The Book of Rowan

And so for an eon it has been - many of our kind walked the tortured landscape - diseased with our own knowledge and without equal amongst the simple folks of the new kingdoms. Yet even this could not console us, even this would not take from us the yearning for home - a mythical place lost to our beleaguered memory of what should have been and without knowing driving us forward to the pit of our own self destruction. Melancholy are those who know the question - gone are those who furnished the answers to our heated brows and fallen hearts. A great nation passed into antiquity represented here by a rag tag fugitive band.

Bereft now of simple pleasures and falling on deaf ears to remind us the histrionics of our past - we have come to beg at your doors. Pray be kind.  We who knew no humility in time have been taught too much - yet misjudge us not. Whilst slow to anger, preferring the simpler means of confrontation we will take full and complete umbridge to those who would discard us or our kith and kin. We have learned where others did not need to what treachery lies in the hands of love and honor. What valor lies in the hands of honesty?

Had blood passed the line it should, I would have been the Kehmet of the Thalos people. Our fair hair in the darkened world of the past – our almond eyes which shine with an inner light, our slight yet powerful frames hiding the truth of our heritage – have all brought fear forward from those who do not understand. And in all this we are marked.

I have become the iconoclastic patrician of a noble breed – and I stand before you now -

A homeless wretch. Our magic ancient and fallible is no less potent than the gods you call upon are now. For all of this, this is the reason for our decline even within your gentle lands. The elves give us no creed, believing themselves in their arrogance to be the favored of the gods. Humanity walks away from us believing we are damned and who is to blame? And to the lesser races of noble and ignoble descent we once were called the gods
All this has come to pass because I still look for the gates of my home. All this because I still believe and mankind is afraid that we will rise again - our shadow terrible and dark upon the lands as it once was. ~~The fire dies in the eyes before you -golden waves of hair cling about the serious and ethereal face - but my voice were that you were able to hear it would hold you in thrall.

“Fools.” ~~A deep laugh.~~ “I, am Rowan Thane”.

Upon a distant shore I find myself now, the days strange and cold.  Yet it is not a coldness of body that turns my head as always to my home but that of spirit – the heart of a wanderer is a lonely soul and without conscious effort my feet have long ago been set on the path towards what I know not.  Still I trudge the ominous ground between waking and sleep – between your reality and mine and find myself merged and blended with the vagaries of the landscapes.  How do you perceive me? I have often wondered when my indulgences have called to me to consider what my passing will achieve.  For you see I walk the dream paths – the shadows that are home and safety to you hold no such peace for my soul.  I know all too well the truth of what these “safe havens” hold and that is my plight  - to be aware. On one such path I walk now – aware of the faint whispers above my head within my heart the soft doubt the ceaseless urge to know what I truly am.
The path splints before me – a golden treasure following a brook to the left, the other path dark and foreboding and still I have no urge to follow – to see the truth’s that lay hidden there.   Urged on by a soft singing the path wanders through an ancient glade – the brook murmuring quietly in counterpoint to the rise and fall of the song. Another sound accompanied by a harp, I find myself running desperate now to find the source.  To find the peace and embrace it to my ravaged soul, the song so familiar I can see my home in my mind. I can feel the warmth of the sun bracing my chilled form through the sun dappled forest the song echoing the crescendo of my bursting heart.

 She looks to me – soft silk against alabaster – the golden crown that is her hair cascades against the white linen of her dress and she smiles – shapely lips upturned against my intrusion and still she sings her eyes following the path of her hands across the strings – and I am transfixed.  Such beauty in the ancient worlds I would have thought not possible – such song to cause even me to believe in the fantasy of home.  Cautious steps I am unsure of taking lest I frighten her away, then she turns her eyes to consider me and I am drawn into the dark deep green – the mists of time whirl and writhe with a life of their own behind her eyes and a gentle mocking smile and peace are my last conscious thoughts – and I have no doubt that again I have dreamed.
 
 

“Thalos!” the scream torn from my lips before conscious thought returned through the sleep haze.  Propelled from the bed I find myself naked before my window – shivering slightly in the winter night.  Cold starlight burn’s brightly and the moon reaching zenith ward cast pale glowing shadows on the mists that wander across my lawn.

