Productivity is high. Unless you compare it to the past.
I have been writing. Not as much as I'd meant to, perhaps, but I have.
I've also been doing some baking, which I hadn't really planned for, but books aren't as tasty as banana bread or apple spice cake with home-made caramel icing, so I consider it a happy accident.
Anyway, on Saturday the 9th, I started writing, as I often will, wanting to get some done before I saw Pirates. And, a week and a half later, I've finished writing a folk tale, of sorts. It's another happy accident, because who doesn't like folk tales? And the nice thing is, it's more or less completely self contained, needing no actual knowledge of the plot of the story (as is befitting of a folk tale), while at the same time does, in a sense, advance the plot after a fashion, in terms of themes, and world building and even the glimmer of plot movement. I still need a small sun's worth of plotting, but I'll take what I can get.
The diction isn't especially folk-taleish, but that's what a second pass is for. If there's anything specificly jarring, please let me know.
In the dark days before Cale, when bandits were kings and swords were laws, when beasts lived in palaces while wise men wandered the earth with no destination besides the road that stretched before them, and no purpose beyond finding the end of it, there lived a widow-farmer who had two sons, the older named Aran; the younger, Taran...
One day, the two lads were tending their fathers goats, leading them west along the road towards a fresher pasture, when they saw in the distance men on horses, men in the colors of the dread Bandit King, Mol. Filled with caution, they took their goats off the road and into the bracken, lest the riders steal their livestock, and from there had an excellent view of the riders as they passed. There were four men on horses, each one armed like a host of men, and between them a woman in a dress of spun-gold, with lips the color of strawberries in the morning sun, skin as dark as rich beer, and hair the color of jackdaw feathers in twin braids down her back. She was the fairest maiden that had ever been seen, and as one, they each fell in love with her.
That evening, Aran told their mother of what they had seen, swearing to have the maiden for his wife. She shook her head sadly, and told them that the woman was none other than Remya, the daughter of Mol and his greatest treasure. Aran proposed to set out eastward for Mol's stronghold the next morning, to ask Mol for her hand in marriage. "If you seek her hand", she warned, "you may perish in the attempt." But, seeing that nothing would dissuade him, she gave Aran a pair of thick travel boots, two loaves of sour bread, a sword, and her blessing for the journey ahead of him. The next day, he kissed his mother and his brother on the cheek, and set out.
Taran wished that he could do the same, but he knew that the goats would need tending; he said nothing. But, it is the gift of motherhood to ever read the inner hearts of their children. And so, after the goats had been milked, the eggs gathered, the geese fed, and the farm's day well and truly begun, Taran was just going to be certain the kids were well in their new pasture when his mother stopped him, putting her hand on his shoulder and pressing a basket into his arms with the other. "I can still manage by myself for a few days." Taran stammered out a refusal, but she would hear none of it. "You deserve a chance at happiness as much as Aran. Find her. I give you my blessing." So, bearing some ancient sandals, most of a loaf of stale bread, and a stout wooden traveling staff, Taran set out down the east-road, chasing after Aran, and after Remya.
He walked miles, through fields and forests; he forded rivers and climbed up hills, and the sun was growing low in the sky as Taran approached the gates to a stronghold set in the midst of grasslands, its stones bleached white as hope. The banners of the dread Bandit King, Mol, waved in the gales of the late afternoon.
He was about to hail the guards that stood at the top of the wall when he heard, off in the high grasses of the surrounding fields, a soft crying. Taran glanced at the gate for a moment, seeing the guards pace across the battlement, before turning, and walking into the plains. A young girl sat there beside a basket, her eyes closed, her face covered with tears.
"What is wrong, child?" he asked, giving a friendly sort of smile.
"Oh… sir. Our sheep wandered off while I was sleeping, and if I don't find them, my mother will be so cross with me…"
"Well, then." Taran stood up and looked around. "I don't see them, but they can't have gotten far. How many do you have?"
"Five, sir."
"Well, let me see if I can find them."
As the sun sank closer to the distant hills, Taran wandered through the brambles, stopping only to listen for the distant sound of bleating. With nothing but sandals and protecting his feet, he soon grew footsore; avoiding itchweed, he would find himself falling into nettles; avoiding nettles, he hit briars. At last, he found the flock, lying contentedly in the heather a long trek through the underbrush away from where he'd started, and with the care and guidance which becomes second nature after years spent at such tasks, lead them back to their mistress, limping slightly all the while.
