I don't own Song of the Lioness
Please understand that I would update this story every day if it was possible. However I have been dealing with school and a Math class that is for kids two years older then me. Not to mention homework and catch-up work from something like 35 sick days, I know, I'm special. I also managed to set the school record for number of pages read earning over 1000 points. I also play Lacrosse, my team is the best in the state, and ride horses. Now that it had gotten warmer I have started swimming every day if I can as well. I love fanfiction but my life away from the computer must come first. However, school is out and Lacrosse is over and between my work for school and summer sports there should be more updates. But a warning, there will be gaps, I am traveling over the summer and for some reason, almost all of the places I am going are rural so I won't be able to update.
Now I have no intention to withhold updates or beg for reviews but this story is one I am not sure about and I would like to know who is reading it.
Beat! beat! drums!-Blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows-through doors-burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation;
Into the school where the scholar is studying;
Leave not the bridegroom quiet-no happiness must he have now with
his bride;
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, plowing his field or gathering his
grain;
So fierce you whirr and pound, you drums-so shrill you bugles blow.
Beat! beat! drums!-Blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities-over the rumble of wheels in the streets:
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? No sleepers
must sleep in those beds;
No bargainers' bargains by day-no brokers or speculators-Would they
continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the
judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums-you bugles wilder blow.
Beat! beat! drums!-BlowIn ! bugles! blow!
Make no parley-stop for no expostulation;
Mind not the timid-mind not the weeper or prayer;
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man;
Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties;
Make even the trestles to shake the dead, where they lie awaiting the
hearses,
So strong you thump, O terrible drums-so loud you bugles blow.
-Walt Whitman
Years she had spent training no preparing herself for this moment. The moment when she was thrust into the fray of battle. The moment when the last of her childhood and innocents was stripped from her. The moment she was thrown into the gore and death of war, that she really became a man, or in her case woman. The moment when her innocents was replaced with guilt and sorrow.
Yet nothing could prepare her for the moment when blood spattered across her face. Or the moment when she felt the blade she was wielding bit through flesh and bone. Severing the last strands of someone's life, of her humanity.
And yet, in that moment, there was no thinking, only doing. Doing what needed to be done, to keep her alive another day. That instinct, one that had been passed down from the Gods, that need to stay alive to see the sun another day. In that moment, that instinct took over, guiding her hand and her sword until she stood alone in a field of flesh and blood.
A hand gently rested itself on her back as she wretched, once, twice. Spilling the contents of her stomach among the corps. She blushed at the moment of weakness as her knight-master comforted her.
"You did well, and don't worry, I passed out after my first battle."
"I shouldn't have been so weak."
"It is basic humanity to feel sick. And I bet that the ones who escaped will be telling stories of a miniature devil in the center of the fray."
The comforting voice of her cousin broke through Juliana's conscious as her pulled her shaking form into his chest.
"You did excellently, they retreated, and the king wants us back in The Palace before snowfall. They have been pushed back to the islands because they lost so many men and they need supplies. They won't be able to cross the sea again until spring, after the ice melts and the storm season ends."
"We're going home?"
Her small voice managed to break through her tears.
"Home," he echoed. "I believe you have friends who want to see Julian."
With a long ride through the kingdom and a large dose of convincing from Patrick, Juliana came to terms with what she had done and was back to herself when they rode into the stable yard and were confronted with a large group of squires who bombarded her with questions.
"Hey, you're a big hero now, still going to hang out with us losers?"
"I heard you fought better then most of the knights there."
"What happened?"
"Can you tell us about it?"
"How many men did you kill?"
The insensitive question from George cut through the muddle of words spilling out of her friends mouths and cut into her like a blade. Like her blade had cut through all of those men.
She curled herself up and began to sob, the memories of the battle rushing back into her mind.
Briefly her mind resisted everyone turning to yell at the boy, everyone except one person...
Alan drew her into a hug, murmuring in her ear telling her that everything would be okay and that everyone here had killed someone. Telling her that she did it to protect her country and the people of her country.
Somehow, the words came together in her guilt racked brain and calmed her. Pulling her out of her shell and reminding her what Patrick had been telling her the whole trip. That it was okay, that everything would be okay, that she did the right thing.
And there, in that moment, she though of all the people who would have received the punishment of their failure had those men broken through their line. How, yes, she had killed men but how, in doing so, she had protected so many others.
And in that moment, something began to grow inside of her, a feeling, a need, a love. One that would not come to show itself for years to come.
In closing I am going to share this poem with you...
To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you're wrong, admit it;
Whenever you're right, shut up.
-Ogden Nash