I am still frightened by the sound of my voice – my heart beating rapidly and my lungs like some diver lost at sea, burn for air.  “God I’m shaking” – my hands pale and thin are before my eyes again trying to remove the sights I have seen – trying desperately to remember – and it was always the same. The dream half remembered half forgotten.

Aware even of the sound my bare feet make against the plush carpet, the sound of my robe, all terrifyingly loud in the night.

“Rowan you’re a fool” my own condemnations hissing in my ear – every night for the last month the dream would come, everynight the path would lure me into the woods, and show me something – the what of which I have told others I have never remembered, oh but I do all too well – and the loss of innocence itself a death beyond my ability to cope with dissuades me from disclosing all the details.

Looking upon the dark mahogany walls, the intricately carved balustrade and the high ornate ceilings with the hidden lights glowing softly – I still cannot comprehend what is happening, desperate for comfort of any type my hands are caught up in the velvet robe.  The tactile sensation of being able to touch and to feel keeps me grounded in this world.

“Rowan?”  Such is my preoccupation this night that I am startled by her soft voice. Her pretty face set behind silver rimmed glasses – the type favored by University students in the late 70’s and again all the rage in the 90’s.  A bundle of leather-bound tomes on the table behind her and a laptop glowing on the floor. My gratitude for her presence is beyond anything I can even measure.

“Yeah.” I know my smile is weak and she will see through it, how many nights had she been working – how many times had she been there to take the brunt of my isolation.  Incapable of coherent thought I lead her by the hand back into the library – her arm snaking about my waist . “Your working too hard again Melissa.” My mind searching for a safe topic. And her smile is dazzling –familiar.

“Same dream?” she enquires softly as she pours me a cup of coffee from the pot on the table.  The hot bitter liquid spilling over my lips revives me somewhat as I settle on the couch – the fire having grown cold in the hearth as I look at her.  Baggy jeans, sweat shirt and long raven hair pulled back into an unflattering pony tail.  She sits cross legged on the floor of my home.

I nod – “yeah.” And then my eyes fall on the books she has chosen.  “I never thought you much interested in genealogy Lissa…..”

She laughs. “Said the professor to the student – your incorrigible Rowan!” There the same light in her eyes – my god I am dreaming again.

“tut – tut little one. Seriously I would not have thought that the history of this house would be such cause for interest for you though.”

“all history especially about this house as you call it Ro are of interest to me – especially if I am to join willingly.”

“I would never force you Lissa – you know that.”

“Yeah I know but still I want to know what it is I am getting myself into here.  Such a dark past sweetling – such dark heritage and such light.  I am surprised you didn’t show me these before.”

“Such fear those books have held for so many Lissa –“ she waves her hand at me dismissively.

“I do  not frighten easily –tall tales of magic and sorcery – you don’t seriously believe them do you?”

How can I tell this beautiful child who has walked all her days in the light of the sun that the darkness is no safe place for her – that such things do exist.  My eyes are drawn to her face and behind those ridiculous glasses I see the intelligence for what it is – and I can do nothing else but tell her the truth.

“Yes Melissa,” using her full name to ad portent to the conversation,”I have cause to believe all the tales told in those old manuscripts.”

“But magic?” she blurts out incredulously – though some deeper understanding creases her brow.  My sigh is audible and she shrinks back.

Dropping the robe about my waist I sit before her semi naked – my hands outstretched – her eyes compelled by the intricate patterns I begin to weave and the light that comes from no natural source that christens them – a faint hum as she looks into my eyes. “Watch my hands Lissa not my eyes – “ and for the first time in many strange days I smile – always at home with the magic.  Rapidly sparks glow and form above my hands – swirling in an etheric mist that defies even the soundest logic – they collide and coalesce and from within the depths a butterfly emerges from the chrysalis of my mind – gossamer wings as delicate as spun glass and beating gently.  The movement sends echoes of a rainbow about the room and she gasps as the creature takes flight and lands on her hands.

“Magic Lissa, believe it .” instantly I am aware of the harsh and tired tone of my voice.  Such innocence does not need me to shatter its illusion and with that in mind the door becomes a safe haven despite my reluctance to leave her this way.