The girl thanked him most kindly for returning her sheep, apologizing that she had nothing to repay his kindness with and inviting him to stay the night with her family. "Sorry, child, but I must travel onwards; I seek the hand of the fair Remya."
"Oh. Well, I wish you luck, kind sir." She cried to the sheep in a bleating sort of tounge and ran off, the sheep following her close. Having never seen such a thing, Taran gazed after her briefly before, seeing the sun finally dip below the hills distant, he turned and ran as fast as his battered feet could take him towards the castle
It was too late; the gate had been shut, and bellow and beat against it as he might, it would not open until the morn. Taran had no choice but to sleep under the bright moon and the faded stars.
The next morning, footsore, Taran broke his fast with a small portion of bread while waiting patiently at the stronghold gates, brilliant white in the morning sun. The gates did not open, but soon after the dawn, a guard walked onto the top of the battlements. "Good morrow, sir! What business brings you here?" he cried down.
"I seek the dread Bandit King, Mol, that I may ask Remya his daughter's hand in marriage."
The man laughed and shook his head sadly. "Nay, sir. You are not the first man to seek him here; a young man passed here but yesterday, and with the same hopes. But this is but a lesser stronghold of Mol. You must go yet farther to find him. If you would be fed, however…"
"Thank you, sir, but I must travel onwards, with all speed."
"I wish you luck, then!" The guard vanished from the wall. So, bearing ruined sandals, a half loaf of bread, and a stout wooden traveling staff, Taran set out down the east-road, chasing after Aran, and after Remya.
He walked miles, through fields and forests; he forded rivers and climbed up hills, and the sun was just setting as Taran approached the gates to another stronghold set in the midst of the woods, a larger and finer one, its stones dulled grey as doubt. The banners of the dread Bandit King, Mol, fluttered in the evening wind.
He was about to enter the light of the torches that burned in the front of the gate when he heard, off in the deepening shadows of the forest, a faint moaning. Taran glanced at the gate for a moment, seeing that men were even now preparing to douse the lights, before turning, and running into the woods. An old man lay there beneath a tree, his eyes closed, his face screwed up with the pain of his hunger.
Taran hesitated but a moment; he broke his bread, opened the man's mouth, and fed him a small piece of the soft center. Slowly, piece by piece, he wordlessly fed the elder, even as behind him he could hear the iron crashing of the gate closing behind him, leaving him once more with nothing but earth for bedding. The old man gave a weak smile in the moonlight once he'd swallowed the last scrap of Taran's meager fare, making a slight whisper of thanks before succumbing to sleep. Knowing that this door too would not open before the dawn, Taran lay beside the old man and slept the long night away.
The next morning, he awoke to find the old man had vanished. Glad of his apparent revival, hurt by his apparent ingratitude, and aching from hunger, Taran chewed at a tuber he'd found beneath a tree while waiting impatiently at the stronghold gates, mute against the clear blue of the cloudless sky. The gates did not open, but after perhaps a half hour of waiting, a guard walked onto the top of the battlements. "Good morrow, sir! What business brings you here?" he cried down.
"I seek the dread Bandit King, Mol, that I may ask Remya his daughter's hand in marriage."
The man laughed and shook his head sadly. "Nay, sir. You are not the first man to seek him here; a young man passed here but yesterday, and with the same hopes. But this is but a lesser stronghold of Mol. You must go yet farther to find him. If you would be fed, however…"
Taran sighed and shook his head. "Thank you, sir, but I must travel onwards, with all speed."
"I wish you luck, then!" The guard vanished from the wall. So, bearing aching feet, an aching stomach, and a stout wooden traveling staff, Taran set out down the east-road, chasing after Aran, and after Remya.
He walked miles, through fields and forests; he forded rivers and climbed up hills, and but a sun's sliver lay above the horizon as Taran approached the gates to a third stronghold set in the midst of hills, the most magnificent and terrible yet, its stones black as despair. The banners of the dread Bandit King, Mol, were still in the calm of dusk.
