While my writing may now be the best out there it does provide me with much amusement. It's also a relatively cheaop hobby that keeps me (for the most part) out of trouble. One thing I will say though, if any of these charachters come to life, I will be running for my life.

What is posted here is the prologue of a story that I find more amusing than most. I also pity the main charachter. Enjoy.

Remember a review is a kind thing to leave.



Out of Time

Prologue

The woman standing on the third-floor balcony was of moderate height and slim build. When it came to her looks, she would be the first to tell you that she was nothing remarkable to look at, although there would be those that disagreed with her. Her plain features allowed her to blend in anywhere she went. The power that seemed to radiate off of her on the other hand was something that made you want to look twice at her. Some people would even look a third time if they thought that they could do it without being caught.

By her stance you could tell that her lean frame was well muscled. Her long black hair was generously threaded with streaks of silver. Not a single strand of hair escaped the braid that ran down her back and came to a halt just after the hemline of her skirt. And considering that the wind was blowing hard into her face at such an altitude that could be considered a blessing.

Even with middle age setting in quickly, her cobalt blue eyes were as they always had been sharp and alert. They were sometimes startling in their intensity. The small scars on her face added to her appearance rather than detracting and making her something to be feared. Just by looking at her you could tell that she was a woman of formidable opinions. And by her appearance alone you knew that she would defend those views with everything she had. Even if everything meant her life.

Rumor had it that it was because of those opinions that her forearm lacked a heavy marital armband. In truth the woman had been offered marriage several times. But each time that they asked she told them that she wasn’t interested. And they in turn told her that she would never get any where without the help of a man. To which she always replied, “And who led the kings’ troops during the war for the crown?” Their reply to which was nothing more than slinking away in shame. And if it wasn’t that, they would give her a glare that would have killed a lesser woman. That was the way that she and they played the game of life. And if other people didn’t like it than she really didn’t care. Nor did she have a need to care about what they thought.

As she leaned against the rail of the balcony her stern features (that some swore were set in stone due to the fact that they never changed) seemed to relax as though she were thinking about thoughts that were much more pleasant than her earlier ones. And in truth she was. While she was still thinking about a war that had ended forty years ago, she was also thinking about its lasting consequences.

One of the consequences was that women were no longer considered property. Women now had the legal right to vote, bear arms, inherit legacies, own property, and generally do all that a man could do. That included holding a seat in the House of Nobles. In fact the only thing a woman couldn’t inherit was the Crown. Too many Nobles had objected to the mere thought of a female monarch that they had threatened open revolt to any that was crowned. With that possibility in mind Christoph had decided that a compromise had been in order.

Christoph had decreed that since the Crown would not be allowed to be inherited by a woman than all other houses of nobility must be inheritable by one, the decree also stated that there would be no grandfather clause for the sons that were younger than their sisters, but were already in line for the title. Those heirs may not have been happy with the clause but they didn’t have a choice when it was likely that the King would call on St. James to enforce the law. Christoph may not have liked the compromise but as he had told her, he felt confident that one day one of his descendants would change that little problem and it would be no more.

Another consequence of the war was that the class known as serfdom had also been abolished. Now every person in the kingdom was free. Christoph had rammed that little referendum right down the opposition member’s throats. He (and she) had felt that human life was not lifeless or cheap and held more value than what some of their peers did.

Therefore they had contrived to make every person feel that they had some control over their life and if a person had the freedom of choice than they would willingly fight for the right to stay that way. There was no way that they would allow anyone to take that freedom from them. Because in all of their (their being those members that held thoughts similar to that of the crown and the champion) minds, a free man fighting for their home and their way of life was ten times as strong as a paid soldier who received nothing but his wages and the occasional nod of support from his superiors. Not to mention it had the added bonus that the common people who worked the land and ran the guilds would support the Crown and its wishes while they were at it. Life sometimes worked in mysterious ways when it came to upsetting the opposition.

