While I was reading 'Pawn Of Prophecy', a thought occurred to me. A lot is
said about Silk's mother, but we never hear much about what kind of person
she is. So I pondered a bit, from her point of view.
I'm new to Eddings fanfiction, so any criticism would be greatly appreciated. As I'm sure you're aware, I am not, nor will ever be, an Eddings, (Leigh, David, or otherwise) and therefore the characters, places and situations mentioned do not belong to me. In fact, I own nothing, so suing me wouldn't do anything anyway.
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin . . .
*~*~*
Darkness And Light
*~*~*
My world is in darkness. No light can enter my gloomy world, no brightness fight back the pervasive black. Other senses took over when my eyes gave up, too strained by the pressure of the feverish plague that took so much more from me than the light.
To touch is to know what is before me, the size, the texture, to step around it or just continue walking. It is to feel the fabric they dress me in, to revel in the comfort they surround me with . . . their thoughtful concession to their helplessness in aiding me. Porenn never ceases to try to instil some new comfort in my home, trying as she can to make my dark life easier. But she cannot return my beauty to me. Oh, I know I have lost what I once was, these hands have felt the scars over and again and I know I am a withering old woman, no longer worthy of the beauty around me
To smell is to know where I am, be it the bathhouse, the bedroom, my living room, and to be able to sense another presence nearby. I know my friends by scent alone, though some I could wish bathed more often. Javelin's scent springs to mind, that of worn leather and the oil he uses on his blades. He thinks he has eradicated all trace of such smells, but I know he cannot. How strange, that I can sense where the secret service cannot. Perhaps I should mention it to them. Maybe then I would be of some use in my dwindling years.
To taste is to understand that they think I am in pain, to identify which new herbs they have tried to slip into my food to relieve this agony they believe I suffer. My pain is not of the physical kind, no herb can remove it unless taken in much larger quantities than they give me. The day they give me wine laced with Nyissan poison will be the day they understand the nature of my suffering. To live and yet not live, surrounded by darkness from which I cannot escape. How can they know my suffering, they who have not felt the despair that stabs at my heart?
And to hear . . . the hardest of all my enhanced burdens to bear. I do not simply hear words spoken to me by friend and acquaintance, as I did before the darkness took my eyes. I hear the meaning behind the words, the things they are trying not to say. I hear the pain, the misery they feel when they look upon me, avoiding my face as they tell me again and again that I am as lovely as I was all those long years ago.
The lies I can bear, for I know they do it only to spare me what they think I do not know. Part of me wonders how stupid they think I am, but I know that they tell me lies to protect themselves. It is easier for them to tell themselves that I do not know what the plague did to me. They do not have to face my suffering while such thoughts rule them, and for some, I am pleased that such pain is spared them.
But it is the muted pain, the unbearable sorrow in their voices as they speak that is so hard to hear. And worst of all, my son, my Kheldar, though he knows that I am not such a fool as to believe their assurances, he tells me whenever he can that I will always be beautiful to him. Such pain he feels when he looks upon me, he cannot hide it from me. Though my eyes are gone, there are some things I still see, though I could wish it otherwise. Such pain as his is not for me to know.
Were it not for his insistence that I do not know of the ravages of time and circumstance upon me, I think I should have told them many years ago that I know what it is they don't tell me. But I cannot stand the thought of their pity, nor my son's unhappiness in seeing my pockmarked face and knowing that I am as aware of the ugliness as he. It hurts him too much to look upon me as it is, hidden in the ignorance I gave him, for me to compound such suffering any more.
I do not mind, resigned to my fate as I have been for so long. Nothing I do can change what the Gods have given me, and nothing I say can possibly make the heartache we all feel go away. There is so little that I regret from my life that such regrets I do hold are more a soft ache for what could never be than any real longing.
I have often wished to have looked upon my husband's second son, the child he sired with the Murgo woman when he was spying. He thought I did not know, but I had spies of my own and the knowledge of their coupling came to me before the dawn of the next day. Strange as it may seem, I did not mind. I loved my husband too much to deny him a moment's pleasure when I knew I held his heart. Kheldar told me of his brother, the King of the Murgos, but I could so have wished to see him, just once, before I die.
I cannot help but feel fond of those I have not seen, those who feel such a close bond to me. My new daughter has given my son happiness, and I am aware that his pain is not so great now as he speaks with me. I am often surrounded by children, listening to their games, knowing them by smell, touch and sound alone. I am closer to them than I would ever have thought a blind woman could be, knowing each by their own uniqueness.
So I am happy, though that residual ache remains to tug mercilessly at my heart. I could have wished to die with my fellows in the aftermath of the plague, but I know now that was not my fate. I have known joy, sadness, despair, and now happiness once more. I am who I have always been, and content to remain so as life continues around me.