He was about to run at the gate, in hopes that he could gain entry before the portcullis which was even now slowly descending finally reached the ground, when he heard, off in a distance hidden by the crest of the hills, a desperate cry. Taran didn't give the gate a second, regretful glance before turning, and rushing up the steep hillside. A man of middling years stood below him as he reached the summit, his eyes wide open with fright, his face smeared with blood.
All around him were six brigands with swords drawn, some of them as bloodied as their victim's blade. They circled him like wolves about a wounded stag, knowing that it was a matter of time, and making certain that someone else was gored.
Giving a mighty, lying roar, Taran ran down the hillside, brandishing his walking staff like a warrior's spear. One of the brigands turned and ran at the charging stranger; through nothing but blind luck, Taran collided painfully with the brigand, knocking the villain off his feet while somehow keeping his own balance. He lifted his staff and held it in a way which he hoped was threatening. "Leave now and live, else blood shall flow," he shouted.
All five who still stood looked at Taran, some with fear, others with a baffled amusement. One turned away from their victim and met Taran's staff with his sword, a powerful blow which turned the wood to splinters. He gave a grin as Taran stepped away, a grin which turned to shock as a sword-hilt crashed down on the back of his head. He fell to the ground like a dropped stone. The stranger stared wordlessly at the remaining robbers, who backed away slowly. The one Taran had inadvertently knocked down stumbled to his feet; Taran tried to block the way with the shards of his staff. "No," the swordsman said, speaking for the first time. "Let him pass." And so, they watched as the robbers, lifting their felled fellow to his feet, fled into hills which didn't look quite so foreboding now that the day had relinquished his last gasp on them.
Taran rubbed his bruised kneecaps. "Who were they?"
The man, as tall as a haystack and as thin as a haystack, cleaned the blood from his sword. "Just some bandits, hoping my sword would be less generous than my purse. They were wrong, but without your aid the knowledge wouldn't have done me much good. My thanks, friend."
Taran shrugged. "I've always been taught to help those who need helping. Although, if you've any measure of food in your pockets, I've traveled long roads and eaten nothing today."
"Well, I've eaten what food I carried with me on my travels. But just over these hills is the stronghold of Mol; I've some friends there who I expect I can persuade to feed you."
"It's too late to hope for that. The gates have closed for the night, and unless the guards here are more helpful than those of Moll's lesser strongholds, one or two days traveling to the east, they will not open until the morrow."
"Ah. Well, that is a pity." The man began walking towards the road, regardless. "You've been traveling long miles, Master…. I'm sorry, how rude of us both. Elmon."
"Taran. Yes. I've come to seek an audience with the Bandit-Lord Mol himself, to…" He paused, realizing as he spoke how hopeless his hopes were.
Elmon didn't seem to notice his pause. "Well, let me see if I can find an entrance for us. Wait right here." He gave a smile, and vanished into the darkness.
Taran waited as long as he could; but as the stars slowly charted their courses overhead, and it grew more certain that Elmon was not to return, Taran had no choice but to sleep, and wait for the dawn, in the hopes that this dawn would bring him a happier day than the last.
The next morning, Taran could barely feel his stomach, which was a blessing of sorts. His feet were sore, an ache which spread up his legs as he walked back down the hill to the road and, impassive, sat on a stone and stared at the stronghold gates, as dark as the surrounding day was fair. The gates did not open, but at last, after what seemed to be an hour of waiting, a guard walked onto the top of the battlements. "Good morrow, sir! What business brings you here?" he cried down.
"I seek the dread Bandit King, Mol, that I may ask Remya his daughter's hand in marriage."
The man laughed and shook his head sadly. "Nay, sir. You are not the first man to seek him here; a young man arrived here but yesterday, and with the same hopes. This is Mol's stronghold, but Mol is a man with many petitioners and suitors. You may enter, but he may never see you, especially if you have such a matter as his daughter's hand for your conversation. Are you sure this is what you wish?"
Taran nodded. "Thank you, sir, for your warning, but I must speak with him."
"I wish you luck, then!" The guard vanished from the wall; perhaps five minutes later, Taran could hear the sound of chain clinking as he raised the portcullis. And so, at long last, Taran entered the stronghold of the dread Bandit King, Mol. He found himself in a large, dirt courtyard of sorts, with the largest black towers visible in front of him, doors the size of boulders flung open and packed with people.
"Here," the guard whispered, and handed him a scrap of bread and a small wooden cup, filled with water. "You look like you need it."