“Very pretty Rowan.” Another voice that sounds in my ear is accompanied with a firm hand on my shoulder and holds more than a hint of irony.  My cousin is never subtle as I shake myself free of his grasp.

“When did you get back?” he smiles and I see the feral hint to his shapely mouth and amusement in his dark green eyes. Definitely a throw back I think to myself – and the thought though errant and insulting gives me cause to laugh directly at him.

“Just in time it seems. Was that wise Rowan?”

Ah! my conscience is back.

“I thought so Tourlain.” Damn the resignation in my voice – I had not meant to sound so tired .

“Then she is a bonded Ravenschild?” he’s leading me towards the kitchen – the slate floors suddenly cold against my bare feet.

“Not yet.” We stop.

“Not yet?” his voice is incredulous, a whisper blown out of proportion by the silence of the household. “You have shown her real magic Rowan – if she leaves…..”

“If she leaves she will be convinced that it was no more than an elaborate parlor trick.”

“Melissa is by far the most intelligent of the brood to come here Rowan – she will not believe in such deceptions so easily.”

“She will believe what I tell her.”

“Such loyalty does not exist with them Rowan.  You know that.”

“You speak of the brood as though they are beneath our contempt – when did you get to be so viscous in your attitude. They are blood.”

“Whose blood Rowan?  Certainly not mine and of that I am sure – yours perhaps?? Maybe the matron spawned more than just you.”

Anger – a dangerous feeling to wash over me. “Damn your arrogance.” My hands on the table are clenched into fists before me – the table is shaking with the force of my anger.  He is unafraid, perhaps that is why I show him such leniency and he to pitches forward to match me stare for stare.

“My arrogance??? You know what I speak of and that is the brood you should be searching for Rowan – not his children!”  His voice is a subtle purr over the anvil of his distaste and it’s catching.  Biting down on the bile that rises in my throat I fight to regain calm – but the danger will not leave me.  I know his words all too well and he, knows mine.
 

“Legion’s children are as much bonded to Ravenschild as we are.  They have a right”

 
“So do Jarrod and Averil – but I do not see you searching for them.” He sits back – watching me – daring me to reply, to fight with him.
 

“Tourlain” my words are softer than I anticipated they could be – “we have been through all of this time and again.  Only in one text have their names been mentioned, and their father – fleeting references to An’amandarb.  They lead nowhere cousin and I have exhausted all options.”

“Have you?” he is distracted by some other want as he turns his eyes on me , perhaps I imagine the concern I see there for the tone remains ruthless.  “If you have read your lessons well dear cousin – it would be difficult for you to forget that because of Redlan’s deception and treachery our Matron is damned to darkness and so began this accursed war.”

“I forget nothing Tourlain, as well you know.”  He winces at the memories my tone invokes of his own damnation and at once I am sorry for my actions.

“You are the Kehmet of the Thalos people Rowan – our people,” his voice softens as he intones the words, comforting himself with them as though they were the very mantra of his existence, “Lord of the House Ravenschild, Protector of the Blood, master of my heart ~” sadness and a soft light from his eyes. “My loyalty is not in question – and never shall be.”

I am compelled forward by his words as my hand seeks his shoulder. “Neither is mine Tourlain.” He shudders at the physical contact as I send him the peace I have kept from him for too long.  My anger over actions and words, past and present abates with darkness and my forgiveness finally given ascent.  His face is enraptured.

“Rowan, forgive a fool ~ but she is using you.   You wander these ancient halls each night ~ you even doubt yourself and I am forced to ask because I love you – How long can our mighty ruler content himself with parlor tricks?”

His eyes remain closed, is he afraid of what he will see in mine? Or is this fear mine and mine alone to bare? Reluctantly I break the contact with him and he sighs audibly.

“I too grow weary of the charade.  Silfryn does not use me so much as she haunts me Tourlain.” My cousin frown’s as hearing the oft maligned name spoken softly from my lips.

Sun has replaced moon and the charade continues.

“Our time…” still my voice echoes in the stillness of the dawn, “is closer than you might expect.”
 

To be continued.