Loved and lost, or never loved at all?

Writing Prompt: Loved and lost, or never loved at all? Which might you prefer?

To know nothing about love is to know nothing about losing that love. And while I might save myself the pain of loss by not loving at all, I would never know the joy of loving. To know neither joy nor pain is as good as living the life of a corpse or a robot. There will be no meaning to my existence. I will not know why I do certain things, or why I will do anything not to do them.

Therefore, I would rather have loved once, just for a day and then lose that, than stay neutral all my life. Humans are creatures of emotion. We need love.

With You, I’ll Be Only Sibylla (Part 9)

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. Kingdom of Heaven belongs to Sir Ridley Scott and William Monahan, and History.

 

Chapter 9: A Kingdom of Conscience

 

Doors were meant for protection; those leading to Sibylla’s quarters were made to keep out any unwelcome presence. Inside was her refuge; a place of peace and safety in the middle of Jerusalem’s dark undercurrents and courtly intrigues. The colours and hangings had all been chosen for the tranquillity they represented. The inner chambers were sheltered from the heat, but with the coming of evening, they would be graced for a short while, with the dying golden light of the sun as it set over the heart of Christendom.

 

The princess loved the security she felt when she was in her sanctuary; it was like being in the warm loving embrace of her old nurse, who had long since passed away. When she returned this afternoon, she expected to find her son there, playing or completing the tasks set by his tutor. What she saw gave her a most unpleasant shock. Guy had gone too far; he had invaded her haven and worse yet, he was with her son, telling her boy how he ought to arrange his pewter figures. The man had his back to her, but she could hear him quite clearly. “Always surround your knights with foot-soldiers,” he told the boy.

With You, I’ll Be Only Sibylla (Part 4)

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters. They all belong to the creators of the movie, Kingdom of Heaven, and God.

Warning: Implications of adult content

Chapter 4: There is Only Light

 

The rooms were simple, with only basic furnishing. Godfrey had not been a man for ornamentation, and his son was even less so. Sibylla smiled as she took in her rooms. Balian had given her the master suite. The lack of decoration was a refreshing change. There was no clutter here, no dark secrets. Ibelin was an innocent, just like its master. She had her maids bring in flowers to freshen the air. The room itself smelled of a man; of sweat, dust and masculine musk.

 

Youmna helped her to change out of her dusty travelling gown. Curtains were drawn around the balcony, veiling the princess from prying eyes as she bathed. Sibylla watched her maids bustling about, rearranging things to her tastes. Balian had said that they could do whatever they wanted with this suite. She sat with her feet in a basin of water with rose oil floating on the surface, forming a swirling rainbow. The sound of work and construction filtered in from outside; shouts of men, speaking both in Arabic and Latin. Sibylla stood. Making sure that her towel was wrapped securely around her naked body, she stepped over to the hand-carved windows, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake. 

Love and Loss

I’ve just escaped from Communication Disorders 261. Honestly, it’s the most boring class ever, and I just totally zone out. Can’t learn anything. The droning did help me to concentrate on something though, so I did manage to write a wee poem. It’s not very good, since I don’t even read poetry.

Love and Loss

I have loved and I have lost.

My days fade into winter frost.

As now I watch the pale sunrise,

I cannot help but recall days gone by.

Those warm spring morns with sparkling dew,

When everything was bright and new.

And there beneath the shady trees,

With fragrant flowers and buzzing bees,

She lay still on the warm firm land,

Her head resting on her hand.

Many a happy day we spent

-For love her hold would not relent-

Romping through the meadows fair,

Until the woody boughs were bare.

Upon a bed of golden leaves,

She released her hold on life’s dry lees.

Still I wandered this cold grey world,

Until the last brown leaf has curled.  

I have loved and I have lost.

My days fade into winter frost.

Well, obviously the narrator is not me. I was thinking about a man who never grew old, and how he would feel if he fell in love with a mortal woman. He feels old, but his body is young, and he cannot die. It’s a sad thing. I wouldn’t want immortality.

With You, I’ll Be Only Sibylla (Part 2)

Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters or the storyline. This story is based on Sir Ridley Scott’s brilliant film, Kingdom of Heaven.

Chapter 2: The Very Best of Wives

Sibylla was in a dream, or so she felt. For the first time in after her marriage to Guy, she found herself dreaming about a man. And it was not her husband.

The reins were loose in her hands, and she let her horse plod on. The animal knew its way back to the royal stables. In the meantime, she was happy to just savour the freedom of being out of the palace. The air was filled with the scent of spices, with the underlying taint of sweat and waste. In a sense, it was like the Kingdom itself. On the surface, everything seemed holy and perfect. They were the bulwark against the Saracens. They were God’s chosen people, dedicating their lives to fighting for Him and defending Christendom. But then, were they really fighting for God?

With you, I’ll be only Sibylla (Part 1)

Disclaimer: This is based on Sir Ridley Scott’s brilliant film, Kingdom of Heaven. I don’t own any of the characters.

