals. Rose buds dotted the dark green
foliage
that stretched along maze-like rows of hedges,
stone pathways twisted crookedly through the leaf
strewn
garden, the footpath’s desolation belied by the
squared bushes and neatly trimmed shrubs.
The fair-haired man turned a sharp corner, lined
with trestles of budding vines, when he saw a lean
figure
perched along the edge of a marble bench. Her dark
hair shone with lighter hues of a mahogany brown in
the
dying light of the sun while her thin, pale hands
rested upon her lap, fragile delicate fingers
curled tightly in
her faded dress. The young man was startled to see
her in the garden, yet he made no move to
acknowledge
his presence nor hers. He watched her silent figure
as she continued to stare unblinkingly at the
setting sun
whose crimson tones bled color into her white
cheeks and turned the lonesome moon into a burning
flame.
Decision made, he moved swiftly to cross the space
between the seated figure and the bordered
entrance,
gliding onto the space beside Ilandere on the
bench. She did not so much as acknowledge his
existence as
she continued to stare at the slowly falling star
that was sinking below the horizon, eyes misting
from the
brightness.
"Don’t watch too closely," the tall blonde warned,
voice breaching imperiously into the silence,
"You’ll harm
your eyes."
An unknown emotion flashed through the young girl’s
eyes, before her face hardened into a mask of
superiority. "Who are you to tell me what to do?"
She whispered dangerously, her voice subtle in its
tone but
demanding in its singular intensity. "I am far less
of a child than I appear. I know what will and will
not harm
me, and I choose my own path."
"I doubt that," he laughingly said, voice finding
humor in her haughty words, "You are a girl-child,
hardly fit to
rule yourself or your future. Your father does so
for you now as will your husband later. You are no
more the
owner of your own path than I am of mine..." His
voice trailed into obscurity, last words spoken
more in the
throes of passion rather than any real desire to
communicate them.
Yet Ilandere took no notice, her face had darkened
from its earlier blushing tones once she heard his
comment about her father.
"I have no father,"
she denied quietly, but in the
silent world that surrounded the two, the words
echoed.
"Then your lord rules you," he continued, purposely
forging ahead in an effort to forget any previous
words
spoken in haste, "For no girl is her own, nor would
she be wise enough to be so."
"You let your tongue run away with you. I may be a
girl, but I am no one’s property, for my lord is my
stepfather."
"Then your father’s replacement rules you, it makes
no difference. Your mother belonged to both, and
so, in
turn, do you. Although why this new lord should
keep such a rat is beyond me. To think that a lord
would
claim a drowned rodent for his own is nearly
blasphemous. I myself should start a new brood with
heirs
worthy of their title and station, not the
simpleton who currently spoils the name."
The young
man had
expected some sort of reaction from the immature,
arrogant child to his right, not the taut silence
that now
filled the cooling air.
Even as the sun began to dip lower, her eyes still
followed its burning trail, only occasionally straying to the
golden threads the glow illuminated in her
companion's garments. Threads of pure gold were
embroidered into intricately woven cloth of the
finest silk and brilliantly dyed hues, the garb of
royalty. Beside her own
sadly inadequate clothes, the difference was
obvious.
The young royal had noted her clothes the
second
upon which he saw her. Old garments that looked as
though they had been altered to adjust for growth,
continually adding more cloth of mismatched origins
and poorer quality. Small tears and rips were sewn
haphazardly together or patched with contrasting
colors until the entire dress looked almost
patchwork in
design. Dirt and grime camouflaged most of the
colors, blending one muddy gray tone into another.
Yet,
beneath the accumulated years and abuse, the young
man caught a glimpse of some ineffable quality, a
fleeting intangible presence. It was the same
undertone that he had seen hidden beneath the
insolent airs,
beneath the battered clothes.