Another of the consequences of the war was the life the lady on the balcony now led. She was known far and wide as the Duchess St. James. Another perk (if that is what one wanted to call it) was that she was the most famous person on the planet. Man or woman. When it came to naming the one person, who many people claimed as their own protector they inevitably named St. James. Some of them even claimed that she was a war goddess reincarnated - and in some cases that wasn’t far from the mark. It didn’t matter what her gender was (especially since such little things were no longer important - or so some people liked to think), there wasn’t a person alive that didn’t know who she was. It had been her banner that had led the king’s soldiers during the war. Her banner that had rallied them when they were daunted by the power that the usurpists seemed to hold. And it was she that had led the procession when the king retook his rightful seat. Just as it had been her hands - not the senior Vicars - that had placed the crown back upon his head, where it rightly belonged.

And that had been a break in the traditions that had been followed for the last thousand years or more. The church was supposed to sanctify both the crown and the King, thereby blessing his reign and granting his right to rule. Not his nobles or military leaders, for it was believed that they could be corrupted and were thereby unfit to bear the presence of the holiness of the crown. Most of the population had seen the crowning of Christoph as the breaking of the Church’s power of them and they way they lived their lives.

In many respects, that was true. When the fight for the supremacy of the Crown had first begun, many of the ways of life had been dictated by the Church.

From the time people woke to the time they lay down at night the church told them how to live their lives. The church held such power due mainly to the fact that they were the ones that provided for the education and most of the medical treatments to the populace. The church was a firm believer that knowledge is power. And they had held on to that power from almost the inception of the Church as the State Religion.

Once the war had ended the church was no longer the sole source of education and medicine for all due to Christoph’s insistence that the Crown also provide for the people. That single act had been the beginning of the end of the Church’s power over people.

While much of their lives were no longer dictated by the church, what little had remained of its power was now more ironclad than ever. This, Bridgit knew, was just the beginning of a number of changes that would span the centuries. But they were changes that were supported by Christoph, and the entire world knew it.

And while Christoph was a religious man he was also one that knew what his people wanted and needed. And while they did need the church and its instruction they wanted St. James’ approval for his reign. And he got it. Not that he was ever likely to not have it, but appeasing the people was an important step in keeping his crown and his head. And his head on his shoulders.

The people had also wanted their freedom. And Christoph had granted it. The people’s wants had been the reason that he had been willing to die by his subjects. To show them that they were fighting for this land together and that when it was over they would be free or he would die trying. That was the one thing that they hadn’t even had to ask of St. James. They knew she would die for them.

Just as it was she who was idolized by the everyday folk. That idolization was the base of her power in the House of Nobles. And that was something that most of her peers resented (probably due to the fact that they couldn’t even begin to enjoy the

amount of support that was available to her). At least her enemies did. Her allies just found it amusing and were content to watch her drop her enemies like they were the flies that were surrounding the tail of a horse. The House was an intriguing thing at best. At worst she didn’t want to think about what it could be.

Ah, that most glorious House of the ruling class. There were days that

she hated that House. Even though it afforded her a great many privileges it (or its members) seemed to take great delight in finding ways to thwart either hers or the kings plans. In fact she knew they did. They had often told her so, and with a smile on their aristocratic faces no less. Those same faces that she often wished she could bury in the mud of her horses hooves on a rainy day.

And that was enough thought wasted on politics. This beautiful dawn and its ensuing day (which promised to be comfortably warm and peaceful) were not to be wasted on such dreary things as the ruling class and their habits. They were not worth ruining her relaxed and tranquil state of mind over. Especially since such states of mind were difficult to come by.

As her mind relaxed yet again a runner came out onto the balcony and said, “Lady St. James. I am charged to put this directly into your hands.” His tone was soft and insistent and it directly contrasted with his red face and labored breathing. When she took in his neutral colored attire, she immediately knew that her peaceful day was at an end.

Those were the clothes of the Merchant Guilds. They were neutral in all things. Or so they would have people believe. Their sole purpose in life was to make money. And the way they did that was by siding with what they considered the winning side; without letting the other side know that they had effectively lost. But that didn’t matter. If they had sent her a runner than things were about to take a left turn down a path that time had left behind many years ago. Or she hoped it had at the very least.

Bridgit took the folded sheet of parchment and broke the intricately designed wax seal. The seal was the one that the Channel used.

The King’s Information Channel, or the Channel, as it was more commonly called, had first been formed during the war. Its purpose was to provide vital information to the King. The idea behind the Channel had belonged to St. James and a Merchantman named Razvan.

