Wed, 23 Aug 1995 20:22:49 -0700

Okay, here's my first try at Susan's challenge (and how many months ago did
she challenge us? Well, i do tend to be tardy to things like *ahem* class,
sugar kicks in a half a day later than it should, Mom tells me i was even
*born* late... they had to force me out, i was so slow... )

And, remember Lisa's comments about run-ons? i'm afraid i might have
'run-onned' in this one, but i'm not sure. And 'fragmented' (and made up
words, i know). i'm going to have to review my elementary school grammar
lessons.

This is based on Jean Redpath's version of Professor Child's version of a
ballad which i got off Redpath's album "Lowlands". And that was a long
enough sentence. And that one started with the word "and" which i remember
to be wrong but this isn't Mrs. Nichols' English class, now is it, so why
don't we get on with it - yes, let's.

And i'm not trying to be cute. i really am this brainless.

And i took very minor liberties on FK canons (Canons? Where?) - in the
characteristics of FK vampires and the behaviour of one in particular.
Hope you don't mind.

And... i swear that i wrote this before reading parts 3 and 10 of Laura
Whaples' "Blood is Thicker than Water" and Jamie Melody Randell's "For I
Have Sinned", both of which were wonderful! (A few metaphors which appeared
in those parts also turn up here but they're so minor than i didn't change
anything. It's probably unnoticeable anyway.)

And before i get notes ordering me to shut up, let me say that i'm
improving, really i am! No, really.


                           RIDDLES WISELY EXPOUNDED

                 a Forever Knight story song story whatever



copyrighted 1995
by e. m. hall


verse one of two


   Biting, slashing - the moor's winter winds slid around his body in
numbing waves, in a merciless, desperate way - it couldn't help itself.
The wraps of fur over his hunched shoulders, the folds of wool around his
waist, the reams of yellow hair crunched about his neck were non-existent
against such wicked cold... and as he stumbled in his bundled blindness,
he found that they were just as beneficial to his sight in this blackly
purple midnight.

   He should never have drunk so much. Well, not so much as to fall asleep
upon his horse. And then to have fallen off his horse (bloody animal). The
thing was spry and spirited - its stamping and rearing making a fine show
for flushed young ladies with their shining eyes - but friskiness gave way
to enterprise at its master's tumble. Count upon the horse to yearn for
freedom at the most inconvenient time.

   And he couldn't very well fly now in his inebriated condition.
Fortunately, the moors were as bare of spectators as it was of welcoming
topography; a present dash across the sky would elicit no wrenching shrieks,
no startled bellows. But he could barely walk. He could barely sit on a
horse!

   If he could only find an abandoned cottage, a natural grotto, some
shelter against the sunrise... Or, perhaps, *they*'d hear your call for
help...

   But, oh, how his temples throbbed! He winced, scrunched his face at the
anger of the potent ale. His summoning thoughts stuck at his mind, trying to
get out, pricking his brain as these thistles did at his legs. Well, perhaps
they'll find me, he thought flaccidly. If either ventured far enough in such
weather to hear him, that is.

   Coming here was a mistake. Not only was good food in short supply - he
did not eat as well as he had in, say, London or Bristol - the solitude of
the Northern countryside was more depressing than relaxing. He'd wanted
peace, time, a retreat from the fury of the city, its people, their
predators. But here, the isolation was just as trying as urban bluster.

   The crackle of a hearth fire caught his hearing. His head jerked up. Just
before him, only a quarter of league away, was the slimmest outline of a
large house... no, an admirable manor, gated, turreted,... and lit by the
faintest gleam of dawn, barely visible even to his preternatural eyes.

   He smelled living blood within. Very fresh, very sweet, quite young. And
there was more than one. This place tugged hard at him, quickened his slow,
cold heart. The ravenous rush to his head, the tingle of his dry, cracked
mouth hurt him terribly. He had hoped that by swigging down those drafts of
ale, many in succession - and how easy and familiar it was - he might have
suppressed his need, quieted it until he could find some animal. Blast that
village and its sociableness. Not a single person played the streets. No one
could be convinced to accompany him outside for a drink. They were just
peasants, content only to guffaw at base jokes, bellow their tunes of
camaraderie and loves left behind.

   He licked the roof of his mouth. This time, to hell with tact and
courtesty. He wanted to feed.

   The alcohol's effects were fading; he became hungrier and hungrier as he
approached the house and its occupants. Or was it the thought of their blood
alone that threatened to glaze his irises gold?




   A pounding batted the door between its hinges, rumbled the quiet of the
late, late night, and shook the still air of the home.

   Elaine appeared first - she was the lightest sleeper - and dashed down
the stairs, shouting for her sisters.