Summary: The account of the end of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, as seen from the point of view of the most important woman in the kingdom, Princess Sibylla of Jerusalem.

Chapter 1: Meeting the Baron

The hooves of her horse thundered beneath her. She could feel the animal’s powerful muscles bunching up. For a moment, she was free, one with the wind. Jerusalem loomed in the distance. Sibylla was reluctant to return. She had not had enough of her freedom, even if it was fleeting and pretensive. Her thoughts wandered back to the days when she’d been a naive girl; a stranger to the bitterness of this world. Oh, she’d been disappointed when her father had married her off to William de Montferrat, a man three times her age. Like any maid, she’d dreamed of a romantic marriage with a handsome young man who would love her and cherish her. William had been kind, but she’d viewed him as more of an uncle than a husband. And then, he’d died, leaving her five months pregnant with the potential heir to the throne.

Camel, Spatula, Venice

Okay, so the challenge is to write a piece — not too long — with these three words. 

Disclaimer: All the characters mentioned here belong to Disney. They’re not mine. I’m just borrowing them for this occasion.

A Belated Honeymoon

A Pirates of the Caribbean fanfiction

The sea lapped the shores of New England calmly. A woman and her son waited expectantly on the top of a grassy cliff. The briny smell of the sea always brought back memories for her. It had been ten years; ten long lonely years.

A flash of green lit up their faces. Her smile widened. Her son looked up at her excitedly. On the calm seas, a ship suddenly materialized, sailing towards them. Will was home. Elizabeth ran down to the beach to greet him, gripping her skirts in her fists to stop them from tripping her up. There he was, as young as he’d been when he’d left her. Everything else seemed to fade away. She could only see Will, her Will. And then she was in his arms. She clung to him, still not sure whether this was real or just a dream. “Oh Will,” she whispered. No words were needed to convey their emotions. She felt his arms around her. He was sweaty, salty, solid. Hot tears ran down her cheeks, and she buried her face in his shirt.

“I’m back, Elizabeth,” he said. “I’m back, and I’m staying for good.”

That night, as the reunited Turners were talking over dinner and laughing at each others exploits, there came a loud banging on the door. “Lizzie, open up!” said a familiar voice. There stood Captain Jack Sparrow, the most notorious pirate of the seven seas, self-proclaimed. He had a large crate in his arms and when he moved, the tell-tale clinking of glass bottles issued from within. His grin widened when he saw Will.

“William, how good to see you,” he said, setting his crate down in the middle of the dinner table.

“It’s good to be back, Jack,” said Will. He pointed at the crate of rum. “You came especially, didn’t you?”

“Wot?” said Jack innocently. “Nah, just happened to be passin’ by, savvy, so I thought I’d drop in and see dear ole Lizzie. Didn’t expect you to be here too.”

“Jack, you’re a dishonest man, and I can always trust you to be dishonest,” said Will, shaking his head while suppressing a laugh. “Trust me, I know when you’re lying.”

“Now you’re just being insulting, William.”

“You came with a crate of rum, intending  to celebrate something, and let’s see, wouldn’t it be my return?”

“I can honestly say that I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Why, I think ye do,” drawled a voice from the doorway. “Welcome back to the world of the Livin’, Captain Turner.” They all whipped around to see Barbossa and the rest of his crew. Ragetti and Pintel waved. The old pirate strode into the house. His authoritative presence seemed to fill the room. That was until Willie launched himself at him.

“Cap’n! Did you bring me any presents, did you? Mama got me a pirate coat last week, cos I wanted to look like an ab-so-lute rogue…”

Barbossa sighed and like a doting grandfather, listened patiently to Willie’s monologue until Elizabeth lured him away with the promise of cake and extra icing. All the while, the Barbossa and Jack were holding a hostile staring contest and the rest of the Black Pearl’s crew were whispering amongst themselves. Finally, Jack broke off the staring contest to take a swig from a bottle of rum.

“Well, Mrs. Turner,” said Barbossa. He cleared his throat. “To celebrate yer belated marital bliss, we’ve got somethin’…” he trailed off, looking embarrassed by this show of affection for this young couple who’d earned his respect. He was saved from more embarrassment when two of his crew (which neither Elizabeth nor Will recognized) carried in a rolled up rug with intricate eastern designs.

“Oh, it’s beautiful!” breathed Elizabeth, running her hands over the smooth silky surface and examining the bright vivid colours.

“It’s made from camel hair,” Ragetti informed her. “One of those famed Persian rugs, y’know.”

Will raised an eyebrow. Barbossa seemed to be the least likely person to go rug-shopping. The old pirate noticed his expression. “A gift from me old friend off the Barbary coast,” he said. “It took a bit of forceful persuasion.”

“Me ‘n’ Rag got ya this,” said Pintel, producing a spatula. “Seein’ as the cap’n’s back, you might need to cook him things, poppet.”