Razvan had approached her one day with a piece of information than had proven to be more valuable than originally realized. When she had asked him why he was willing to part with such valuable information for no price he had given her this answer,

“More money can be made with the King alive and ruling in peace than if the usurpists rule in chaos and without honor.”

After that initial meeting an arrangement had formed between the Crown and the

Merchants Guild. The Guild would obtain and pass along all information that it could for a fee and promised trade after the war. That relationship had worked well throughout the war and the years following it. It appeared as though those services would come into play once more. This scroll held more value than any other product that the Guild had.

The seal guaranteed it. The contents of the note were terse and that made its information all the more important.

Bridgit looked up to thank the runner only to find that he was already gone. And that was just like a member of the Merchants Guild. They just had to leave before they got caught.

 

Shaking her head briefly Lady Bridgit St. James stormed off the balcony and headed to her private study hollering at the top of her lungs for a runner of her own. And the one she would send forth would gain admittance to any room on the planet. For the man she sent would be in her colors, and nobody denied a runner from St. James.

 

 

***

 

The news had spread around the planet like a raging wildfire through a brittle wood forest. For the first time in more than ten years someone had tried to assassinate the king! Logically the time for assassination had passed when the war had ended officially. And that was forty years ago. And it had ended in no small part because St. James had lost her temper for the last time on fools that willingly disobeyed the King. In other words she had come up with a battle plan while she had been drunk (and those always tended to be the deadliest ones - so said the soldiers who fought in the campaigns - or the ones that lived anyway). Or so the story went.

And most people tended to believe it. For the simple fact was that if it was a rumor involving bloodshed and St. James it was probably true. And that was the reason that she enjoyed the reputation that she held. This is why no fool dared to tempt her these days.

Many people were wondering if the people who had tried such a thing were fools. Or were they just the final zealots of a bygone crusade that were trying to give new life to a dead movement - one that any loyal (or sane) person would consider treasonous. Surely they had to realize that with St. James at court that they had no hope of succeeding and that in all possible likelihood they would end up either in prison or dead? Didn’t they?

Speaking of St. James, the rumors that were going around couldn’t be true. There was no way that a common, two-penny assassin could injure her so perilously that she was facing mortal death as the sun went down. That couldn’t happen. She meant too much to far too many people. In fact she meant so much that some were beginning to consider her immortal and infallible. Both of which she was not. And if you asked her that in a lucid and sober moment she would tell you that she was only a mortal who did the best she could with what she had. And even when she had nothing that was usually more than most people had to work with. That was generally how she produced the miracles that she was said to deliver. This made her a banner of hope for the lower classes to rally behind.

Lady St. James was as much a part of their daily life as their loyalty to the king. She was their symbol of hope, justice, and loyalty. If Lady Bridgit St. James, a woman who proudly admitted that she came from peasant stock, could earn a title among the nobility than any one of them could do the same. All because of the example that she had set for them. Because, like her, they didn’t give up easily or often. And while most of them may have more give in them than she did that was all right. Because she would always be one of them and that was more than they had ever had in the past.

Her fiercely independent attitude and blunt form of speech was known by all. Just as her temper was. Hers was a temper feared by criminals and usurpists alike. Even her friends were wary of it. Although they generally had nothing to fear. If she didn’t like you than she let you know. Just as she let you know if she was wrong. In fact she went out of her way to apologize if she was wrong. And that didn’t happen very often. She made sure of it.

But even her enemies knew not to cross her. Because when Lady St. James put her mind to it there was nothing in the world that would stop her from doing anything that needed to be done. There wasn’t a person on the planet that knew if you asked St. James for justice and she found that it was needed than you were going to get it. Whether the rest of the world liked it or not.

The crown may call her its hope, but in reality she was the hope of the planet and the everyday man that labored to make it livable and enjoyable. She was the person that every one of them wanted to be. Whether she wanted to be or not that was who she was. And for her there was no denying it. Especially since there was no point or use in denying it.

And those were all reasons that she could not be dying on them. She simply meant too much for them to even begin to contemplate her loss.

