Summer's Farewell

[Jennet]

This particular post was written the week of September 10, 1456 (2008) just after the coup that left my beloved and I outside the gates of the Wolves of Sherwood site. I am still not exactly sure what high crime I committed but it must have been something truly heinous like independent thought or something equally abhorent to the current leadership. As I have now been totally banned from that site, I post it here for archival purposes and for the curious.

Summer swung easily from the back of her snow white mare to land lightly on the leaf-strewn ground. She let the hood of her cloak fall back, revealing the face once hidden by the coarse grey material. Unclasping the cloak pin, she folded the garment carefully and laid it over her saddle. She would not be needing it any more. In her hand, she held a scrap of parchment and a pillar candle made of honeyed beeswax and pressed herbs. Striding up the great stone steps, Summer entered the Shrine of Loki and her breath caught in her throat. Though it was clear that someone had been here recently, it was also clear that this hallowed spot had not been tended for quite some time. The candles that had once burned so brightly flickered no more. The shrine was cold and dark and full of ghosts. She pulled a flint from her pouch, struck it quickly, and lit the candle which she placed before the altar with reverence. Sinking down on her knees, the events of the last week all came rushing at her and she saw them then, as her vision swam, the ghosts of the dead, ghosts of the dying, ghosts of those who had simply gone. The tears fell hot and hard, as she pounded on the stone floor with fists of rage.


“Why, Loki, why?!” she screamed, “it didn't have to be this way!”


She saw before her the glorious future so painfully ripped from them all, the campaigns that would never be, the wrongs they could have righted. All gone now, and her eyes begged the ghosts for answers.


“Pride,” they whispered on the wind, “Vanity.”


She knew they were right. She opened her fist and unfolded the scrap of parchment she held, looking at it with sadness. Her mind drifted back to the early hours of the morning when she had walked, dagger in hand, into the room where the manifesto rested in sacred repose. Without hesitation, she had slashed the corner of the parchment that she had kissed with blood-smeared lips weeks before, and cut the square, taking it with her. Summer had made an oath and she had ever been true to the pack, even after they went rabid. She would remain faithful even now.


But tears were useless and begging was in vain. Her heart was broken, but what was done, was well and truly done. Rising on feet steadied by the certainty of her decision, she touched the altar one last time, fingers memorizing every imperfection. Walking to the doorway with heavy steps, she found herself standing there, unwilling to leave, but unable to stay. She glanced over her shoulder and saw her candle, alone in the shrine it was true, but helping to dispel some of the darkness even as she walked away.


She had loved them all in her own way. Loved them enough to leave them. She hoped the ghosts understood.


Gathering her skirts, and stepping outside, she chanced a glance at the sky. The weather had been oppressive for days, heavy clouds thickening the air, refusing to rain, blanketing everything in hopeless gloom. Over the shrine, the weather showed no signs of changing, but far to the north Summer saw a small patch of bright blue sky where a very stubborn and determined sun had burned a hole in the clouds. Her eyes locked on that brilliant plot of blue, full of the sunshine she craved. She hoisted herself back into her saddle and headed out of the forest with a song on her lips. It was going to be a beautiful day after all.