The Summers Die, One by One

[Master Jean-Claude d'Aquitaine]

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace-reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This-all this-was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!-for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh-but smile no more.
~Poe

Phantoms chased round the bend, over stones and step where even the soles of the shoes seemed well worn, but hardly traveled. A shadow over the window back and forth through father’s lament for fallen son now lifted again. His was the blood of Aquitaine, and the crest he wore with pride of black and red the imprint of strength was the lion heart of France. However, more of a shadowed wolf did this man outline, a twisted heart turned over the passage of light to night where he paced back and forth with misery not to see his son again. If I had loved him, what if? What if there had been a single shadow in place of spades; For long lost hope of a dying son returned, and now a right to retire. She has never been enough.

Cosette, was given the news on the coattails of her mother, the perfect hem of her skirts moving like smoke around her feet as the House of Aquitaine returned. “He is alive.” Was all that was needed to bring life back to the estate, and a color to an already rosy-cheeked younger sister, “But what of him? Is he well? Will he return?” Her wide eyes seemed thrilled to state the news given like a true oath of warrior’s virtue! Yet she was so small, so soft spoken that she could never truly compare to the power that was her bloodline. The door was not closed on her face, but it might as well been with her mother’s quick brush off. Cosette’s heart would swell with the thought of seeing Jean-Claude again. He like her survived the cold upbringing of their household, and flourished under the dark wings of their father where all she could do was simply remain quiet. It was bad enough she had brought a bastard into to his home, but now a voice that was not needed? She would take her leave. They would never notice.

____________________

Slipper covered feet carried her down the stone path, where fall had come early to France. The leaves were dry around her feet, swirling with her skirts as the road was met, and over grown by the summer’s harvest. In the autumn of the year the shadows always seemed darker, longer, and haunting as if begging for return of the summer—not ready to die. It was not so cold yet that she would have needed her cloak, but the very chill of the wind suddenly made the daughter of fortune shiver. Was it fear? She went to the servants quarters where her son was waiting, the only other honey colored blonde of the Aquitaine line—a trait that had been of her mother’s side no doubt.

Cosette, quickly opened the door with a fire to face from the brush of the season, and the little boy of 7 now ran to her skirts. With eyes closed she took him into her arms, her smile the only freedom he would ever be given, but today the light in her eyes. “I have wonderful news. Have you heard?” The look on the serf’s faces gave away they had, “Isn’t it wonderful?” She squeezed her son once more, whose haunting blue eyes seemed confused.
“What is wonderful, Mama?” The round turned up little petite face met his mother’s eyes and he smiled.

“He’s alive. Your uncle. That means your father was successful.” His father? Stories had been told of the highwayman who had captured the heart of the ice princess, melting stone hearts with the a single smile, but he had loved her once. She felt as though in this he owed her the life she had been without, and imagine her heartache when she learned of his games. It was all a game to him was it not? To turn the face of those he had no business loving.
“Does it mean we can leave? You said when you found him, we would leave.” The winter was coming, and with it came sickness this land was known for. All children were told of bedtimes only to prevent it, but in truth even within the bed there was nothing that could be done. “Where is he Mama?”

“Scotland. We leave tomorrow night.”