 

***

 

The sun was setting over the Kunshandar mountains signaling an end to the day. The sky itself was ablaze with brilliant hues of purple, red, blue, and orange. Those colors would come to be called the Dying Light. For many people it would be the end of a way of life. For without a hero to guide them they were sure to get lost. And the bees that were buzzing in the gardens seemed to sense this making their buzzing sound mournful. It was a sound that many thought busy bees couldn’t make. But it would come to symbolize the planets general feel for the loss of one so great.

The yellowish beeswax candles in the room had burned low and the incense in the air was thick and heavy. The woman in the bed had been lying there for several hours now. Her most recent injury had crippled her beyond anything that she had suffered in her long and sometimes harsh life and she knew it. But she couldn’t understand why it was any different from any of the other injuries that she had taken. And of those she had lost count long ago. In fact she had lost count after the first one, her injuries were just that unimportant to her.

She could recall being skewered in the lungs at least once while she was on the battlefield. Why was this one minor wound so much different? One would think that in the life that she had led she would learn to minimize the injuries she received. But when it came to defending the crown there was no injury that was too great to sustain. And that she would proudly and defiantly tell anyone.

Through the red haze of pain she briefly wondered if this would be the last time that she was the inside of this room. She would miss it if it were. She couldn’t begin to count the number of times that she had been here. Not to mention the fact that she would miss all of the friends (and even a few of the enemies) that she had made in the last fifty years or so. That number included her lover and child. Those were the two that she knew she would miss the most.

Of course her son was well into his twenties now - and married as well. She remembered that ceremony well. Officially, he wasn’t her child. In fact there wasn’t a person on the planet that knew who his mother was. And they had gone through great pains to assure that fact.

He was known through his father - General Matthais Areson. And as the son of a Great War hero who was also a planetary duke his wedding had been a grand spectacle.

Formal wear had been worn by all. Heavily brocaded gowns in bright colors had been worn by the women (with the exception of herself who had worn her house colors of black and blue). They had all worn dainty slippers to dance in. Members of the military had worn the dress uniforms and the male members of the Court had worn the best clothing that they could buy from the Milliner’s Guild. All in all it had been an event to remember.

Her grandchild was still too young to understand who she was. But in time the girl would know. And that bought to mind a long buried thought.

It was one that she hadn’t given any thought too in at least thirty years. If not more. She wondered if she would ever see her parents (and - god forbid - her know-it-all twin siblings) again. She hadn’t seen them since she was sixteen. That seemed like such a different world. And in truth it was. Because the time that she was in now wasn’t the one that she had been born into. It was in fact, at least three hundred years before she was born that it looked like she was going to die.

Now there was a depressing thought. She was going to die before she ever got a chance at life. It was amazing what your mind could come up with when you were close to death. She could vaguely remember a saying about a noose doing wonders for focusing ones thoughts. Looked like it was true.

 

***

 

The woman’s fever had become so high that she was not “Ware of the two mages standing over her. One was a senior mage, the other a junior. The junior wore the deep blue and green colors of the healing mages while the senior wore the purple and black of the ruling mages. In fact the silver capped staff in his hand said that he was the head of all mages. And his expression was the grimmer of the two. Because he had more reason to despair than the healer did. And his despair wasn’t for the same reason as that of the healer. Oh no. His dread had a much deeper reason for being.

Because there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that if he lived long enough to see her born that he was going to have some serious explaining to do and that would be a very unpleasant encounter at best. He didn’t want to think what it could be at worst. But those were thoughts that were best left for another time. Her injuries were grievous and were what must concern them the most at the moment. He knew that he would have plenty of time to dread their future encounters. His magic told him that much.

Just as his magic told him that she was losing consciousness quickly. Both junior and senior mage knew that the lack of awareness was extremely unlike her. But the senior mage had a feeling that he knew what was happening to her. And it wasn’t a thought that he liked. But he didn’t dislike it either. Because he knew that it was high time for it to happen. Although when it did happen he would mourn her just as the rest of the world.

As he was ending his thoughts the healer chose to speak, “I do not understand, High Mage. Her wounds were not so severe as to cause such a high fever. She should not be in this state.” Although his voice was calm there was an underlying puzzlement in it. He knew that this shouldn’t be happening and yet it was. This was very odd indeed. And he wished that it wasn’t happening because he didn’t want the stigma of being the healer who lost the planets greatest hero. That most definitely wouldn’t do wonders for him as a person or as a healer. As a person he didn’t feel like being lynched by the general populace and as a healer he didn’t like the fact that his patients would no longer trust him enough for him to heal them. Because if you didn’t trust a mage-born healer than they couldn’t do their job. And if they couldn’t do a job there was little more for them to do. It was a scary proposition to consider.

