Marielle Beauchene

Marielle couldn’t help but give another small, inward sigh of relief that she and Aneirin were still together. She had been dreading this morning. Next to her, Aneirin was smiling at their new teammates and teacher as if this were perfectly natural, but she kept her fingers close to where his white tabard trailed in the grass, shining bright.
She remembered him out in a rainstorm when they were both six years old, laughing when the lightning came, and though she’d wanted to go inside he made her see a part of his delight. In the backyard on his tenth birthday, when both of their extended families had gathered. That year the apple trees had been overflowing. She remembered the pyramid of presents stacked back in the cool, dim living room, while outside aunts and uncles and cousins crowded around him, a mass of heads and noise, but through them all she was still able to see a corner of Aneirin’s smile, a ray of his light, and that was enough.
She remembered him two months ago when his wink, and a ripple of the sunlight around her, gave her the win in her last sparring test of Rank 1.  She did not remember the expression of the girl she had been matched against. And there was a twinge of guilt.
“But what does it matter, Marielle?” he’d asked later, smiling and shaking his head. “You’re better than her anyway.”
And Marielle had subsided, even though she didn’t believe him. Not always. But to believe in anyone, or anything, the way she believed in Aneirin, was incomprehensible to Marielle.
As their families always said, they were sun and moon to one another.


Hildr Ostergaard

When Hildr’s older cousin had earned his Rank 3 badge, he’d patted her on the head and told her that either one day she would discover her true calling in battle, or she’d give up and go back to the farm.

In retrospect, she supposed that he was being condescending. But Hildr was not prone to resentment. And now that she was sitting next to Umi Kiritaeke, who used four-syllable words that Hildr had never heard before, who scooped up a pond merely by shifting the weight of her dainty body, and who drank cold tea with her eyes half-shut as she rested in the shade, her cousin’s motivations couldn’t have mattered less.

Moulded like a doll, yet calm and confident. Denied the constitution of a warrior, yet awe-inspiring.

Firstly, she had to find a way to speak to Umi Kiritaeke.

And secondly, Hildr had to become strong enough to stand at her back, always.

At the Wayside

I walked to where the river ran

On those spring days in ages past

When the oak trees were but saplings

And below, this road was but a path

Winding to the place where we

Would by chance so often meet

Beside the river, upon the hill

Where all was limned in peace.

We two wanderers, Niphophar,

Laid down fare, laid down arms

Breaking fast as if long years

Had left us as companions are

Continue reading “At the Wayside”


Desert Journey by LoopyWanderer

Do not be deceived; this world is nothing more

Than a desert

Once, great beings walked here

Long before we were born

Now, even the green places must be counted dry

Shifting, and empty

For They were as water

And we live without memory of Rain

Elizabeth Cook, 2015

Image created by LoopyWanderer

It’s a Trap

It seems that war combined with matchmaking is a winning strategy in turn-based strategy games.

Strange? But the scores of hours that I’ve spent on Fire Emblem in the past month, and the game’s extremely vibrant shipping communities (“shipping” being the practice or pastime of insisting that two particular characters belong together romantically), speak for themselves. Making couples becomes a real obsession!

Now I am wondering why I never imagined a game like this before. Story, strategy, and intricate character design make a veritable cauldron for interpersonal drama! Let’s make some marriages before the next fight!

Plus its great to imagine all the guys who play this game getting swoony or worked up over their favourite couples. Me? I wish that they had the option for same-sex couples, because, man, those Libra x Virion support conversations… Too perfect.

(Virion is a dandy who flirts with every female he meets and Libra is a cleric who looks remarkably female – more than one character comments on his lovely skin. So when Virion first meets Libra and mistakes him for an eminently desirable woman… I could go on at length, but you can probably see where this is headed.)

The Night Hag’s Poem


Spin and shatter and sweep the clay

With changing clouds and winding days

No work of human hand withstands

Time’s oft-short allotted span

So clay unto earth, earth unto dust

Towers to crumble and ploughs to rust

‘Till wilds run where they once did creep

Through wood and marsh, and scarlet deeps

With changing clouds and winding nights

Raze their fields and drown their lights

Grind clay unto earth, earth unto dust

Towers to fall and swords to rust

Follow, and hasten the workings of time

Hear the fellhorns and heed the signs

Waste the walls of their dead knight

And run them down with claw and blight

No work of human hand withstands

Time’s oft-short allotted span

But know you he who defies time?

Follow, follow, the Wizard of Nine.


Elizabeth Cook, 2015

Afterdays – 4

Continued from Afterdays -3

But far as Don ranged, and doubled back, and took to the water, and came around again, eventually he gained…

For Willa had stopped moving. Many, many seasons had passed without Don’s heeding them. The girl who was no longer a girl had never seen any sign of pursuit, and might have settled sooner, had she been able to find a suitable place which deemed a female of her temperament suitable, however reluctantly.