"Thank you." He ate the bread in one bite, like the starving man he was, listening all the while to the guard.
"I've sent Mol tidings of your arrival, and purpose. He may wish to see you as soon as he can, or he may merely ask you to wait about with all those others who have sought an audience with him. My guess would be the latter. Whichever is the case, simply wait in that crowd; he will find you if he wants you to be found."
The crowd was a somewhat eclectic sort: most of them were there for being there, while others had minor grievances which needed to be sorted out, or favors to ask, or gifts to be offered, or justice to be served. The crowd dwindled slowly, at first; as decisions were made, and the sun reached its height and began to decline, many left, satisfied or otherwise. More than one never left, or rather, left at a different time than their body. But Taran stood firm; slowly, as the crowd began to vanish, he made his way out of the sun and into the chamber. He could see, over the top of the crowd, where all eyes were pointed: the top of a chair, black as the fortress itself, its back to the wall. A door stood at either side of the door, and Mol's booming voice echoed from an unseen mouth just below the chair's top.
At last, perhaps half of the crowd had left; of those who remained, many of them seemed to have no task before them besides to watch (or, in the case of many, hear) Mol pass judgment. Having dealt with a dispute over where one man's field ended and another's began, Mol clapped his hands. Silence momentarily reigned over the hall, before abdicating once more to its true lord and master. "I summon two men before me: Aran, and Taran."
Wordless, his mind more than slightly surprised to hear Aran called as well as he, Taran pushed his way through the crowd, eventually arriving in front of Mol. Mol was everything he was held to be: tall as a house, and just as broad, with long red hair tied back by a string, and a look which could with one glance freeze breath and melt stone. The look he gave to Taran as he approached was not that look, but Taran could imagine the look of ire from such a Bandit-King well enough to satisfy all curiosity. He sat in an unadorned chair, wooden and black as the stronghold , built with his proportions in mind, flanked on either side by doors. It sat flat upon the flagstones, , but it arrested the eye as though it stood on a dias of pure marble three feet high.
Aran was already there, smiling and clearly well rested, wearing new clothes in Mol's colors., and Taran felt some small shame at his tattered clothing, his eyes painted with blood by the lack of sleep. With what energy of purpose Taran still possessed, he straightened his back, raising and deepening his voice: "Greetings to you, Mol, Master of men and ruler of kings. I come here…"
"Taran, it is you!" Aran interrupted with a (mostly) good-natured laugh. "You have come a harder path than I have. I'm not sure why you came by any path, of course, but it is …"
Taran fell to one knee before Mol, hoping to still Aran's tongue. "I have come here, noble Lord, to ask the same thing that my brother, Aran, has asked, or will soon ask. I have come to seek Remya's hand in marriage."
Aran, shocked by this request, did nothing but gape. Mol gave a slight smile, his gaze softening from steel to iron. His voice, however, was not so kind. "I see. And, if I may ask you, Taran, why should I grant you the honor of my daughter's hand rather than your brother? The brother who, as it happens, arrived at my home a day before you, in better condition? I am lead to believe that his desire for my daughter's hand is stronger than your own. Do you have any excuse?"
Taran lowered his head. "None but that I strode here as fast as I could in good conscience. In this, Aran does have the greater claim. Nor do I claim to be a more worthy man than my brother, for he is as good a man as any I have met. I have come because I love your daughter, and must do what I can to win her, not because I expected to gain her."
"Enough." Mol looked to his left at a slender fellow, who nodded and dashed through the door behind him. "And you, Aran. Your brother tells me plainly that he has nothing but hope; have you anything better to offer? What, besides faster limbs, can you offer me that any man in my domain cannot?"
Aran considered the question, looking puzzled, looking worried. "A keen sword, sir, which shall defend your daughter against any harm."
Mol looked down at it. "I've seen a dozen sharper swords than that. You wear it; can you wield it? But that is of no consequence. No, you seem not to know what a father desires for his daughter.
"Fortunately, I have devised tests. A test of perseverance: for a fine marriage is a long, long walk, one in which the man who surrenders will know small joy. A test of generosity: for a true loving heart must be willing to sacrifice all he has, without hope of reward besides the smile of the beloved. A test of courage: for, as Aran says, we must be willing to defend what