The High Mage shook his head slowly before answering the healer. “This is no fault of yours, Healer. Her body is simply telling her that it is time for her to return home.”

“High Mage, she is showing the classic signs of impending death.” The healer felt that this should be obvious and spoke to his superior as though he were a three-year-old child. Honestly some things were easily recognizable. Even the High Mage should know that. There wasn’t a person in the land that didn’t know what death looked like. And the High Mage -it was rumored - had seen more than his share of death. It was also rumored that he had dealt it as well. Though no one was brave enough to ask him the truth of the rumors.

There was a simple reason that they wouldn’t ask and that was because when a fully trained mage took their oath within the community part of that oath stated that they would do no harm to their fellow man. All mages knew that times of war were difficult to uphold their oath but they were expected to uphold it. If that oath were broken, the mage who had committed the offence was banned from the community and was stuck living a solitary life. At this point in time no one wanted to expel the mage that had held the community together through the war and the political turbulence that it had brought with it.

“She is not dying, Healer.” Oh no. She wasn’t dying. In a way it was just the opposite. But that didn’t mean anything to the Healer. But it would soon, the High Mage would see to that.

“I do not understand.”

The High Mage thought long and hard before answering the Healer. The way he answered this would explain so much about the planetary heroine. But it would also create many more contradictions. And those contradictions could create some interesting dilemmas. This was going to prove interesting at the least. He had to make sure that whatever he said stayed within the walls of this academy. Because if it were released to time than it would create more problems than would be necessary. And he really didn’t want to deal with those problems.

To ensure that the information would stay here in the academy the High Mage made a circling motion with his hands and created a sphere in the air. After a few moments that sphere encircled the entire academy. He had created a silencing sphere. The healer raised an eyebrow at this action but said nothing.

After a handful of moments the High Mage began, “Many years ago, when the wars first broke out and the times were at their darkest, there was no one. The crown had no hope. And worst of all the people were getting desperate. My friend, a desperate population is the worst thing that could happen to anyone. Because desperate people will do anything for a solution. And that is something that I did not want to see happen to this land. So I did the only thing I could think of. I asked the planet for help.

“And it sent me a sixteen-year-old maid by the name of Bridgit Jamison. This maid was skilled with a sword in ways that I had never seen. And she had a temper to match anything that the devil Koranis could deal out. I would later find out that it was a magnificent thing to behold. And whilst it was grand it was also something to be feared. But it was always tethered to a tight leash. That leash was her compassion for her fellow man. Something that not all people at the time had.

“When she first arrived, she was furious with me. I had tampered with her life and I had no way to send her back. And her temper got worse when she found out. That was the first time I had ever seen anything that held that much lethal beauty. It was a sight. Believe me. It is also one that I am not hoping to see again.

“The moment she lost her temper I knew that the spell had sent me the one person that could save us all. So you see, Healer, she is not dying. The spell has decided that we no longer have need of her and that the time has come for her to return home,” he finished almost sadly. Even though he knew this, he couldn’t quite believe that it was happening. Because he knew that they still needed her. She was important to so many that there were always going to be those that needed her. So how could his spell judge this. But he also knew that they would all have to live with it.

The healer knew that with that explanation his own fate was sealed. And it was sealed because he was about to be known forever more as the healer who lost St. James. He would become an outcast from society itself. Because no one would trust him to heal them. After she left, he would be alone in a world that would revile him. Luckily as a

mage he could hide among the non mage population long enough that he could learn another skill. Perhaps he would apprentice himself to a mortal healer and learn how they survived without magic. In fact, hadn’t he heard that they were using herbs to cure what minor ailments they could? This sounded like a mortal science that he could use. That sounded like a good plan. Hopefully it would help him overcome the loss he was already feeling.

