Poor Lord Ritchie's Answer to a Question He Knever Knew

My sword-
I glanced at it vainfully.

[ Vainfully? ]

Why, I wondered, why?
We carry them to protect Ourselves, amongst other things, and to achieve our most selfish, and dear, requests of others-but, still: I wondered.
Why?
With a considerable amount of effort, I lifted my head-only to view the Inn's Keeper, filling another draught.

[ I prayed-he poured. ]

Damnable, strange country, this.

Others in the Commons Hall, of this somewhat respectable Public House, though they took little notice of me. It occurred to me that the Innsman was indeed, a very clean one. And a peculiar one, if one were to ask me, though I knew that none would. And for myself, I cared very little-

For myself-I cared little.

But for my Sword, my Family's final Crest-ah-now that-that was another matter.

The dirt floor was clean, but well used. It had been covered with fresh dirt that very after noon time; for I was there at the time. Observing. Indulging.
I turned to see those behind me, and my dirk caught the table's support, and hence, uncomfortably, restrained my motion, and my character, to a mere jerk. Not carefully, i loosed it, and in my own private stupor, continued in my circular motion of observation. Those of my intended observance, instead were now observing me-growling, and locked onto my steel blue eyes; which oddly enough were common to my House. Until, presently-I returned to my indelicate guzzelance.

The same contemplations once again returned to my foremost attention; gathering unto itself, my main stage of concentration. My considerations again began to brutalize, that one lancing question-

Why? My, Sister? Why?

The time was now late and the weather was not the type that any would wish to willingly venture out into, especially in these times, present. For there were many villeins afoot, and though one such as I would venture out into that sullen and rough dimness, the idea was not one of bravery, but rather one of brevity.
I needed to seek the distance, now.

My body strained at the pressures; and, perhaps-Highwaymen did await me on the other side of the Inn's great wooden and iron clad door; but, I cared little. For little did I desire perpitude-and that was, mine own affair-

My Sword would allow me that recluse desire. The desire, that is, to die as I would die; to travel as soon, and as far, as I would Travel.
Once again, brilliant flashes of my past grazed just below the level of wakeful considerations. I did (as I sat, sodded, in that Inn) my absolute best to ignore them.

Then- another long pull upon my grog-

Arrrrrrgggg! Memories! Irritating devils. Bloody little bastards!

I once, on the way to battle, met a fellow traveler who called himself, a "Wizard." Myself, I never trusted them-but he showed me a very special tome that he wished me to see for some unGodly reason; its date obviously false, as it claimed to have been originated in the 19th century. Hundreds, of years hence. HA!

Indeed-Indeed!

There were plates of paintings, by what he called-Genius Artists. Genius and Famous-Hah! I had never heard of ANY of them: Tolouse-Lautrec, Monet, Van Gogh-and there were others.

Amongst other things, It (the Wizard) had said:
"Consciousness is a Being, the Nature of which is NOT to suspect the nothingness of its Being, but to insist on its Plenitude."
This was bad enough! But, then the one-eyed bastard had said that he DISAGREED! He said, rather as if he were quoting another:
"Consciousness IS a Being, the Nature of which is to be Conscious of the Nothingness of its Being."

AHHHHHHHHHHHrrrrr!

He also had mumbled something about Edgar-Alloon(?). Sartre(?) I believe it was. And his-"Meta-Bi-Polar," "Nature?"

Blasted!
Damn the Gods! Just who gives a good bloody care of the King's night robes? The Wizard was obviously a fool, or a Madman. I have respect for Madmen, you know. I really do. But this was simply too much.

So. I killed him. I was, of course, at the time, drunk-again. I do hate to listen to nonsense when I am under the Spirits. Spirits, indeed! In deed-and, in action!
That was a long time ago. It seems, such a long time ago, anyhow.

I arose, finally-with great effort. I could see the Commons room lowering into my visual arena. I had a tremendous need to deplete my defectious guzzelances-but where? Perhaps, perhaps, out-in the great friendly night airs.

Clumsily, as I stood-I staggered back into a Grand, Dark Monster. He stood at least twenty thousand leagues to my mere eighteen hands.

But, I feared him not!

He, in return-for the rebuff my sodden body had inadvertently given him, thumped me heavily-watched me turn to face him, and then stood back-obviously, to prepare himself to receive my best.

He received, what was, at that time, my VERY best. I missed him, and I, in turn, received his foot into my voluminously loaded innards. Needless to say, my argument with him, was of importance to me, no longer.

The door eventually found its way Into my double handed grasp, and soon I was met with the aforementioned (damp) night aires-cold and windy-tempestuous-with a willing, grateful encompass which lead to my painful and eventual recovery in the wet, cool light of the dew light; soaked-robbed, and no longer (of course) in possession of-my Sword.