   The visitor ceased pounding, at hearing her voice. He waited to be addressed.

   Elaine's mother whispered from the sleepy darkness above, "What's that?"

   The women started at the clear, strong voice coming from the other side,
"An unfortunate gentleman without his horse and suffering in the cold!"

   Elaine cried out at this, "Oh, poor sir, you must have shelter for
tonight!" She hurried to the towering oak door and lifted the iron latch.

   "For tonight and the day, if you please. I am too weary to walk anymore,"
answered the man as he stepped, or tripped, in.

   "Yes, for as long as you require!" exclaimed Brigid, the second of the
sisters. She descended with a clean blanket, open in her arms, ready to warm
the visitor.

   Her mother followed behind, smiling at the dark figure, hoping to see
beyond his fine, though damp, wraps. What would a lone gentleman be doing so
far into these moors? And on such a night! Surely he's a neighbour. "I'm
sorry we have not yet had the pleasure of meeting you... Is this Sir
Brabourne from Hougham Hall?"

   "Not quite but, with your gracious hospitality, I soon hope to be." His
muffled voice sounded pleased to be recognized.

   The man unraveled his furs. The women gasped sympathetically. His fine,
youthful features were haggard, his face wan, his golden hair - surely kept
romantically full, smooth and wavy, as was the style with the poets and
artists - was sorrily tousled and generously dappled with damp, black
leaves.

   "I must be a terrible sight...," he apologized.

   "Not at all, Sir." White, long-stemmed hands pulled his cloak from his
shoulders.

   The man turned about quickly to face the youngest daughter: a small,
sweet-faced girl with a complexion of the palest peach pulp brushed over
cream; delicate hair coloured not unlike his own - harvested straw left to
richen in the sun; little blue, forget-me-not eyes;... a girl whose curled
smile reminded him of someone he left a long time ago.

   "Pardon me for startling you, My Lord." She draped his cloak over her arm
and replaced it with the blanket Brigid brought.

   The man tried to return her smile. He hadn't felt her approach and it had
frightened him for a moment. He inhaled impulsively, nostrils tensing; his
hunger made him very aware of her now.

   The mother stepped forward, one hand resting demurely upon her breast and
the other outstretched to meet his. "I am Lady Lambden and these my
daughters. We had hoped to make My Lord's acquaintance when my husband
returned from the continent."

   Her guest bowed low; her hand met his lips. This gesture, usually very
enjoyable, especially for his kind, was almost unbearable to him; her pulse,
quickened by the excitement, hammered through his fingers. He fought to
ignore it, to ignore his own self. Not now, not now! Not until he found one
of them alone. "And I had planned to call upon your family within a
fortnight." Oh, how forcefully the red flowed through their bodies! He
couldn't help but imagine it running from their hearts, out their veins,
over their necks, into his cupped palms... "Please forgive my intrusion, but
I..." His face suddenly grew very cold and still in expression and the room,
very gray.

   Elaine caught him before he fell to the floor.

   Lady Lambden patted the man's hand, trying to revive him. "Oh, my girls,
he's not well at all. Mr. and Mrs. Ames! Joseph! Where is everyone else?"

   Within the house, doors swept open and heavy feet answered their mistress
as quickly as they could. Elaine passed her patient to a sturdy boy.

   Lady Lambden clucked at her servants, "You sleep so heavily this night!
Joseph, help Sir Brabourne to a room. Mrs. Ames, would you show him which
one?"

   The older woman - she had a kindly, round, apple-doll face - thought a
moment as Joseph urged the man to the staircase. She ran through the various
bedrooms in her head - the blue room, Chesterton, the most northerly... "I
haven't made up the guest rooms in a while, Ma'am."

   "Oh, the closest one, then."

   Brigid started after Mrs. Ames. "I'll place fresh sheets upon the bed!"

   "Yes, do that, dear. Use the new, imported ones," approved her mother.

   "Shall I send for Doctor Lindsay?" asked Elaine.

   "No. Sir Brabourne is just very tired and dreadfully chilled, I think.
We'll watch him closely. Mr. Ames, will you warm his room?" She followed the
sober and slow-moving Mr. Ames, giving everyone additional instructions as
they occurred to her. "Oh, but Elaine, where did we put those packets of
ginger and hibiscus...?" she called over her shoulder.

   Elaine looked to her remaining sister. "In the cellar, are they?"

   "Yes, with the dried herbs."

   Elaine headed towards the opening of the west wing, and then turned back.
She kissed the girl. "Go back to sleep, lovey. You look very pale." Then she
vanished through a doorway.

