Chapter 1
Oh fie this writers block! the novelist thought angrily as she threw the quill across the room and added the ruined parchment to the growing stack of balls by her feet. "I just don't know what to write anymore!"
The author excelled, or used to anyway, at writing the flirtatious novels that women of the court favored, with out male approval of course. Her novels always had drama, and mystery, and excitement, and, yes, why not be blunt, raunchy sex. Her novels were often the only bright spots in otherwise dull, and dreary lives. Most of her novels were run of the mill, a penny a dozen, made from outlines that were absurdly lacking plot. Yet she remained, if not wealthy, the fairly well off. But now that she wanted to write an actual book, a historical fiction actually, fit for all audiences, all her grand ideas went right out the window.
Originally she had planned to pen the story of Idra, the rouge princess but after a fire in the inn where she was staying, her outline, and thus her entire story, went up in flames. So, what was a girl to do? A girl with writers block and a girl who desperately needed funds? Well... Keep trying I guess. Or maybe I'll go for a walk to clear my head. So gathering her things, namely her purse and a walking stick, the girl wondered down the back stairs of the inn and set a brisk pace towards her favorite place, a cemetery of all places, near the Great Houses of Haven.
Slowly pulling open the rusted gate slowly and glanced around superstitiously. Oh stop being so silly, there's no need, I'm allowed in here after all! Its public property. But even as she thought that, she looked around again, just in case someone should notice her. She had the gate open just enough to ease through it, her frame was fairly small, though slightly... as a man she once knew said, "chunky". She personally preferred thinking of herself as "generous" or "lush" or "curvy", but in moments of self weakness, and pity the man's cruel words would come back and haunt her. And with a vengeance they would Haunt. So, in other words, she was short and weighed more then thought proper. Society be damned. Not like I don't try to loose weight, it just doesn't help any. And so it was true. She just couldn't.
She stood on the other side of the gate and carefully latched it close again. She looked around the cemetery and grabbed a bouquet put on a grave stone to her right As if the dead care. She wasn't a non-believer per se, she just didn't know what she believed. She took bits and pieces from various religions and combined them to form something she liked. The bouquet gave her some credibility incase anyone were to show up and ask what she was doing. She could always say "Oh, pardon me, I was just wandering a bit before visiting my fathers grave" in which the stranger would reply with a predictable "Ah, that's all right, I'm sorry for your loss, how long ago did you lose him". In which she would look at the interloper, tilt her head and say "long enough. the pain is still there, but time is distancing it" And they would nod a farewell and go about their business leaving her to do as she please. All together, this suited her just fine.
But alas, no one else was in the cemetery, and after wandering for a good long while she sat down upon a beautifully carved bench and thought once again of her writing. I need to at least start a novel by the end of the month. I need the advance. but as she racked her brain for ideas, none were forthcoming. It seemed she was destined to not write another word. She slowly sighed and let her mind wander, once again attempting some of the relaxation exercises the monks tried, and failed, to teach her. But as always, just as she was starting to relax, something disturbed her. Sometimes it was a simple as the light shifting. This time it was someone discretely crying the next row over. She sat up and slowly stood before creeping toward the sobs. ...and the heroin crouches on hands and knees after hiking up her skirts and approaches the voice. Her heart breaks in too as she see's it is Emilie. Ah, poor Emile, to loose his love so soon, they had only a month together. She longed to wrap her arms around him and cradle him and let him sob himself out. But no, the sobs weren't from a hansom man from one of her books, they were from a young boy, sitting against a tombstone with his knees drawn up to his chin. Her heart reached towards the boy anyway, but she reframed. How could she impose on his sorrow?