THE Sword. The Crucible Sword of my House-my History-my Destiny. It was gone-and I no longer (not for myself, not for her), wondered, Why?

Act II
[Much Later-]

I awoke-quietly turning into the morning's warm embraces; tenderly rolling out of my bed-and onto the hardwood floor. The gentle turn of sleep. Although the roll was a gentle one, the meeting of floor and flesh was one of fierce embrace-in gentle rebuke-that is to say-one of painful deliverance.
I slammed into the cold wood floor of those respiteful quarters. My senses sharpened. The harsh impact on my body cajoled me into that semi-conscious state, which I have always hated with a fierce, and fervent passion.

A New Day!

But, it was a new Day.

Thank god. (And God-Damn-It)

Nevertheless-ascending into the upper apophasis of the room, I lit the candle on the bedside table. Soon, there will be light outside. Immediately, I found my pipe stem's way into my mouth.

The tobacco which my warders deemed natural, and reasonable, burned slowly, with a vivacious, but a cool, passion. I puffed heartily-finding a renewing vigor in its fumes, in these early moments before any were awake.

Since there were no slippers with which to warm my feet, I propped them up on the bed, while relinquishing a sleep-exhausted body into the chair situated near the bed's footboard.

Thoughts of the days past attempted to enter my mind, but couldn't. I kept them at bay. They soon resolved themselves-and faded to dispersion-turning black.
All this, as my Spirit sank and soared, and repeated and dove-and arose again; all to the rhythm of the Sparrow's song, as he perched ever so precariously, outside of my windowsill.

Silently, I stared into my pipe.

[They, allowed that.]
[ What? ]
[ Who? ]

I could not remember. I could not care.

Slowly, I stood-walked to the window-my only connection with the outside. I parted the chartreuse curtains and saw, instead of the velvety countryside which I had been accustomed to, a view of a Van Gogh painting-(it was one of his last, according to the Wizard's book)-full in His colours, with the yellows predominant, as always. I began to crave-

Somehow, it was a familiar craving. I tapped my pipe-hoping to remove from my thought, that which drew me so heavily; like smoke into wind; like a moth to a flame. Gently, the warm, friendly ashes descended leisurely onto my outstretched palm.

The burning tobacco felt admirably good-arcing from my hand to my mouth-ever so slowly, ever so tenderly-tasting so-curiously. So deliciously-beautiful.
The surface of my tongue swelled and curled around the pink, burning ashes; mating with the coals in blisters and in bubbles. How I delighted in the experience.

Now, realized it. The curiosity-invigorating my essence, dissolving whatever I was, or had been-encompassing me-I needed to discover, more-the desire for satiation voraciously overwhelming me.

I-
I-could see the Sun-barely rising over the horizon-
The van gogh-(brilliant Vincent, He knew)-
-dissolved.

Turning, I could see where the sun was striking the wall. The sun projected occultly through the window-onto the wall-about the size of my closed fist.
Slowly (not wanting to blow away the wispy trails of reality) I advanced upon it. I drew back-drew back and delivered a blow more powerful than I have ever issued. The plaster shuddered-that which was being kissed, ever so lightly, by the Sun's Humble Rays-commingling with my flesh. For all the helpless ones, for Vincent-for myself. My right fist penetrated the surface easily, and struck something solid beneath-breaking bones lovingly-satiating my hand's desires- minutely.

The wood beam within the wall shattered in time with my limb-end-both becoming as one; both understanding each other in a way that I will never understand; a way that only few ever can-but, only because it is, but a few that ever-"will", to know.

An interesting sensation then spasmed all along my arm. i must pull it out-my recently educated appendage-to discover what this entrancing sensation is-i have to satisfy my longing, my curiosity. i pulled-the wall pulled harder. i felt love for the wall, since it seemed to want to hold me-wanting-not-to let me go.

The intensity was too great-i HAD to examine my hand. The sensitivity growing exponentially-sweat covering my brow, profusely-i pulled harder-the intensity increased-the strain proportionally. i jerked-the wall responded passionately-as did the scale of feelings-of emotions.

The Sun-image now covered one complete foot of the wall, warming my back as now as well-but, now, my love is turning-changing into more negative feelings-with all my might, I pulled-and something snapped. With force, the limb flung itself free from the bear trap grip of the wall. My fascination now truly felt a satisfaction, of which, it never before had known.