Yet at length, Willa settled. The spear had been lost somewhere between the last mountain range and the lake of the bearded fish, and Willa had been aged not only by time but by her travels, so that when Don stalked into the seaside village she had borne a child or two, and thickened, and had gotten her hands thoroughly roughened to the peculiar ways of ocean fishing. She no longer looked deer-tail white from a distance. Don might not have known her at first glance were it not for the narrowing of her eyes and the throbbing of his crooked nose.

They stared at one another for a moment, and the village got very quiet. Willa broke and ran.

For his part, Don was sorely disappointed by the changes wrought upon Willa. But this resolved a dilemma which had returned time and again during his marching. He had been of two minds about what to do with her, and what to do in what order, and despite losing the long-anticipated moment of decision, Don had to admit that things were being wrapped up very tidily.

So the hunter went after the woman, scrambling up the sea cliffs, which were thickly sown with jungle all the way to their very edges, dark branches stretching outward over the water. Twilight played the trick of their shadows doing more fleeing and more chasing than their legs, and turned the gulls’ nests ruddy. The birds rose in a deafening swarm as Willa and Don climbed past, Willa still with some measure of her lead, and the gusts from their wings threatened almost to fling her from the rocky face.

It was not quite fair to reproach Willa for running along the jungle’s edge when she reached the top of the cliff, but he did not anyway. She would have done better to stay on the cliff or to go straight into the jungle, thought Don derisively, who came up and over the cliff, already running. There was so little brush in his path that he could run nearly at full tilt.

This poor judgement illustrated that Willa had somehow survived despite knowing nothing. Don herded her onto a promontory with ease and stood there admiring the neatness of the box he’d made. Twisting trunks and vines hanging thicker than his leg towered behind him, a titanic darkness lurking, while to the west, in one hemisphere over the cliffs and the water, twilight was turning to sunset in sweeping flares of defiance. The changing of sun for moon burned the skies in colours never seen in the days when there had been skyscrapers, and lit the sea from molten gold at one curving rim to silver-flecked ebony at the other.

“You asshole, if I was a man – ”

Don didn’t see any point in answering that when he was busy thinking, and running one hand over the spearblades on his back as he decided which one to use.

“Christ! What’s a hunter like you, when you got nothing better to do than to follow me?”

Loud and bitter, but only to her own ears, and Willa could tell that he wasn’t listening, and she was all the angrier because this made it harder for her not to shake and cry.

Don considered, and no longer saw a deer in her at all. That was when he decided against the spears entirely and jumped in, into a tangle of flailing arms and shrieks and a bit of shouting, which was probably his own. As a last resort, Willa’s teeth snapped – and they almost caught, so Don grunted and knocked her right on the chin.

Willa reeled back, forgetting to flail. There were only a few feet between them, their shadows stretching long so that they might have been born of a people who were taller than the herons and the wolves, a giant race which might have moved the world rather than moved with it. She looked at him for a moment, and they both knew when the sense of being irrevocably trapped sank in, when her mouth went dry and her lips curled back.

Don took a step forward, enjoying the crunch of the rocks under his feet. Her snarl was nothing to bother him, but unreasonably she still made the expression. Willa took a step back.

He took another step, he reached. And then Willa upturned his notion of how things would go, for she darted straight backward into thin air, without an animal’s sense which would have told her that nothing was there.

Her snarl vanished and the pure horror that replaced it was, offensively, not a thing that was concerned with Don at all. Her horror was all for herself. Then she vanished.

Don sat on the cliff between jungle and sea disconsolately, honing his spears, for some time. Even the memory of the dying puma – the thrust of his spear fist-deep into its eye, reducing the yellow flicker of hatred into a socket – was of no use to him. And until the sounds of wide, leathery wings crept into the darkening sky, he, whose head would not reach the shoulder of one of the gargantuan horses, sat there like some pensive lord of the forest.

There must be something else, in a place so vast as this great earth, which would offer another chase like that one.

Afterdays – 3

Continued from Afterdays – 2

Something smashed the spot where Don’s nose had been, and the stars rocketed up and down in a bewildering torrent.


It was Willa’s misfortune that Don was not eaten that night, where he was laid out cold by the riverside. There was no reason to think that he would not be eaten, but in its reasonless way the world went on, so that Don was untouched when only a few miles down the river a beaver had been torn open on the bank, the teeth that might have crushed a man’s head hanging open quite fruitlessly.

