Keyfic - Poem: A Letter to My Beloved
Notes on Keys: A Key is a male sex slave. The concept of Keys and the Key Game come from YSML mailing list years ago, and was created by Katherine; the successive games and creation of the Palace were the work of The Chatelaine. In the Key Games, one adopts a Key based on their name (“The Violet Key,” in this case), and then the Key becomes officially yours and you are sent a description, made by the Key Trainer/creator. You have a finite period of time to write or draw something for your Key, at which point, if you have made nothing for the Key, the Palace will reclaim him and give him to someone else who sees his name, wants to adopt him, and agrees to produce something for him. For more information on the Key games, visit the old (and still viewable) Palace of the Keys. You might also want to visit keyfic here on LJ.
Notes on this poem: The red thread of destiny is supposed to connect people to those integral to their fate. It is often used in fandom to connect people who are fated to be lovers. This red thread is different from the cords that are often tied around the wrists or ankles of young children by monks to bring them luck or other blessings.
Poem: A Letter to My Beloved
Key: The Matchmaker Key (The Violet Key side story)
Note: This was inspired by Ezra Pound's "The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter," which in turn was an imitation of a poem by Li-Po (AD 701-762).
*
When I was a child
My mother tied a cord around my wrist
For luck, and bells around my ankles.
She wrapped me in silk,
Embroidered sleeves dragging behind me
As I ran to play with other children
And was caught up in her arms
And told to stay.
When I was a child
I saw a thread around my finger,
Red as sun cutting through night.
I looked for you:
The man whom I was bound to
By the blood inside my veins.
Then I turned fourteen.
An old man came to our village.
His carriage stopped outside our door.
My mother saw his face from the window
And she said, “It is time.”
She pulled me to her, wetting my cheeks with her tears.
She gave the man my hand.
Innocent, I crossed the mountains.
The carriage knocked my knees with his.
Dust and sun stuck to the curtains.
I asked where we were going and
The old man told me: “Home.”
Home was a palace, white and gold,
A long paved path of wisteria and rose.
We entered through the servant’s door
And twisted down serpentine halls
Until I was bewildered.
Unsuspecting, I followed him
Through thick black doors that slammed and locked.
His hands closed into gnarled fists
And fell like bamboo canes on my soft back.
“If you do not learn to serve,” he said,
Then you will die.”
And so I turned fifteen.
I had aged when the old man left,
A jaded thing with ancient eyes.
They dressed me like a China doll and locked me in a room.
The first man came and I knelt for him,
Eyes fixed on future years and dust.
The second man came and the third and fourth
And filled my soul with emptiness.
I gazed out the window at the path below
And wished that I could fall into the earth.
I was dead when my savior came,
An empty shell enclosed in silk.
He shared my bed but not my body,
Shared my meals but not my lips,
Shared his mind and fears and joys,
And in the end, I shared with him my heart and broken soul.
He stayed with me through winter snows
And held me though my tears were dry,
And when he left
I gave a parting gift:
I traced the red thread on his finger,
A stream fast-flowing toward his future.
I told him where he could find the happiness he sought.
They found out soon, my captors,
About my parting gift.
They gave me a bigger room that looked over a garden.
They gave me a new name and new clientele.
They said, “Help these men find happiness,
And when your debt is paid
We will help you find your own.”
Alive again, I bide my time-
There are years yet I will remain-
But when I am sad,
And the trees in the garden are bare and gray,
I trace the thread tied to my finger
To your hand across the ocean,
And to your face, which soothes my lonely soul.
Notes on this poem: The red thread of destiny is supposed to connect people to those integral to their fate. It is often used in fandom to connect people who are fated to be lovers. This red thread is different from the cords that are often tied around the wrists or ankles of young children by monks to bring them luck or other blessings.
Poem: A Letter to My Beloved
Key: The Matchmaker Key (The Violet Key side story)
Note: This was inspired by Ezra Pound's "The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter," which in turn was an imitation of a poem by Li-Po (AD 701-762).
*
When I was a child
My mother tied a cord around my wrist
For luck, and bells around my ankles.
She wrapped me in silk,
Embroidered sleeves dragging behind me
As I ran to play with other children
And was caught up in her arms
And told to stay.
When I was a child
I saw a thread around my finger,
Red as sun cutting through night.
I looked for you:
The man whom I was bound to
By the blood inside my veins.
Then I turned fourteen.
An old man came to our village.
His carriage stopped outside our door.
My mother saw his face from the window
And she said, “It is time.”
She pulled me to her, wetting my cheeks with her tears.
She gave the man my hand.
Innocent, I crossed the mountains.
The carriage knocked my knees with his.
Dust and sun stuck to the curtains.
I asked where we were going and
The old man told me: “Home.”
Home was a palace, white and gold,
A long paved path of wisteria and rose.
We entered through the servant’s door
And twisted down serpentine halls
Until I was bewildered.
Unsuspecting, I followed him
Through thick black doors that slammed and locked.
His hands closed into gnarled fists
And fell like bamboo canes on my soft back.
“If you do not learn to serve,” he said,
Then you will die.”
And so I turned fifteen.
I had aged when the old man left,
A jaded thing with ancient eyes.
They dressed me like a China doll and locked me in a room.
The first man came and I knelt for him,
Eyes fixed on future years and dust.
The second man came and the third and fourth
And filled my soul with emptiness.
I gazed out the window at the path below
And wished that I could fall into the earth.
I was dead when my savior came,
An empty shell enclosed in silk.
He shared my bed but not my body,
Shared my meals but not my lips,
Shared his mind and fears and joys,
And in the end, I shared with him my heart and broken soul.
He stayed with me through winter snows
And held me though my tears were dry,
And when he left
I gave a parting gift:
I traced the red thread on his finger,
A stream fast-flowing toward his future.
I told him where he could find the happiness he sought.
They found out soon, my captors,
About my parting gift.
They gave me a bigger room that looked over a garden.
They gave me a new name and new clientele.
They said, “Help these men find happiness,
And when your debt is paid
We will help you find your own.”
Alive again, I bide my time-
There are years yet I will remain-
But when I am sad,
And the trees in the garden are bare and gray,
I trace the thread tied to my finger
To your hand across the ocean,
And to your face, which soothes my lonely soul.