Jack sniggered while Elizabeth rolled her eyes. They all knew just how well Elizabeth could cook. “Well, I’d like to see you cook something,” she muttered darkly.

“Aw, come on, luv,” said Jack. “Don’t get angry on this happiest of days. How about I make it up to ya?”

“With what?” she said, latching on to Will. “I’ve got everything that I could possibly want.” At that, Will grinned and kissed her on the lips, with Willie saying “Eww!” very loudly in the background.

“Well, considering you two have not had a honeymoon yet, I thought I’d take you to Venice in me ship!” said Jack with a flourish.

“What ship?” said Elizabeth. The last she’d heard, Jack’s glorious vessel had been a leaky dinghy, which he’d stolen.

“The Black Pearl, of course!” said Jack indignantly. Why did everyone think of Barbossa as the Pearl’s captain?

“The Pearl is my ship, Sparra,” said Barbossa.

“No it’s not.”

“Tis so!”

“Tis not!”

Will laughed. Some things just didn’t change, not even after a decade. And he was glad.

Oil, Pastrami, Candles

This was written sometime ago, for a challenge. We had to write something which had the words ‘oil’, ‘pastrami’ and ‘candles’ in it. Here’s my result:

A Toast

I strike a match to light a frangipani scented candle. The table is set for two. I have laid out all her favourite things; the candles, the rose-coloured napkins, the crystal wine glasses we bought on our honeymoon in Paris. It’s perfect, this romantic dinner for two, if only there were two to share it. There is pastrami amongst all the foodstuffs that I have prepared. She loved pastrami; she said it reminded her of her homeland, of gentle rolling hills and spooky stone castles overlooking sleepy little villages in Eastern Europe. I’ve only ever seen her homeland on the front of postcards.

I rip a chunk of crusty bread fresh out of the bakery’s oven and dip it in oil and balsamic vinegar. She used to feed me little bits of bread like this. I guess I’ll have to feed myself now. How long has it been? Three years? I still see her in my dreams. I see her eyes, full of compassion and love and hope, even as she lay wasting away in the hospital bed, sandwiched between starched white sheets, with tubes coming out of her. She held onto hope until the very end, smiling and perservering — never mind the cancerous growth that was eating away at her frail body.

“Live on.” That was the last thing she ever said before the flickering flame of her life spluttered and died. It was as if a light went off in my life. I am left alone in the darkness, even though I have lit enough candles to cast the room the the warm glow of fire. The only light left in me is her last words. I live for her.

I pour dark crimson wine into my wine glass and raise the glass in a toast, to my beloved. The scent of the frangipani candle fills the room. The flame flutters as if in answer to my toast.

“Cheers,” I say, and I down the wine.

A long long winding road…

Clouds gather in the sky — the sunlight casts a sickly yellow glow on them. A crow caws, flapping its wings rapidly, fleeing from the oncoming storm. There, the lone tree stands, watching over the road. Watching…for what? The road is one that I’ve never seen before, leading on into unknown lands. I regard it with some trepidation. It’s a long road ahead of me, and I want to turn back but I can’t. I’m not alone in this, and it’s not my choice. It’s his. I look up at him with a question in my eyes. He nods gently and touches my shoulder, urging me forwards. I do not move. I am too afraid of what I’ll find. He smiles, and steps in front of me. His booted feet make imprints in the dry red dust. My mind is set, I follow him to wherever he leads me. I trust him, for he is my inspiration. The dry red earth is in need of nourishing rain. Thunder rumbles. The first few fat heavy droplets fall. In front of me, he throws back his head, rejoicing in his existence. And then he breaks into a run. More rain falls. I strain to catch up with him, and he seems to notice that I’m falling behind. He stops, and waits for me. And then when I do catch up, he takes my hand and starts running again. Energy surges through me where my skin meets his. I run with him, and I don’t really care where we’re going.

New Blog

Right, so I’m starting a new blog…again. I’ve got writer’s block so really, there isn’t much that I can do at the moment. Maybe this will be a place for all my miscellaneous writings.

The lake is calm. There is not a ripple, a breeze. The mountain looms above everything. It gazes serenely into the mirror of the lake’s surface, as if it is contemplating its reflection. The wild flowers give off their perfume. I trudge through the greenery. Burs and seeds stick to my clothing. I walk on, crushing young green leaves beneath my feet. The morning dew wets the bottom of my jeans. The air is cool and crisp, laced with the scent of mist, remainders from the evening. My breath comes out in a pale cloud of steam. Everything is silent, except for the few morning call of birds. A shadow falls over the land. There is the beating of giant wings. I look up. There, more magnificent than any human creation, is something which exists only in the imagination of children. A dragon, its scales gleaming in the pale morning light like overlapping plates of gold. Its eyes gleam like burning jewels and its claws are sabers. It circles and finally lands on top of the mountain. We regard each other. Understanding passes between us. It nods its assent. I go on. Today, I’ll have something to put on my page.