The little prince of the bakehouse

.oOo.

At Thalion Castle...

The petty boy sneaks stealthily between flour sacks, oil jars and saltings barrels, struggling under the weight of his loot. Under the arches of red brick, that exhale fresh yeast fragrance, the baker removes steaming loaves from the oven and places them in large baskets. While the stout woman shoves again heavy white balls, the boy approaches the stove and plays with firebrands, mimicking fabulous spells.

- "I saw you, Ostomir! Do not play near the stove! The other time did not tell you enough?" The matron says quietly, continuing her work with detachment.

Her son believes her somehow a fairy. The tender maid, down from the hills of Dunland, knows secret rituals - beer never gets spoiled and golden loaves gather between her soft expert hands. The storm is her friend and she has got eyes in her back!

Annoyed, the boy gingerly sits down, putting his huge ledger open on the oaken table, stained with wheat flour. The furnaces glow in the dark bakery, animating the illuminations of the ancient tome, with an ardent epic life.

- "Where did you take this book again? You know you must not disturb the visitors! "

The woman's quiet voice startles the child as she's filling the oven, wielding her long pallet effortlessly with a slow and weary gesture. The petty blond scowls at her, with an adorable guilty look of his:

- "I took the wizard's ledger in the library! This is the one we read with my dad! Would you read it to me, pleeease? "

Despite this charming and imploring grimace, the pale eyes of the baker fog up with sadness. The shovel joins the wall with a tired and resigned gesture

- "I cannot read, my little prince! But still I shall tell you a story... "

From the glossy buffet, a pitcher of milk and a golden brioche emerge, just like magic. The mother recites a story, embroidered a thousand times over the illuminations. The glory of the King, his wild romantic passion, his terrible forbidden love take shape under the eyes of little Ostomir, until this brief and wondrous era of felicity when, withdrawn into a hunting lodge, she gave birth to her little prince...

This is not the story of the wizards' grimoire, Ostomir knows that. But this is the story of his mom and his dad, they alone will ever know. For the sweet mother lacks the strength to reveal its sad end... Ostomir comforts his mother and scolds:

- "When I grow up, I shall be a magician. And then beware, you visitors..."

The lonely wench tenderly runs her hand through the diaphanous hair of her son:

- "Now I want you to put this book back. You must promise me not to meddle with visitors!

- You know, usually they do not even pay attention to me...

- We are no longer anything for them, just shadows that populate their kitchens! Never give them the opportunity to hurt you!"

Ostomir agrees, to please his mother. But how could he leave the books, blazing witness of his dear father's glory, at the hands of these ignorant visitors who usurp his castle?

.oOo.

In the attic of the sign of the Drunken Goose...

A pale and slender girl is lying on a bale of wheat, under the eaves, the cat in her lap. Leaning on her skinny ribs, a large leather book spreads under her hungry gaze. Firmly clutching the venerable tome, she flies from line to line, picking a gallant pirouette here, there a dazzling image.

Under the window, avaricious with light, the girl of a hunting haggard breath, corner mouth, the rebellious lock which bars her ardent face, enlightened by reading. Diving in the lay of Eärendil and Elwing, she quenches her heroic thirst with limpid verses of Elven stanzas.

- "Give me back my book!"

She is immersed in a critical page. Her steel spirit parries, alongside her hero, the treacherous blows of the northern islands' Hydra. You can imagine this is not the time to drop the story.

- "Give me back my book!"

An irritated eyebrow rises above the vellum. The faded eye deshirred and grows afraid. The cat wakes up, bristles its coat and flees spitting. The ledger swiftly lowers.

Bare feet in the attic's flour, the four-years-old toddler weighs the girl. His big eyes plead with the children's seriousness and an impatient pout. His chubby little hand lifts his thumb to his mouth along with a wrinkled doll, rag magician but loyal companion.

The upset girl winces and starts dryly, with her fierce teenager voice:

- "You scared me! But who are you? I'll give you stories!"

Stunned by the violence of the visitor, the little boy backs end flees, his lips trembling.

It's always like that. The visitors have invaded his life. Everywhere these upstarts track him with their vindictiveness. They haunt his castle where life used to be so good.

.oOo.

In the great hall of the Drunken Goose...

- "Well, Eliahel, where are you running to like that? Looks like you saw a huge rat!"

Under the venerable arches of red sandstone, the trembling girl stands as white as a moon of Samhain. Yet in the presence of solid Finran, she calms down a bit:

- "That was no rat! It was a boy!"

The blond giant tries to make her smile:

- "All right, you don't like him. But is he worth rushing down the stairs from the attic? Is he so ugly?

- No, you don't understand!"

Leaving the red wood counter, the scholar Gigolet comes by, alerted by the noisy gesticulations of his protégée.

- "He appeared just like that, out of nowhere. He wanted the book of Eärendil. And when I cried, he was gone!"

Intrigued, Gigolet asks:

- "What is the likeness of this stripling?

- A tiny blond boy. He was sucking his thumb. He was pale. And then there were lots of holes in his singed clothes! When I shouted, he disappeared! "

Finran and Gigolet look at each other. Before the contorted face of the old scribe, Finran, with a bullying air, turns to Eliahel, clicks his sword in its sheath, and launches gruffly:

- "Come on, my little chick! Your reading obviously blurred your sight... It was certainly Eothor's youngest! So take these pancakes and bring them to your brothers and sisters!"

The girl no longer trembles, or maybe with indignation:

- "Then how come he did not leave any trace on the flour in the attic?", She grumbles, seizing the plate.

Now Eliahel is sent outdoors, under the healthy sun rays, Gigolet sits down, his face worn. Before the hesitating look of the public writer, once will not hurt, his friend the landlord pays him a pear brandy. With reluctance and weighed words, the altered scribe indulges in his tale:

- "More often than you would believe, we took a glimpse at a youngster wandering through the aisle of our granary aturned into eschole1. Happens precious parchment disappears for a few moons - still ancient tales of elven magic, such enchantments of Doriath, the charms of Nargothrond or the wonders of Gondolin.

We searched through many tomes. The castle of Thalion burned partly in the year one thousand four hundred and nine of ours age, while the last ruler of Cardolan, King Ostoher, had perished with his ost and offspring. We could recollect the wall housing the ovens and bakery, was consumed at dusk, by an accident of a wench's child mimicking a fire mage.

This tragedy passed almost unnoticed in the chronicles of those malevolent hours, but from that time it is now and then reported a childish specter haunting the remnants of ours venerable mansion, maintained in the illusion that the people living there are only passing visitors, vile usurpers the King will chase on his return."

.oOo.

NOTES

1 …granary turned into school.