“How much will she remember,” the healer asked hesitantly. The High Mage could hear the resignation in his voice. Good at least the man would accept what he knew to be an unfair fate. Hopefully what the lines of fate had in store for him would alleviate his sense of betrayal. Because according to the lines his name would become well-respected one among the mortal population. He would have to be sure to check up on the healer in a century or two.

“Everything,” was the solemn reply.

“How old will she be?”

“The same age as when she left,” was the rock steady reply. The healer gave a pitying look to the woman who was lying in the bed. There was no way that he could envy the challenges that she was sure to be facing. He hoped that the future was ready for her.

And for some strange reason, those were the last words that Bridgit St. James heard. Because as the High Mage finished his tale, her body disappeared in a bright light. And all that was left in her bed was the impression that she had made while she had lain there, and the blood that had fallen from her wounds.

History would record that the Lady Brigit St. James had disappeared close to the middle of her sixth decade. And the world would mourn her as it had never done before. Her lover knew who she was and where she had come from and thus knew (or suspected) where she had returned to. But he mourned her for dead. As would every single person who knew her. And those that had only heard of her would mourn her even more deeply than her comrades in arms. But they would keep her memory alive.

But only those at the mage Academy would know what became of her. And when the time was right, they knew that the Lady known everywhere only as St. James, would walk the earth once more. And they alone would be waiting for her. Waiting to tell her of the things that she had missed and would surely like to know. For they would record the last years, months, and days of her friends, enemies, and allies. This would all be save for her by the mages that were more loyal to her than they were to anyone else on the planet.

What even the mages didn’t know was that they wouldn’t be waiting alone. Her

decedents would be waiting as well. Only they would be planning for her return. They would see that she had the necessary means to walk proudly once more. Because they knew that when she walked once more, she would need more allies than one could count.

 

300 or so years later

 

The young woman was tossing and turning in her bed. Her long ravens black hair was in tangles and matted to her face, which was flush with color. One minute she was throwing her covers off, the next minute she was pulling them back on. The moans that she let out were worrisome. It almost sounded like she was in some sort of pain. And that worried her father. More than he would care to admit. He didn’t like seeing his oldest child like this. She was the strong one.

It was unusual for her to take a nap in the middle of the afternoon. And her father knew this when she had announced that she was going to take a nap. He figured that she might not have felt good. After putting his hand to her forehead to see if she had a temperature, he knew she wasn’t. That being the case he decided that he wouldn’t wake her for her afternoon lessons. Although she wouldn’t be happy about missing them, she was in no condition to practice with the sharp objects that she so loved.

Bridgit may not have been the most social student at school but when it came to her swordsmanship she was one of the best for her age. In fact the local master had granted her the title of Mistress of the Sword. And since only a Master could grant such a title, that meant that she was one of the best people on the planet. He was glad for her because Bridgit didn’t have many friends and for her to have found something that she could channel her energies into went a long way in testifying as to the character that she had. Her eyes often told you the same thing. When one looked at them they looked old and wise. They also tended to look proudly at anyone who thought that they were better than she was. And for that he would be the first to take her side if someone were to have a problem with her and want to do something about it.

Most people her age would have gone out and gotten into some type of trouble. But not Bridgit. And he proudly bragged about her to his colleagues at the college where he taught history. Just as he did the twins. It wasn’t every family that had a pair of certified genius’ and a Mistress of the Sword in it. And that was something that made both him and his wife proud. Although his wife sometimes failed to show it where Bridgit was concerned.

After watching her for a few more minutes he quietly closed the door. He better make sure that he told the twins to keep their arguing down to a low roar so they wouldn’t wake her. He didn’t think that it was going to go down to well but that was just the way it was going to have to be. It wasn’t often that Bridgit was ill so they were going to have to make a concession this one time. Especially after all that Bridgit did for them. Or didn’t, as the case usually tended to be.

He knew exactly how many times she had gotten them out of trouble. The two of them thought that they were clever and most of the time they were, but without Bridgit to run interference it would have gotten ugly on any number of times. And he hadn’t found that out until he recently caught her cleaning up after them and by the looks of it she had done it before. After asking her about it he had gotten her to admit that it was a less than rare occurrence. He would have to do something about that. And he decided that he would do something about it today. Oh the fun it was to be a parent of geniuses sometimes. Let them try to figure this out.