He sat up, and someone who had been peeking from among the huts screeched. This irritated his head. He did not bother putting a hand to his nose, for he knew what would be there. He simply reached over to his spears and hurled one in the direction of the offending noise. Which stopped, sensibly. Don stared at his spears with his vision wobbling slightly and decided that aside from the one which he had just thrown there was a spear missing.

It was Willa’s second misfortune that the people of her cluster of huts were presentient. Or they must have been, for they came at Don’s bellowing and tended to him, although he was weak and a jab of the oldest man’s harpoon would have killed him. They did this although he was not to be feared presently, because they were thinking only of he would soon be fearful. Foreseeing Don’s rage the people sought to propitiate it before it occurred. Hence did another self-fulfilling prophecy come to pass, a phenomenon which had survived the fall of civilization, and which would persist until the end of mankind.

When Willa saw that Don was not dead, her satisfaction with the morning was ruined; and when she saw her fellows’ intentions, her satisfaction in general was ruined. She took the spear which she had stolen and cut all the boats free while her neighbours crowded the hunter, even her father, tongue-tied and fearfully seeking to distance himself from Willa’s misdeed.

So Willa cut the boats free and jumped into the last one, a canoe far too large for one person, and for the moment she left herself to the river, which she now trusted more than the scatter of houses.

It did not take Don very long to see what had happened. It did not take Don very long to decide what he would do.

“How quickly,” he demanded of the oldest man, “can you make a boat?”

Don left on a raft, for a boat would have taken too long. While the cowering people of the huts built it for him, he told his stories and spent some time expounding upon how their way of life left was liable to make them effeminate, and how they should leave their uncertain peace for the life of hunter, which was the only proper way to live. The people piled the raft with food and gave him a strong rope, so that he would go in good humour, and never come back. Willa’s father gave him the blanket that Willa had forgotten on her pallet, broad-mindedly disregarding the way his jaw had been cracked in penance by the blanket’s recipient.

The raft proved great fun until it smashed, and Don had a day and a half of coursing downriver, which widened and slowed only by the most stubborn increments, as though it resented being tempered. He hollered more loudly than the crash of the current on the rock and swung his pole around brazenly.

When the raft smashed it was on a shallow rock, which Don had been too busy yelling to see, and then he thoroughly cursed the raft, and the pole, and the people who had made these things. He dragged his newfound wealth from the raft and sunned himself dry on the shore, for it was midday.

He entertained pleasant thoughts of going back to Willa’s village and berating its inhabitants, all of whom he stood at least a head above. Then Don made a pack out of the blanket and set a serious pace. He felt that his sojourn had come to its proper conclusion, and now he marched rapidly down the riverbank, for Willa must have been carried this way, and there had been no signs of disembarkment on either bank; Don thought thus, and so thoughts of the village were supplanted by thoughts of the girl, and her deer-tail arms, and his fist at her temple.

Don had marched in this manner countless times before. There was little to say of his finding the trail, and of following it, that he had not accomplished in some variation before, and that had been explained much to his own satisfaction in the stories that he’d shared.

But somewhere between the dell of the five-horned questing beast and the eerie of the boar-eagles, somewhere between the hills of the wild dogs’ and the haunts of the black monkeys, looming and glitter-eyed, their intelligence a menace, somewhere along Don’s march the manner of his marching changed. He did not know it, but he pressed onward with less sleep than ever before, hale and keen. He sought villages more often, and commandeered countless watercraft, for he realized that the traces of Willa were often to be picked up there, whenever the trail had petered out. The people were usually near in subservience to those of Willa’s village whenever one such as Don appeared, and the hunter laughed at their effeminate ways, they who scarcely killed for themselves, and he took what they offered for his journey and demanded more. The darkest dark of the deer’s pelt grew stronger in the image of Willa which he retained, the downy white of the tail flashed brighter, and Don made haste. He slipped past another monstrous questing beast with his teeth shown in a grin, his arm hooking around one of the beast’s eggs as he went.

If their routes were traced and viewed from an aerial perspective, something which was once a trivial matter, the trails of Willa and Don would differ astronomically on a human scale, and would be two near-twin squiggles on an earthly scale. But far as Don ranged, and doubled back, and took to the water, and came around again, eventually he gained.

To be Continued

Elizabeth Cook 2014

The Scent of the Rose

Drifting on the wildborne

The scent of the rose, that calls me

I remember – it is a lovely day to be lonely

Going as I, going, must

Imagine flowers in your eyes

And crowns in your sleep

But for the scent of the rose, that calls me

I would be tumbling in sunshowers

Breathing wheat-warm breath

But drifting on the wildborne

I remember – it is a lovely day to be lonely

Elizabeth Cook, 2015

Image from Annie’s Garden