   The youngest daughter stood alone in the vast foyer, watching the curious
entourage swerve up the staircase. When the blackness of the house had
swallowed them up, she moved to the window and pulled the heavy drapes back.
Frosted, dimmed sunlight fell across her face.

   "But it's morning," she said.






verse two of two


    He awoke, heartbeat exploding within his chest. An eruption, an
earthquake - he didn't know what it was - made such a noise as to shake him
from sleep. The room still rumbled, the pretty sapphire canopy still
trembled above him... Canopy?

    "Que tu as fait, Janette, hmm? " he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Tu sais
que je deteste ceux-la..."

    He sat up,... but this wasn't his latest home. And the girl pouring
water into a basin on the night-stand, placing the carafe back down, and
standing beside him in this modestly lit room, was a stranger.

    "Are you feeling well, now, My Lord? The thunder hasn't intruded too
badly upon your recovery, I hope." She said this politely but distractedly.
She was looking at his hands.

    He released the sheets from his clawed grip and slipped his fingers
between the folds. "I feel better, thank you." Had she seen an unnatural
glow to his hands in the dim light? Were his nails stretching out, trying to
snatch this prey? He glanced about for a window.

    The girl, ever attentive to a guest's needs, arose and walked to the
wall opposite his bed. She pulled back the meters-high drapes, occasionally
becoming lost in their gaping folds, which swallowed her like life-sized
whales.

    "The sun's not quite set; the storm has darkened us much earlier than
usual." Her voice barely escaped those swaying blue maws.

    Lightning cracked the black tableau in front of him. Almost immediately
after this streak sank back under the night, its brother Thunder blundered
by, loud enough to jolt a demon from his sleeping death in the day.

    The man reached his legs out to the floor. He was becoming more fully
awake now, though at a most unnatural time. The girl emerged from the drapes
and idly tidied up here and there, and he watched her closely, following her
movements as if he were a large cat, faintly yellow eyes sliding to the
left, then the right, golden-maned head turning quickly to gaze at the door
- as if something had caught its attention - and then returning to the girl.
"Where is your manservant?"

    "Manservant?" She obviously thought this an awkward term.

    "Miss Lambden, you should not be tending me, no matter how ill I am." He
smiled a sincere smile. "Though I will surely regain my strength all the
more quickly with your radiant face as company."

    She did not blush, as girls should. She only watched him with curiosity.

    Immune to flattery? he thought, his thoughts leading down a slithery
path. Or, perhaps, she is unfamiliar with it. She had a strange quality to
her... He may have to try another tactic - perhaps a less conversational
one. But, for now, he needed time.

    He looked to the door again. Whoever that was in the next room, vites!
Go far away, to the other end of the house with the rest of your kind! He
hadn't the strength and speed to take her silently; she may manage to
screech an alarm before her throat floods with blood. And, should they be
interrupted before he supped and regained his strength, he'd need a free and
easy escape.

    "We haven't yet been acquainted, Miss Lambden. That would make things
less awkward, I think." He arose with an effort and approached her. "As we
have no mutual friend present, may I make the introductions?" He turned
gently to where he had just sat and greeted his flickering shadow. "Sir
Brabourne, may I  present...?" He raised his eyebrows expectantly and cocked
his head, awaiting her name.

    Her lips tipped up. "Rosaleen."

    "Miss Rosaleen Lambden - precious flower of this land and apple of her
father's eye, could he have been here for the occasion. And to you, sweet
Miss Rosaleen, may I present Sir Nicholas - "

    "But you aren't Lord Brabourne, are you sir? I've seen him, while my
mother has not. He is small and dark, has no family nor friends left. He
had, just two days ago, offered to pay me well to read to him in the
evenings. I reluctantly refused." She smiled, not unkindly. "Who are you?"

    His words caught in his throat and came out wrong; the truth slipped out
instead. "De Brabant -" His eyes grew wide. And, suddenly, he clutched at
his stomach, groaning frighteningly.

    "Sir! Are you in pain?" She crouched down, hesitantly touching his
shoulders, wondering if she should call Mrs. Ames, and wishing that she
wouldn't have to.

    He gasped as if dying, as a drowning man would cling to his last bits of
air. His stomach twisted for the girl.

    He fell into her soft lap, tears staining her lavender dress a black-ish
red. She prayed that those tears would not soak through and touch her. But
then she stroked his fine hair, bringing it up to her face innocently. No
devil ever had such softness, such beautiful features, such a smooth voice
that muttered something now...

    "I can't take someone so innocent."

    "Innocent?" she repeated quietly.

    He looked up at her large, clear eyes - clear in unblemished way of
someone who couldn't be persuaded. Was she truly ignorant, as he always
believed young girls to be? "No, you're not afraid of me, though your voice
and body are slight and your experience limited."