So she stood there, a silent witness to the boys pain, wondering what could have distressed him so. She doubted it was a death, the grave he was by was too old, and besides, he looked as out of place as she did. This was the resting place of the rich, not the middle class like her and the boy. She studied the boy from afar, he was an odd character, dressed in a dingie white, with unkempt hair, but despite the tear streaks, and the dirt on his hands and face, he had the most startling green eyes. The boy's sobs finally slowed and he became aware of his surroundings once again. He leaned his head back against the tombstone and quietly announced "Ow". She jumped a bit at the sound because his voice was deeper then she expected. It was a deep and rich sound that seemed to come from his chest, not his throat. He again looked up and said "Who ever is out there, please, come nearer. I could use some company, and its kind of odd with you standing there where I can't see you. Please?" His voice was so pleading, that what could she do but obliged?
Slowly she stepped into the boys sight as the boy rose, and she realized with a start that he must be at least 17, if not 18 or 19. She was flabbergasted. Back in her home town no man that old would have wept for fear of being called fey. Aye, but remember what those bastards did on a regular basis. She quickly suppressed the memories of her past life. The boy grimaced and softly spoke "Please, don't think so loud. It hurts my head."
Shocked her eyes opened wide, "You can hear me?". Her voice sounded fairly panicked but she couldn't help it. It just scared her out of her wits that someone could hear her thoughts.
"Yes, but its not because I want to. Its not even really your fault, I should have kept my shields up, but I was so depressed..." he stood and cast about for somewhere to look, anywhere but at her. She didn't know why. The boy finally looked up at her after a few minutes and bluntly said "Who are you?"
Startled she answered, not with her pen name, but with her real name, something she rarely gave out. "Tamara of Sweet River Spring." As she realized that she had given her real name she said "But everyone just calls me Celly."
"Why Celly? Why not Ta-mar-a?" He tilted his head aside, in a questioning way and gazed at her with eyes that made her flinch and tell the truth. But just because she told the truth, didn't mean she couldn't say it with style-or at least sarcasim.
"Its not Ta-mar-a. Its Tam-a-ra. And that's why I don't go by it, I hate people butchering my name, and Celly is just easier to say. Celly was my grandmothers name." The boy just kept looking at her, and she slowly shifted from side to side wondering what she should do. Finally he responded.
"You look more like a Tamara then a Celly. Celly just doesn't seem to fit you." She started again, and looked at him more carefully Defiantly not a boy. Maybe physically, but not in mind. Once again he must have heard her thoughts for he said "I'm 20. But I feel like I'm 50." there was an awkward pause before he picked up the non-exisistent thread of conversation "My name is Zailander. But I go by Zai."
"Ah.. Hi? Um. Zai, do you mind if I ask why you were crying?" Tamara finally moved closer to the boy and fished a handkerchief out of her back pocket of her breeches. She handed the piece of linen to him, and he unsuccessfully tried to scrub away the traces of his tears.
"Well, there's not much to tell. Um, as you can see, I'm a Herald, and I just got back from my internship circuit. And, to make a long story short, my mentor died to my negliance." Her heart wanted to reach out to the poor boy no, he's older then that, he is defiantly a man, but instead she uttered the one phrase she hated most. "I'm sorry."
Zai shrugged as if it didn't matter, but she could tell that it did. She felt like she had failed some sort of unspoken test, a test that neither knew existed until she failed it. Though, maybe there was no way to pass it? What can you tell someone who is grieving to make them feel better? As she knew, nothing really helped. Only time helped, and time didn't lessen the pain, it just made it more distant. Ah well, such is life. Zai turned a moment later and reached down to gather his belongings. He straightened and clasped his sword belt around his hips and adjusted it to his liking, and then he swung his cloak over his shoulders.
He looked up at her and gave a halfhearted smile, one of those that would easily make most girl's hearts melt. She half smiled right back. He approached her and carefully gave her a hug. She wondered at the why of things before he broke the contact and stepped back. He looked down upon her, for he was several inches taller and said "If you ever want to talk about what's bothering you just go to the palace gate and ask for Herald Zai." He kissed her forehead and strode off.
That was one of the odder moments in my odd life. She watched as Zai disappeared from view, and for a moment she let herself mourn him and his brief passage through her life, followed by his walking away. Repeating her personal maxim, Tamara sighed Ah, such is life.