A current
dishevelment that belied a grander interior, that
was colored and
changed and corrupted until only a hint of its
previous finery remained. The dress itself,
although frayed and patched, was reminiscent of a
style of cut that had once been fashionable in court, but had
long
since fallen out of favor for newer trends. Even
the haughty exterior that manifested itself from
within a grimy
face and dress found roots in a deeper pride.
Compared to his airs, the differences were nearly
out shadowed
by profounder similarities.
"What of your mother?"
he asked before he was even
aware that his mouth had opened.
The child who lay perched on the cusp of teetering
into adulthood, appeared startled by the sudden
question,
the answer being nearly automatic and would not have left her mouth if not for her surprise. "My
stepfather’s
whore you mean?" She laughed bitterly, "No not my
mother, merely my past father’s peasant wife. And I the
daughter born between two classes, an outcast who
cannot be disposed of nor cared for. Neither a
servant to
my stepfather as my mother is now, nor a royal as I
once was or my half sister has become. Oh yes, I
know
that men rule women’s lives. My mother, once lady
of this place, now reduced to little more than a concubine
after being forced to remarry. Yes, I know only too
well what men rule my life."
Another bitter laugh
echoed
brokenly in the silence before being abruptly cut
off, as the sound leered hysterical.
Her now troubled companion stood slowly, eyes darting between the subdued figure hunched ruined
on the
cool stone bench, a mere shadow of any previous
glory, with only the insolent superiority of a
child still left
intact, and the darkened sky where only the lonely
satellite hung. His large gait lead him quickly to
the edge
of the sheltered grove, leaving his uncomfortable
mood buried beneath the current atmosphere while
his lofty
bearing slipped firmly back into place.
"I do not know your name." Ilandere’s quiet voice
forced him to stop his progress, his near escape
being
paused at its end, but his mind feeling compelled
to answer.
"Ramses," he returned in the same soft spoken voice
before his broad back and shoulders disappeared
into
the encroaching darkness.
"Of the sun," the young girl whispered fondly,
problems forgotten as the brilliant orb of burning
flames came
into her mind’s eye. The mysterious man with hair
the color of spun gold, tanned skin, sky blue eyes,
and a
name that represented that which Ilandere longed to
watch as she had done when little had haunted her
dreams and the future was a thing of endless
possibility.
Reaching up absentmindedly, Ilandere tenderly
touched her cheek, fingering the newly blackened
skin and
wondering why Ramses did not comment on so obvious
an injury.
The dry crackle of leaves beneath his soled boots
was nearly drowned by the sharp whistle of a bitter
wind,
rattling the skeletal limbs of the overhanging
trees. The moon shone down with the cool, clear
intensity of a
winter day, despite the autumn colors that
decorated the ground. Ramses noticed neither. With
single-minded purpose, he strode down the familiar
path, mottled with brown decay and only the sharp
tang
of crisp air filling the garden where once had been
blooming fragrance.
Her figure stood out sorely among the grasping
claws of bare branches, the dark head seeming far
more
saturnine and ethereal in the harsh glare of clear moonlight.
After only seeing the dark hair lit with
the
diffused, dying throes of a crimson sun, flushing
her skin with passionate color, having her outlined
in the
intangible rays of a bright light, brought to him a
dangerous clarity.
Her small figure, forlorn and tensed, ready for
flight at a moment’s notice, presented a solemn
picture in the
sleeping garden. Beneath the satellite’s glare, her
pale cheeks stood out in stark relief to Ramses own
tanned skin as he came to stand beside her, not
daring to stare so intensely at the burning glow as
Ilandere
did. He looked, instead, at the pale skin and
stormy eyes of his companion, her being focused so
entirely on
the lonely orb that she missed the movement beside
her.
"You have been here for awhile," he said with the
familiarity of one who knows their friends’
desires, but
cannot understand them.
"Yes," was her simple answer, nothing more needing
to be said. Heated words had long ago been
exchanged.
"I will not see you again for quite a while, I
fear."
"You fear nothing," she returned, voice light in
jest, but eyes showing no mirth.
