The leaves were of all colors, and though they must have numbered in the millions, upon the ground or floating from the thinning bowers above, each of them had its own blend of hues, and more keenly evident, its own take on the sound of crispy crunches under boot heels and, scant minutes ago, under the blanket belonging to a certain tall bad of browned hair, browned skin and perhaps a small trunk's height and thickness.
He opened his travel pack, and removed a small package of beeswax-infused paper, opening it with a crackling sound not terribly unlike the fallen foliage. Within was a honeycake, still carrying last traces of warmth from the Bismarck's bakery earlier that morning. He'd stayed in Limsa that night, having willed himself away from what could have been a much warmer, much more comfortable, and more occupied, bed. Parts of him still made their displeasure known in various ways, but the palisades had been erected around his heart, and would not be moved more that day. Too much was at stake, and memories of sheep-stink and bitter longings had wrapped themselves around his thoughts, cementing the barrier in place.
A bird in a cage may sing, but it is not what it was meant to be, and no epic tales, even of the romance craved by all but the hardest of hearts, are made or found from upon a shelf. And thus, for the moment, a tree and the rustle of leaves were more comfort than a sultan's suite.
Patience... patience, and the coming harvest, and prayers to Nophica, of the sorts that only bards and lovers offer, would surely resolve the tangle, and clear away the leaf litter. Perhaps it would be in time to build a roaring winter's fire, enough to set ablaze all the deadwood.. or perhaps the wood would still be too soaked and sodden to yield up its heat, leaving no choice but to find better yields for sparks.
Yet, advice that one gives is but empty, foul air if one cannot heed it oneself, and so he did, sampling a small bite of the cake. It was sweet, full bodied, and satisfying, just the sort of thing to screen out, for even a short time, all other woes and wonder. Perhaps one could have cake every day, but each one, as sampled, was gone. Whether there were to be more was a question of fortune, or one's readiness either to learn baking, or embrace bakers.
The cake finished, he rubbed crumbs from his hands, and as the afternoon winds lifted the leaves into whorls, he greeted them with lute and lyrics, seeing a long-lost face in the windswirls and hearing a voice in the breeze. If the story it told was as much fancy and want as truth, then what of it? What else should a song be?
"On a long-past morning,
heard a tapping on my tent
Her voice said, 'Come out, minstrel,
if that is what you call yourself.
I sense you had some questions,
But first, I must say aught to you
Your most important lesson
And it's the only one that's true:
'Wake up, stretch your legs,
And be off with the sun
Heed your own instrument more so than anyone
Today you're a pupil, but soon you'll find it meet
To trust to nothing but the boots upon your feet.'
So I joined her chorus
And she taught me how to play
Filled our nights with dancing
'Til she told me yesterday
"Did you take in the plan, remember what I said
That there would come a day to seek out your own stead
Tonight's the last night that you spend under my eye
No need to keep the nest when the bird has learned to fly."
Thus, upon the morning
I packed up all that I owned
Made off through the thickets
It was time the bird had flown
Sometimes I think about the things that she had said
While walking town to town, never owning my own bed
There's but one thing she never told me how to find:
How long must I wander 'til I get my peace of mind."
He opened his travel pack, and removed a small package of beeswax-infused paper, opening it with a crackling sound not terribly unlike the fallen foliage. Within was a honeycake, still carrying last traces of warmth from the Bismarck's bakery earlier that morning. He'd stayed in Limsa that night, having willed himself away from what could have been a much warmer, much more comfortable, and more occupied, bed. Parts of him still made their displeasure known in various ways, but the palisades had been erected around his heart, and would not be moved more that day. Too much was at stake, and memories of sheep-stink and bitter longings had wrapped themselves around his thoughts, cementing the barrier in place.
A bird in a cage may sing, but it is not what it was meant to be, and no epic tales, even of the romance craved by all but the hardest of hearts, are made or found from upon a shelf. And thus, for the moment, a tree and the rustle of leaves were more comfort than a sultan's suite.
Patience... patience, and the coming harvest, and prayers to Nophica, of the sorts that only bards and lovers offer, would surely resolve the tangle, and clear away the leaf litter. Perhaps it would be in time to build a roaring winter's fire, enough to set ablaze all the deadwood.. or perhaps the wood would still be too soaked and sodden to yield up its heat, leaving no choice but to find better yields for sparks.
Yet, advice that one gives is but empty, foul air if one cannot heed it oneself, and so he did, sampling a small bite of the cake. It was sweet, full bodied, and satisfying, just the sort of thing to screen out, for even a short time, all other woes and wonder. Perhaps one could have cake every day, but each one, as sampled, was gone. Whether there were to be more was a question of fortune, or one's readiness either to learn baking, or embrace bakers.
The cake finished, he rubbed crumbs from his hands, and as the afternoon winds lifted the leaves into whorls, he greeted them with lute and lyrics, seeing a long-lost face in the windswirls and hearing a voice in the breeze. If the story it told was as much fancy and want as truth, then what of it? What else should a song be?
"On a long-past morning,
heard a tapping on my tent
Her voice said, 'Come out, minstrel,
if that is what you call yourself.
I sense you had some questions,
But first, I must say aught to you
Your most important lesson
And it's the only one that's true:
'Wake up, stretch your legs,
And be off with the sun
Heed your own instrument more so than anyone
Today you're a pupil, but soon you'll find it meet
To trust to nothing but the boots upon your feet.'
So I joined her chorus
And she taught me how to play
Filled our nights with dancing
'Til she told me yesterday
"Did you take in the plan, remember what I said
That there would come a day to seek out your own stead
Tonight's the last night that you spend under my eye
No need to keep the nest when the bird has learned to fly."
Thus, upon the morning
I packed up all that I owned
Made off through the thickets
It was time the bird had flown
Sometimes I think about the things that she had said
While walking town to town, never owning my own bed
There's but one thing she never told me how to find:
How long must I wander 'til I get my peace of mind."
"But in the laugh there was another voice. A clearer laugh, an ironic laugh. A laugh which laughs because it chooses not to weep."