Memory fails me as to exactly how I could know this, but I do know that I had never before felt such a fulfillment. But, it seemed to me as if part of my hand were somehow lacking-i couldn't quite place it-but, something, appeared to be different. It was beautiful though, the colour severely amazing, and quite lovely-seeming to spread everywhere. i swung my arm around-cheerfully-dancingly-the colour spreading to every corner of the room.

i had to tell someone!

But, no! [cringing into a corner]

This was MY Secret.

But shouldn't someone else know of this Beauty?

I knew. I already had my answer. No. They would only try to take away the only pure pleasure I had ever experienced. Save, for Her. Save-her.

i peered into the hole in the wall, now smeared crimson-now white, next to red-and quickly turning-brown: a nail, the chalky plaster-splinters-snowflakes of fingers snaking along through its cracks and crevices-in the wood-and something-else-fleshy-sticking in the brown and red wood-looking to me, so familiar. I licked the crimson goo from limb's end-watching the appendage in the wall as it crept deeper into the woodwork-while I was tasting flesh, only an arms length away-and it seems such an interesting flavour-never have I tasted such a confection-

The puddle on the floor seems to grow, larger, and bigger-so slippery-so colourful-it dries-so quickly-too quickly-on my face, on my skin-on the floor-and that is so disappointing: how can I play with it if it goes away so fast?.

Then i realized the true Reality in this moment. But, of course, that's it. When it dries, it becomes a completely new substance, a new toy. i sat down to enjoy this device-i was growing tired, anyway-the Van Gogh beginning to return-no, Monet, or Tolouse Le Turk, or was it-i could hear voices-powerful, lovely voices; and beautiful-beautiful singing choruses-of violins-and wind instruments. Like the Classics i studied as a child-the slow rhymic-no-rhythmic-chants, of the monks in the Monastery-near our house, no-our village (or WAS it a castle?)-and i drift-and-an-and-sank-no. Rose-into the Heavens-yes-that was it: the heavens. Where-God-i mean god-was.

He heard everything, and studied us carefully. To see what he had wrought.

And, never forgave us. No-never forgot us-Yes-that was it-He forgot us-forgot and forsook us-yes-that was it-he forgot us-the yellows and browns and the reds-where the ceiling sank into my mind so it could become me, and i could house another-for-for another. Forever.

The yellow Sun filled the room-now-Dawn. Now, it's dawn-I'm so much a part of it-of dawn-it was so bright for a sunset-the knocking-the banging on the door-like the drums in the Games-closing the Games-the dimming-the dimming-there's so much Happiness-I'm so proud-to be a part of-of it-the Sun-The Sun-THE SUN-Why? And Why!

Because...because-i like IT!

Act III
[Much Later Still-]

A slim figure in a white gown eased open the heavy, solid security door, after loudly neutralizing the door's master lock. Two steel blue eyes gingerly probed past the door, peering hesitantly into the sterile white room. A single prone figure lie serenely under the covers on the white enameled Higgens security bed; wisps of a choral prelude drifted past the inquisitive intruder. The notes gaily rebounded off the room's walls, softly resonating the tubular construction of the bed's bolted down, reinforced steel frame.

The comatose, shrunken frame of a man remained silent, in state; unmoving, breathing slowly, evenly, while the sharp faced woman entered and advanced towards the single, barred window to the left of the bedside.

She moved the split, Spartan linen drapes aside and silently gazed into the shadowed city street, three floors below. Warm sunlight burned into her milk white skin, momentarily blinding her. The horses trotting the cobblestones below, emitted tired sounds of their own perspective, of a demanding life, filled with another's unrelenting purpose.

Turning slowly, only with a purpose of her own choosing, the angelic attendant placed her pale, ringed right hand upon the brow of the impotent figure nearby her. The wedding band she wore was a symbol of her love, devotion and marriage to Jesus Christ; the very Catholic symbol of a crucifix was emblazoned in crimson ruby and bold yellow gold. She ran the ringed hand over the suddenly twitching, four remaining fingers of his restrained right hand until slowly, gently, they calmed, moving less and less-finally, stopping their jerky movements.

Once again deathly still, the man's thumb-less right hand returned to rest, like the quiet form to which it belonged. She unfastened the wrist restraint, rubbing some blood back into the wrist, then gently laid it down on the pillow, near his head.

Again, she turned. This time to leave, not noticing the thumb on the man's left hand beginning to palsy uncontrollably. The Sun's rays painted the far walls with rainbow colours from the grossly designed, cut-glass religious motif of the filthy window.

The Nurse opened the door and turned to look at the room's patient. Trembling, she took in the room: the one bed, the single wooden chair, a small bedside table beneath the tiny, dirty windows; and compared it to the memories of their shared youth together in the castle; the virginity she had once lost to him in the family castle tower; the hangings; the trouble with the Church; and the grand Hunts. Days lost after he had left to seek his destiny and she had finally succumbed to temptation to enter a nunnery.