 

***

 

Two hours later Bridgit carefully opened her eyes. Than she quickly shut them again. She had no clue as to where she was. Or rather she had an idea but it couldn’t possibly be true. It just wasn’t possible. In fact this was not happening. The spell couldn’t have been done with her. Especially since she wasn’t done with it. She refused to believe that this was happening. She was not home with her mother, father, and siblings. She couldn’t be. She wasn’t ready for this.

There was no way that she was sixteen again. She was not about to live her life over again. Teenagers were pains in rear in more ways than one and she looked like on again. This is not what she wanted. Could life get any more outrageous?

Panic was quickly setting in and she made no move to control it. She didn’t want to. Because she had a feeling that if she didn’t get this out of her system than she was going to lose her temper on some fool from this time period and with her luck the idiot wouldn’t have done anything to deserve it. This was not going to be a good lifetime. She

could see it now.

After her thoughts slowed down she turned on her side to look into the mirror that ran length-wise down the wall. One look into that mirror was all it took for her to fall back into sweet oblivion.

 

This is a short story that is part of a series of shots. All of these shorts take place in the time of King Arthur and his Lady Champion Seraphim. WIthout further ado I give you: 


Sir Bors Tale -

It was nearing sunset on a warm summers day when someone knocked on the door of the little three room cottage. The villagers down the road didn’t visit the old woman that lived. The village elders thought that she was off of her somewhat rusty hinges.

            As for the children of the village, they were a different story altogether. They thought she was a bard. The old lady told them stories of Camelot. Of great Lords and Ladies. Even ones of knights in shining armor at tournaments jousting for a ladies favor.

            She even told them of a time when there was no famine or war. When miracles happened as often as the new dawn, and good deeds were a knights daily fare.

            The old woman gave a heavy sigh as she rose from her old wooden chair to answer the door. Her dark hair had long sense faded to white and her joints ached with the cold, but she was still as alert as she had been when she a young maid of twenty.

            When she opened the door it wasn’t to find a child as expected. Instead she found an apparent man of the gentry on her doorstep. His long white hair was tied back with a thong and his blue eyes were shadowed with the wisdom of age. The lines of his face spoke of a had life lived with many adventures. It was obviously a face that spoke volumes to the right person.

            “Seraphim? King’s Champion? Is it truly thee? Has my long search sought thee out,” the man asked. Relief was evident in his gravelly voice.

            Seraphim, for that was the woman’s name, was shocked. Who was this man? How did he know the truth of her past? Seraphim had thought herself successful in erasing herself from popular memory.

            “Who art thou,” she asked with a slight tremor in her voice that had nothing to do with fear and the frailty of age. While she may have sounded weak, you could almost hear the hidden strength that lay just beneath her surface.

            “Do not you remember the Knight born of common blood,” he asked in a soft voice.

            “Born of common blood? Bors? Could it possibly be you that stands at my door?” Confusion was evident in her voice. This couldn’t be Sir Bors. He hadn’t been seen since he left on his quest to find the Grail with Perceval and Galahad. Rumors had abounded of his death for years now.

            “It is Milady. Might I beg entrance into your cottage,” he enquired politely.

            “Granted Bors,” Seraphim answered in the same tone. Bors walked humbly into her home. Granted her home was not a grand as the rooms that she had acquired at Castle Camelot but the cottage was comfortable and it suited her needs perfectly.

            “Please arrange thyself to thy comfort. For I wager that our conversation shall last well into the next sunrise,” Seraphim told him.

            “Indeed Milady. For we have much to tell each other,” Bors agreed. He spoke quietly as though he were afraid to disturb the memories she held. Bors knew that his friend held a temper most powerful and he did not want to be the one to disturb it should it be resting peacefully after all these years.

            Even though his voice was quiet it was serene. Just as it had always been at court, where Arthur and Guinnevere had presided in days long gone. Seraphim thought she detected a note of weariness in his voice as well. If it were there it would be a first, for Bors wasn’t known to be weary of anything.

            “Before we begin would you care for refreshments?” Her town was polite, yet her eyes shone with merriment.

            “I’ll not turn it down if you’ve a mind to share your precious ale,” he answered her with a slight grin. For in times now past it was almost unheard of for the Lady Champion Seraphim to share any ale or mead that was in her possession. It was just something that wasn’t done.