     "And though I am innocent. That would stop you from harming me? And
then who in my family would you turn to next?"

      No use trying to hypnotise this one. She knew of what he was speaking,
what he was, what he would do to her. But she didn't struggle against him. 

      He cradled the child's face as though he would kiss it, tracing her
jaw with his nose. She smelled of dried flowers and moss, of linens and warm
bread. Human, living scents. His lips crooked up in a grin. "Inexperienced,
chaperoned when watched, conversing with strange men when unseen... Shall I
kiss you?"

    Her mouth opened slightly, but she made no sound. He was so close,
his hands resting lewdly upon her shoulders, breath so cold on her face,
that she could not think. He was staring so hard into her, as if his
white-blue eyes could not see what was before him - blinded by hunger? He
was maddened, maddening. Surely, it didn't have to be hell... Something this
beautiful could not be a demon. And if he were, wouldn't she follow it
always, begging to be one too?

   "I cannot kiss you unless you ask me to," he crooned, lashes lowered to
the clothed curves under his hands. "Say it, Rosaleen..."

   She touched his hands, unable to think.

   "Ask for it... Ask me..."  He pressed his sharp smile against her cheek.
Young little things were so common but often painfully ignored because of
Fleur. He'd forgotten how much fun it was to tease his prey. How he loved
to feel it ache in mind as well as body, to see its lacing tremble and its
face instinctively turn away, even while its fingers fluttered upon his arm
and chest, imagining his bare male skin.

   "Do you dream of romantic martyrdom? Of death for love? Of love and
death? I can give you that, lady. I can make you the envy of those
Pre-Raphaelite heroines." He nodded slyly to a shrouded, silent bookshelf in
the corner.

   Rosaleen looked to the books, to her treasures collecting dust upon their
backs. Chronicles of chivalry, passion, and blessed eternity in heaven
waited for their mistress' answer.

   "The rest of your household is corridors away. Far away, too far to
know."

   Still, she told him nothing.

   Nicholas shrugged. "You may fight or not. It makes little difference to
me." And then he bit her throat.

   Rosaleen shuddered for a moment, so slightly that she was unaware of it
over the pain of having one's skin ripped apart and heart's blood eaten,
and then she swiped her hand against the bedside table, knocking the lamp
across the floor. Oil spilled around their feet and lit into orange flames
everything it touched. Nicholas was first.

    He leapt up, pained eyes matching the hue of his destroyer. He seemed to
dance towards the open window which, salivating, dripped with the beginnings
of a rainstorm. Rosaleen scrambled away to the water at the table, drowning
the juvenile fire upon her shoes and stockings.

    Nicholas roared inhumanly at her, shaking the room as violently as any
thunder. He moved as if to snatch her, as if to take her away with him into
the falling sea, but questioning shouts from the servants, her sisters, from
her mother drove him to the window alone. Rosaleen sorrowfully watched his
bright body writhe and spasm as he reached for the sky beyond the open glass
and then flung himself out into the newborn night like a descending, dying
star. She rushed to the window.

    Lady Lambden led the alarmed, pre-nightcapped brigade into the blue
room. She pressed her youngest daughter to her breast, asking what had
happened, what was that noise, where's her lord?

    Rosaleen could only turn from the window and shake her head as if
slighted.







The lyrics:
[translation]


A lady lived in the North countree
    Lay the bent [rushes] tae the bonny broom
And she had lovely dochters three
    Fa la la la la la la la la

There was a Knight of noble worth
Who also lived intae the North

Ae nicht when it was a cauld and late
This Knight he cam' tae the lady's gate

The eldest dochter she lat him in
She's pinned the door wi' a siller pin

The second dochter she's made his bed
And Holland sheets sae fine she spread

The youngest dochter sae fair and bricht
She lay abed wi' this noble Knight

If you will answer me questions three
It's then fair maid, I will mairry thee

O, what is louder than a horn
And what is sharper than a thorn?

And what is longer than the way
and what is deeper than the sea?

What is greener than the grass?
And what more wicked than a woman ere was?

O, thunder's louder than a horn
and hunger sharper than a thorn

Love is longer than the way
And hell is deeper than the sea

Envy's greener than the grass
And the Devil more wicked than a woman ere was

As the soon as she the fiend did name
He flew awa' in a blazing flame



+++++++++++++   +++++++++++++   +++++++++++++   +++++++++++++   ++++++
cousin, diviant erica  "Sometimes it rains inside my head
                         <when> the words run dry"    (Medicine)
++++++   +++++++++++++   +++++++++++++   +++++++++++++   +++++++++++++