She thought morosely of those splendid castle rooms, the fine crystals and metals; of Ritchie's lovemaking as being so far superior to that of the Abbot Pensol's; a man, not of her desires, never of her pleasures-willingly.

Sadly, the Sister closed the door and locked it on her brother, knowing intimately what it was like to have found that the family had once again turned its Regal back upon you.

A comatose Lord Ritchie continued to sleep the sleep of the Damned, searching; now forever searching for the door back. It was a journey of tramping through eternity for the location of the current resting place of the Crucible Sword of their family's Crest. A Sword which had been entrusted to him, which he alone had been responsible for having lost.

This had been a journey which had spanned the farthest reaches of a mind which he had long ago, in the turmoil of advancing dementia, lost sight of. His diminution was only one of several conditions, genetically married now for Centuries, to his decaying, intensely interbred, Family Line.

Once again, slowly, the security door opened and admitted the Holy Beauty back into the Lord's cell. This time, however, the almost effeminate glint of surgical steel, radiated the rainbow colours of reflected sunlight onto the still gray eyelids of Lord Ritchie's pallid lost face. A storm cloud, suddenly congealing above the neighborhood, rapidly dimmed the light in the room; forever, unselfishly proffered by the Sun.

Lord Ritchie felt next, only sweet, sweet coolness of his Sister's surgical love upon his atrophied throat muscles. Slowly, painfully, he opened his eyes, now swollen from lack of use; already fading fast as they focused, for quite the last time. He smiled weakly at this beautiful Angel of Death attending him.
"Such Beauty," she heard him say, her habit-bound head bowed in fervent prayer; not believing she had actually heard him speak.

"So, so, beautiful."

Over the next few minutes, his body began to grow cold; still white bed sheets continued to be dyed with the crimson essences of the Lord.

The Sun's rays, abruptly freed from the concealing clouds, descended on his dehydrated skin, warming his near corpse-like form which, shuddering, searched for some life giving heat. The rays warmed him, somewhat, perhaps allowing him a way.

Lord Ritchie slid the scalpel out from deep within his flaccid neck muscles-his steel blue eyes consuming the woman kneeling penitently at his bedside. Lovingly, and using his last bits of strength, Ritchie gave back to her the key to the afterlife which she had lovingly chosen for him; as tenderly, and as gently as he could.

His loving Sister's body shuddered violently beneath the surprise intrusion of the obsidian sharp blade; the glinting key, engaged in the simple lock of life, for a second time, in the body of an unassuming recipient. Distressed and frantic, she wearily rough against the unfatigable strength of the undead; her knees dully cracking repeatedly against the cold, marble floor in silence.

The artery seated scalpel jutted out brutally from her perfect, Holy, Royal white neck. Its handle pulsed rhythmically, while Ritchie's stiff, coma locked fist kept her face buried in his blood soaked sheets. Moments later, her jerking, habited heard was still bowing passionately in fitful, restrained death throes; while the hand of a dead man remained firmly stationed upon it.

Spasm after spasm shot through the woman's lithe, shapely body, until finally, she began to waver beyond even the merest vestiges of life. Vulgar, gurgling sounds of troubled respiration, culled from deep within her throat, eventually gave way to a fluid exhale of breath; the sudden relaxation of her sphincters' the smoothing out, conjointly, of all her muscles in one complete movement, permanently relaxing themselves.

In unwonted distress, poor Lord Ritchie's Sister prayed her final Reverent Prayer to her Loving, expired Lord; and remained then eternally still. Inseparably bound together, her with him, and he with her, now in death; their unholy marriage and a consummation for both, spawned and blessed, in blasphemously sanctified, morbid coitus-forevermore.

Final Act
[Yet Later-]

The gates to the monastery opened. A resounding chunk, indicated their locked open position, the huge wooden beams shuddering in their sudden stop.

Twenty-seven men-at-arms awaited astride their horses, strident, tense, anxiously awaiting their Lord. One dismounted. He wore the red and chartreuse of the house for which he rode. He had followed his Lord into the pits of hell, save for this one. Again, they would ride together. Again, today, once again.

A lone figure strode from the inner building's gateway. He wore the cloth of a Lord, similar in colour to the recently dismounted soldier. Two monks followed their Royal Ward to the extent of their doorway, then they stood with heads bowed in prayer, long dark robes hanging loosely from their shoulders, shoulders which hung in dejected silence. One of them sighed, softly. From above, he could hear a window's shutters creak open slightly, and knew by the location of the nun's room, whom it was watching the ceremony.