            Seraphim nodded her had as he went into her little kitchen. She returned with two wooden mugs and a jug of ale.

            “Where have you been Bors,” Seraphim asked after she sat down with her ale. There was more than a hint of sorrow in her voice.

            “I shall answer your questions if you shall answer mine, Lady Seraphim.”

            “Name thy question, Sir Bors.”

            “What happened Lady Seraphim?”

            “It fell apart. Her Majesty took to Lancelot’s bed,” Seraphim informed Bors gravely.

            “The stories are true the? The tales told on peoples lips,” Bors asked in confusion.

            “They are, my friend. Everything from the betrayal of Mordred and Morgause to that of the king resting on the isle of Avalon,” Seraphim confirmed. Her eyes bright with unshed tears.

            “How? Why?”

            “I do not know. It was a combination of many things. The battle with Lancelot for Guinnevere shook the people’s faith in Arthur. Thus opening the door for the vile that was spread by Mordred and Morgause,

“Other than that I know nothing more,” Seraphim replied.

Bors grew upset at the news. This was not what he wanted to hear. Especially not from the only female knight of the Table Round. She was the King’s Champion! How could she not know hat destroyed the realm?

“How did you survive? You who were his staunchest supporter and protector, Yet there isn’t a tale in all the land that bears your name or presence,” he accused.

“Tis not what ye think, for you see, I am still bound by orders,” Seraphim stated simply.

“How is that possible?”

“Before the final battle during the last gathering of the Court I was ordered not to fight in the final battle against Mordred.

“Arthur gave tha6t ordered at the beginning of the gathering in front of every surviving knight. I was furious. And I let my anger be known by storming off after he explained his orders.

“He said that I was to survive so that Camelot would be remembered,’ Seraphim explained.

“In other words, he left the hardest task to you,” Bors clarified.

Seraphim nodded her head in agreement. “And you Bors? What happened to your companions, Galahad and Perceval,” Seraphim asked.

A look of sadness mixed with joy crossed his face before Bors replied, “They are no more Seraphim. Listen well and I shall tell thee of the holiest adventure of the Knights of the Table Round.

“Across the blue sea and the land of host sands there lies serene a hollow hill. Within it stands a glorious stone Cathedral dedicated to out Holy Father. It was protected by a silent order of monks.

“Before we reached the Cathedral Galahad joined the ranks of the eternals.

“Upon reaching the Cathedral Perceval and I were silently led to the bishop of the Holy Ground for he was the only one permitted to speak.

“He told us, Perceval and I, of how his ancestor Joseph came into possession of the Cup of Christ.

“And then we were told of Joseph’s long journey from the land of milk and honey.

“After this he bid us to stay the night. And to receive communion the next day.

“So we stayed in the simple quarters provided. And truly we intended to stay but a single night. But that night turned into many seasons.

“Finally one day I awoke for communion to find that I woke alone. For in the night Perceval had ascended the steps of heaven.

“On that day the bishop told me that it was my duty to return to tell the tale of Christ’s Cup.

“And so I returned only to find that Camelot was no more. Arthur and Guinnevere were non more. And absolutely no one knew of the Lady Champion Seraphim.

“Seraphim, I am most sure that when you were charged with keeping Camelot alive in the hearts of the people you were not supposed to erase yourself,” Bros finished.

“You may be right but it was all I could think of so that they will remember the most important parts,” Seraphim replied.

“Could you not have save Her Majesty’s honor,” Bors asked.

“In tried and tried true. But by the time I started ‘twas already too late. She had been condemned in the eyes of the populace,” Seraphim replied.

And so the two old friends sat there and talked long into the night. They talked f recent times and those long gone.

Come morning Seraphim knew she had more to add to the legend before she could take her eternal rest.

So when the children came the next day Seraphim told them a new tale. The tale told that day would forever be remembered as the greatest adventure for Arthur and his Knights.

It would come to be known as the Quest for the Holy Grail.

For any of you who may know of the name ladyredtemper I am she. Unfortunately I have forgotten my old password and am unable to retrieve it. So, if you see any similiarities between these two names (such as story postings) you'll know why.

So to all of you I wish a happy new year