My world is in darkness.
But my heart is light.
I'm new to Eddings fanfiction, so any criticism would be greatly appreciated. As I'm sure you're aware, I am not, nor will ever be, an Eddings, (Leigh, David, or otherwise) and therefore the characters, places and situations mentioned do not belong to me. In fact, I own nothing, so suing me wouldn't do anything anyway.
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin . . .
*~*~*
Darkness And Light
*~*~*
My world is in darkness. No light can enter my gloomy world, no brightness fight back the pervasive black. Other senses took over when my eyes gave up, too strained by the pressure of the feverish plague that took so much more from me than the light.
To touch is to know what is before me, the size, the texture, to step around it or just continue walking. It is to feel the fabric they dress me in, to revel in the comfort they surround me with . . . their thoughtful concession to their helplessness in aiding me. Porenn never ceases to try to instil some new comfort in my home, trying as she can to make my dark life easier. But she cannot return my beauty to me. Oh, I know I have lost what I once was, these hands have felt the scars over and again and I know I am a withering old woman, no longer worthy of the beauty around me
To smell is to know where I am, be it the bathhouse, the bedroom, my living room, and to be able to sense another presence nearby. I know my friends by scent alone, though some I could wish bathed more often. Javelin's scent springs to mind, that of worn leather and the oil he uses on his blades. He thinks he has eradicated all trace of such smells, but I know he cannot. How strange, that I can sense where the secret service cannot. Perhaps I should mention it to them. Maybe then I would be of some use in my dwindling years.
To taste is to understand that they think I am in pain, to identify which new herbs they have tried to slip into my food to relieve this agony they believe I suffer. My pain is not of the physical kind, no herb can remove it unless taken in much larger quantities than they give me. The day they give me wine laced with Nyissan poison will be the day they understand the nature of my suffering. To live and yet not live, surrounded by darkness from which I cannot escape. How can they know my suffering, they who have not felt the despair that stabs at my heart?
And to hear . . . the hardest of all my enhanced burdens to bear. I do not simply hear words spoken to me by friend and acquaintance, as I did before the darkness took my eyes. I hear the meaning behind the words, the things they are trying not to say. I hear the pain, the misery they feel when they look upon me, avoiding my face as they tell me again and again that I am as lovely as I was all those long years ago.
The lies I can bear, for I know they do it only to spare me what they think I do not know. Part of me wonders how stupid they think I am, but I know that they tell me lies to protect themselves. It is easier for them to tell themselves that I do not know what the plague did to me. They do not have to face my suffering while such thoughts rule them, and for some, I am pleased that such pain is spared them.
But it is the muted pain, the unbearable sorrow in their voices as they speak that is so hard to hear. And worst of all, my son, my Kheldar, though he knows that I am not such a fool as to believe their assurances, he tells me whenever he can that I will always be beautiful to him. Such pain he feels when he looks upon me, he cannot hide it from me. Though my eyes are gone, there are some things I still see, though I could wish it otherwise. Such pain as his is not for me to know.
Were it not for his insistence that I do not know of the ravages of time and circumstance upon me, I think I should have told them many years ago that I know what it is they don't tell me. But I cannot stand the thought of their pity, nor my son's unhappiness in seeing my pockmarked face and knowing that I am as aware of the ugliness as he. It hurts him too much to look upon me as it is, hidden in the ignorance I gave him, for me to compound such suffering any more.
I do not mind, resigned to my fate as I have been for so long. Nothing I do can change what the Gods have given me, and nothing I say can possibly make the heartache we all feel go away. There is so little that I regret from my life that such regrets I do hold are more a soft ache for what could never be than any real longing.
I have often wished to have looked upon my husband's second son, the child he sired with the Murgo woman when he was spying. He thought I did not know, but I had spies of my own and the knowledge of their coupling came to me before the dawn of the next day. Strange as it may seem, I did not mind. I loved my husband too much to deny him a moment's pleasure when I knew I held his heart. Kheldar told me of his brother, the King of the Murgos, but I could so have wished to see him, just once, before I die.
I cannot help but feel fond of those I have not seen, those who feel such a close bond to me. My new daughter has given my son happiness, and I am aware that his pain is not so great now as he speaks with me. I am often surrounded by children, listening to their games, knowing them by smell, touch and sound alone. I am closer to them than I would ever have thought a blind woman could be, knowing each by their own uniqueness.
So I am happy, though that residual ache remains to tug mercilessly at my heart. I could have wished to die with my fellows in the aftermath of the plague, but I know now that was not my fate. I have known joy, sadness, despair, and now happiness once more. I am who I have always been, and content to remain so as life continues around me.
My world is in darkness.
But my heart is light.