There was a moment, as the Lord hesitated, tempted to look back, tempted to look upward, to lock eyes with the wonder that hid forever in the shadows from him. But he look down instead at his quiet feet, and made them create sound once again. He headed out to the gate, to his men, to his destiny. Leaving behind, madness. He stopped. He looked up at his man-at-arms, his second in command, he could see the admiration, the desire to serve him unto death; then he turned and looked back at the Monsignor and his aid. Was he leaving madness? He looked back at his man without the gateway. Leaving? Or, arriving?
Lord Ritchie took up his pace and walked to the men that awaited him, who had awaited him patiently for this past year. He strode up to his man. They took each other into their eyes and the moment spoke volumes. Pride and honor bound them. Death and sacrifice, made them brothers. Birth, made them universes apart.

But one would always give all for the other.

"Lord." The man said, and kneeled.

"Arise, my friend Michael, arise. We are bidden to battle. To win, or die, for our house. Let us go forth and slaughter the bastards that bare the way to our destinies." There arose a great cheer from the mounted men.

#

There was a silent, unheard sigh, once again, from the Monsignor. He picked up some dirt from his porch, and saying a few words, cast the dust first to his left, then to his right. A sad choir echoed in the halls behind him, and a death march played gently, brushed toward them all on a sudden breeze out of no where.

"May God have mercy on their souls." He said as he blessed the dirt before him and turned to the one next to him. "See the grounds filled appropriately, and guarded as time befits. Or the damned beggars of this place will be off with him sooner than-" He stopped short and looked up at the sky, then shook his head sadly. "-Death comes to us, one and all." He blessed the grounds before him, turned and walked back through the entrance. The large wooden and ironed braced doors closed loudly behind him.

A window up above, silently also closed upon the world.

#

Before his men, Ritchie mounted his steed, it was a fine mount, sent by his father. A gift to welcome him back, to the family, to the world of battle.

"My Lord," Michael said, as he proffered a sword up to his mounted Lord. "Your Sword." Ritchie took the sword from Michael in his full right hand and stared at it, stricken, as if it could burn into his flesh. He looked from the Sword, to Michael, and back again.

"How-" Thoughts ran across Ritchie's mind, until he finally, acting more like the self he had always known, shrugged his shoulders and smiled. He shoved the scabbard and sword into his belt and rose in his saddle.

"Let us be off. To Battle." He leaned over to Michael. "How FAR is it, anyway. You know, I've not been on a horse in ages. This damn place was almost the death of me. Such things I've seen here. Pass me your flask."

Michael, mounted his own horse, got control of the lively beast, turned to Ritchie, passed him a goatskin drinking flask filled with a strong drink.

"Not far, M'Lord, for that is the problem, and why we have been requested to seek you unto battle."

"Well, let's be off then my lad."

And the two turned and rode down the path to the forest. Their men followed in stead. All were anxious to seek battle and find their fortune, or kill and slaughter the minions that dared to step foot in their Lord's reign.

They rode for about an hour, then came upon a sight that brought the Lord up quick. He reigned in his horse and stopped, almost trampling the lone figure before them. The hooded fellow stopped in his tracks, his walking stick along side him, his hand resting on the staff about two thirds of the way up it.

"Ho, there, fellow. Move aside or you will be trampled under." Michael shouted, moving his horse between his Lord and the stranger. Several other men shuffled to move into a defensive position to protect both their Lord and Commander. Lord Ritchie waved them back slightly, for they would not allow him danger, this side of a battlefield. Ritchie leaned forward on the neck of his horse, and spoke down to the traveler.

"Fellow. What do you, to stop this brace of men at arms on their way to battle? What profession claim you, that you travel out, as such, unassisted, apparently, unprotected? Do not you know many villains are afoot in these lands, some, to wit, we are to battle soon near this time and place?"

The traveler slowly turned his head slightly from side to side, taking in the curious warriors, then lifted his head to a point that allowed Ritchie to see his face, still somewhat in the shadows of the late afternoon.

"M'Lord." He said quietly, forcing Ritchie to strain forward on his horse, even more than he already was. "I am, by profession, a Wizard."

The blood drained from Ritchie's face as his hand fell to his sword without conscious thought. The "Wizard" looked down at Ritchie's hand, then turned his good eye up and stared into Ritchie's slightly sodded eyes.

"M'Lord, tis' quite very a special, timeless tome, that I would beg you here, now to show you, gladly, if you, a moment...to spare me?"

"Aye," said Lord Ritchie, purposefully stepping down from his horse, sword in hand, "I have all eternity to share with you-Wizard."

- The End -