Meadow

L’scariot stood hip deep among the colourful wild flowers, lifting the beautiful woman up, the summer breeze playing with her long dark hair, the glowing sun not as bright as her smiling face. He slowly turned, his strong musculature supporting her petite weight, holding her securely so she would not fall, letting her laughter completely fill his mind.

That part of him that always questioned wondered why he did not know her name, but what did that matter when they were alone together and the sun was shining?

Then, aware of stealthy approach from the forest that surrounded the meadow on all sides, L’scariot carefully set her down and liberated his sword to face whoever dared intrude on their mutual happiness.

Only, to his amazement, he found children, a grinning lad with unkempt auburn hair, a smaller lass that closely resembled her mother, and other siblings whom he blinked at, marvelling at the power of his loins to sire so many beautiful offspring, but aware of the benefit of his lineage and, most especially, hers.

Then an infant’s cry brought all of their attention to a nest of blankets on a flat stone.

L’scariot watched her graceful haste, sheathed his redundant sword, and strode through the wild flower meadow to stand beside her. She lifted the baby up with loving hands and gave it the breast where it suckled happily, nestled in the crook of her arm. He felt such tenderness toward her that he wanted this sun blessed interlude to last forever.

When he opened his eyes as the dream dissipated, fresh tears trickled down his face because he inhabited once more the unhappy shell of his lonely body. Worse still, he discovered he was not in his own bedroom but still a guest at Unity Castle, farther from home than he had ever wanted to be. He felt burdened by his unwelcome situation after that amazing dream, as though his soul had to pack itself into too small a frame.

The tap on the door that heralded the arrival of the female servant bringing hot water for his morning ablutions made him turn on his side and pull the covers up to conceal his tear-stained face.

The last thing he wanted was to become the topic of gossiping servants. He frowned. He did not even know if they shared tittle-tattle in that way. Given their natural reticence, perhaps not. He couldn’t just lurk around the kitchens to find things out as he had done in some Northern fortresses in his younger days. Trying this only led to continual offers of food and drink, and, unfortunately, never coffee.

When the servant exited silently, he lay back again, finding a prone posture best for reflecting upon dreams as it offered the excellent possibility of resuming where he left off.

The exquisite, petite, dark-haired beauty did not remind him of anyone he had ever met at banquets, in ballrooms, or in the most unsavoury quarter of the city where he was once accustomed to satisfy his urges.

A new character perhaps? He mused about that and reviewed the gathering of children.

The dual pregnancies within the royal family had been on his mind lately, since even a bachelor like himself could not mistake the changes in their regal silhouettes.

But these had all been human children. The eldest boy, actually, reminded him of the hero in his first novel, a masterpiece abandoned because his original publisher did not believe it would sell. He must bring that manuscript urgently to their attention when, not if, he returned home.

With growing interest, he matched up each of the children to his writings, published and unpublished. The crying baby could be this very work of fiction with which he was struggling daily. This unasked-for commission from the Emperor and Arbiter of the Known World, was the arduous burden oppressing his existence, not helped by the lack of coffee or anything vaguely resembling it in this blighted continent.

And that the babe had been given the breast without hesitation must mean. . .

He gasped.

L’scariot had seen the face, no, more than that, he had held the body of his beloved Muse in his hands, swirled her around in the wildflower exuberant meadow, been blessed by her laughter and that radiant smile.

A lengthy poem? Maybe a story, he would start with that and then see what form most naturally suited the dream. He must capture these enchanting moments. Never mind what he was supposed to be writing, this was far too important to be ignored.

He flung back the covers, dragged on his breeches, not bothering with anything else and opened the curtains so that early sunlight fell on the desk.

Barefoot and bare chested, he reverently stroked the feather of the quill pen three times while thinking of the bird it came from taking flight, wishing fervently that his words would do likewise, imploring his Muse to guide him and thanking her for every one of his published novels.

Fresh from the extraordinarily vivid dream, he could but hope the inspiration might linger. He had not, thus far, in exile from every familiar place and person had anything that could be called a good writing day.

L’scariot covered several pieces of foolscap with impatient words, many of them crossed out. When he finally set the quill aside, he slowly became aware that nothing was as it should be.

He felt it most unfair that he was not seated at his own desk that overlooked the rose garden of his estate. He wanted to ring the hand bell that would summon Jashieren with coffee and delicate edibles freshly baked.

More to the point, he could not read his freshly scrawled masterpiece to his personal assistant whose perspicacity for providing the encouraging word as well as the delicate commentary which often though not always prompted him to improve what he had written was an aching absence in his everyday life which, dare he even think it, he craved more than even an unlimited supply of coffee.

L’scariot got to his feet so hastily that the chair fell to the floor, not abandoning his writing for that felt complete for the time being, but no longer wanting to sit at a desk whose proportions were subtly wrong.

Even something so simple as this chair looked alien to him like everything did here. He picked it up with one hand, the weight of it calling to mind that sword from his dream. This closely resembled his own sword which had not seen the light of day for far too long, yet the last thing he wanted to consider was to practice swordplay with an opponent here. He could not imagine any of them would understand the need for restraint in such a situation, unless being watched by the Lord Protector.

He sighed, thinking he must petition to be allowed to go to the Arena when some actual fighting was taking place. Nobody seemed to understand how vital research was for the process of writing this manuscript. Perhaps the best way forward was to focus his next conversation with the Ambassador on that exact topic. He was meant to make things easier, after all.

Looking around the room, he noticed the hot water provided no longer steamed. In fact, when he tested it with the habitual elbow, the water was tepid.

He sighed and removed his breeches. As he washed himself, he considered that readers had no idea of the sacrifices a writer must endure, all for the sake of entertaining them.

Yawning widely, he mourned again the absence of coffee and yearned to spend an hour listening to gossip in even a lowly reputed coffee house where he would not normally set foot.

Though L’scariot had often led a solitary life, devoted to his Muse rather than any romantic interest ever since the death of the one woman he had ever contemplated marrying, being surrounded by the hubbub made by even the lowest class of people in the ever-throbbing heart of the Empire would be a most welcome distraction from his dreary circumstances.