Moonlit trees image taken by Tim Massaro – http://www.flickr.com/photos/76606165@N00/8494342760
Green note: I have the mean tag team, Travel and Time, to curse, for leaving me with only this puddle of prose.
I woke to slow-coming remembrances of the last 27 days-worth of hard luck.
On a third quest to restore the peace of a bygone day, my cavalry had been captured and I’d been traded for the life of another. I was dropped into a dungeon, starved and kept awake with the jabs of a spear, had to lick the damp stone walls for moisture to live on. When the Marshal’s men rescued me and delivered me unto the Lesser Brothers, there was little left of me. My body was skin and bones, my mind full of holes.
Just last night the moon had lit up the whole nighttime world, as far as I could see anyway. The moon shone down on the trees, casting their shadows out in front of them. The deciduous trees’ shadows were particularly stunning. Perfect representations of their bare branches extended from the bases of their trunks so that they looked like roots inked onto a glistening, stark-white canvas. And I had it all to myself.
As the others slept, I went outside into the freezing air and took pictures. They came out black, but that was no matter, for it was merely an exercise in entreating Hope to return. It would not, but the beauteous scene pierced my soul, and from the fresh wound came a blood of sorts that needed to be let: the question of Help’s origin.
Only a certain amount of help can come from one’s brothers. They did the right thing, could not have known what shape I’d be in, but they cannot restore my health.
Help from a higher power is uncertain, shows itself on occasion in hindsight, but comes with no guarantee of present or future services.
If Help must come from within, but there are no remaining or known resources on which to draw, what is one to do?
Both existence and the quality of it are too uncertain for my taste. Randomness seems to rule, to keep Destiny and Fate back like buffoons attempting to crash a posh dinner party.
I suppose I shall remain outside then, and wait for Mercy, as Time runs down slow like black oil over snow.
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