K’s body lay limp across F’s arms. No sparks flew from her now, though flashes of sunlight reflected from the small silver coins sewn about the hem of her voluminous skirt, its great folds dark as the last blue before the night sky turns black. F. held her head close to his cheek as though he cradled his own child. The old woman was tall and large-boned but looked frail as a sparrow in the Norrung’s huge arms.
R. shivered as she remembered F’s brother carrying Ian down from Mount Rğan and reminded herself that Ian was ultimately all right. She hoped this was true of K.
Memories haunt and comfort us. The greatest warmaiden of the eastern forest has a flashback here on the battlefield, recalling the morning F's brother raced up the mountain, struggling against the scree, to bring the great hero down. He who saved the world from the darkness seemed lifeless. What she beheld this day was too evocative of that earlier struggle. Was every victory of the Light only momentary?
I just returned from church by way of the grocery store. A quick bite to eat and all too soon to bed. Tomorrow morning I see the endodontist at 8:00 to evaluate the tender tooth.
Ah, now there's a title for a short story: The Tender Tooth. Or perhaps a band? I am rapidly becoming silly. Time to close this post.
Sweet dreams, my altruistic alstroemerias!
--the BB
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