"No," he returned after a pregnant pause. "I do
not." For a long moment, only the wind filled the
strained
silence, and Ramses swiftly turned his head away
from the probing eyes of the child beside him, eyes
suspiciously blank of their normal emotion.
"Why are you here, Ramses?"
the old girl questioned, needing to break the
silence. "You hate
the night."
"I hate the night, not the moon. The two are not
the same."
"They are more alike than you would like to
acknowledge," Ilandere said with a burdened
sagacity that
Ramses had not before heard in her young voice.
"You still have not answered my question."
"I could not sleep,"
he answered simply.
"You are worried," she clarified.
"Perhaps. I needed to speak with you... To make you
understand."
Her bitter laugh fed the wind. "Oh, Ramses, I
understand perfectly. I have understood for a long
time now. It
is you who are blinded." Indignant anger welling at
her peremptory tone, the tanned man opened his
mouth to
retort, but Ilandere continued speaking before he
could begin an argument, her tone and the change of
subject distracting him. "The earth is moving
between the moon and sun now."
Ramses jerked his head skyward, watching as the
luminescent orb began to darken along one edge,
slowly
being eaten and deprived of its light.
"That is a bad omen for a wedding," Ramses
commented, frowning.
"It is not my wedding, why should that matter to
me?" A childish petulance crept into her voice.
Ramses’s voice rebuked her, tone leaning heavily
against the superiority of age. "Do not speak ill
of this.
Even if this is not your wedding, it is your
sister’s. Or if that does not matter to you, then
respect that it is
mine as well."
"Half-sister," she corrected, tone impassive and
with the same colorless flavor as her blank
countenance.
"Kaia, then! What does it matter what we call her.
She is to be my bride." The words hung harshly in
the air,
and Ilandere flinched at their weight.
Then, as though the moon’s slow decay began to eat
at Ilandere’s defenses as well, a desperation
entered
her eyes.
"Why?!" She cried out, stormy eyes threatening rain
as her entire body seized in the fit of violent
emotion.
"Why Kaia? You don’t love her. You never have, and
you never will. Why should you marry her when...
She
cares nothing for you, only your money and your
title. She can never love you as I can..." The last
sentence,
although spoken with the beginnings of wild
intensity, ended in barely a whisper. Her thin,
pale hand came to
rest daringly along Ramses finely woven sleeve, the
gesture encroaching on propriety.
"Don’t touch me, peasant!" He cried, his own
righteous anguish forcing the angry words from his
mouth. Pain
was reflected in Ilandere’s eyes, the gray clouding
into a somber storm.
"No, not peasant,"
she said, voice returning to the
same apathy, showing no signs of her previous bout
of
abandon, "Not even concubine. Not even the pretense
of a station. No title, no anything."
Ramses turned from her, unable to look at her face,
knowing he would only find calm acceptance,
emotions
long hidden beneath a mask of a child’s insolence.
A child’s body, but no longer a child’s face, and
never its
mannerisms.
"It matters not what I feel," he said finally,
voice carrying the same weight as implied by the
slump of
Ilandere’s shoulders, the burden of loss and
defeat, "This is the way it must be."
"I understand." And she did.
Ramses left without a word, although the smell of
his sweat remained, its masculinity cloaking Ilandere. The
moon was now completely obscured, the earth
interrupting and stealing what light it had once
received from
the sun. Only a halo of silver light shone around
its edges, diffusing softly until it blended into
the darkness.
Dawn would arrive soon, but by that time, the moon
would already have sunken below the horizon, its
glow
waning as would its form.
She wished now that she had listened to her
mother’s advice so long ago. She had watched the
golden star
for too long and dreamed of what could never be.
Day loved its darker companion. But both were
doomed, always to glimpse, though never to touch,
to long,
but not to have. The sun, so bright and pure, was
blinding in its allure, and the moon, a lone,
glowing shard
amidst the darkness, only alight because of the
sun’s radiance.
For, as was its wont in life, the moon would always
need the sun, but never be needed in return.
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