Migraines suck.

Between an all day migraine and dealing with the emotional and mental fall out from multiple flashbacks last night, it's been hard to write. I really hadn't felt up to writing much of anything, to be honest, but I had to post something to let you all know I hadn't fallen off of the edge of the earth. Aside from that, happy spring, have a flower.

Today is what?

Ever have one of those weeks where your sense of time gets completely skewed? I spent much of today trying to remember what day it is. The migraine Wednesday night didn't help much, considering that it went into Thursday morning. I barely got any writing done in my morning pages. I'm still playing catch up with my journal writing for my health stuff. And yet, I feel optimistic about writing at the moment. I'm not sure if this optimistic outlook is because the seasonal depressive episode is finally going away or if it is because I had an ok day today.

My attempt to condense twenty years worth of notes down to one book is going slowly. This is to be expected. But, as I am looking at things that I wrote way back in 1997, I find myself feeling a sense of nostalgia and an echo of that starry eyed optimism that I was going to be an author. It makes me smile. I still have some of that flush of excitement over the whole writing process. It's just hard to make it work now.

The spirit is willing, the body a bit less so. If the brainmeats decide to cooperate a little more, I can get back to posting more often than once a week or so. In the meantime, however, here's a pic from the ancient and venerable first notebook. (Complete with misspelling and poorly done calligraphy.)

Craft of Writing: The struggle.

Movies especially love to portray writing as a romantic profession. We writers either languish dramatically as we wait for inspiration and the entire concept of the work to descend from the æther which we shall dutifully transcribe. Or we work in a manic frenzy, possibly under the influence of some intoxicant, prone to lash out at any who dare to disrupt us in our sacred duty to impart the thing that burns in our brains.

Writing is not some Victorian occupation done with quill and ink. It is, however, hard work. Crafting a sentence is not nearly as simple as some make it sound. Some days, the words refuse to fit together properly. Other days, technical glitches (like my 'h' key being sticky) can make working on any manner of writing a nightmare. ALWAYS BACK UP YOUR WORK! AND MAKE BACK UPS OF YOUR BACK UPS!!1elventyone! *coughs* The hardest part of making writing work is doing the work of writing.

There are always distractions. There is always 'real life' getting in the way. Some of us have to schedule our writing time late at night because that is the only free time we get. Others of us wake up at an obscenely early hour just to get a few pages of writing done before the day gets started and we don't get a chance to sit down for longer than it takes to scarf down a cheeseburger until it's the end of the day and exhaustion sets in. It is tempting to say that this stuff isn't part of a 'real' writer's life.

If you write, then your life is just part of your writing. It may be inspiring it. It may be an obstacle, but you're a writer living a life. Our life experiences seep into our work. It's like a painter's particular brush technique showing up in their paintings. That technique may have developed because of limited space in their studio. Or a random fingerprint on the canvas as they had to move the work to better light.

If you're a writer, then writing is a part of your life. That is both the struggle and the key to winning the struggle.

The Iron Lily - Part 14: False Light

Halthor was on the predawn watch. It was decided between the cousins that one would gaurd Halthor as he rested for a time after they were awake. The fire had consumed a goodly lot of the wood piled at the windward side of the building. All night, he had evil dreams. Visions of war filled his sleep where figured of astounding inhuman beauty battled each other in terrifying slaughter of any who were between them. He saw a black haired woman clad in bright armor bearing a sword he was sure was barely into womanhood. Still, in his nightmares, this young woman rode screaming into battle with a taller woman of inhuman grace at her side, also wearing armor. Both suits of armor bore stylized images of leaves upon them and were so finely crafted that Halthor was sure no human hands could manage such a thing.

As he watched the embers of the fire glow, all he could think of was this young woman that could have been his own child leading a howling horde of men into battle against another group with which there were two of the terrifying but beautiful people arrayed in black. He tried to tell himself it was just a dream. He did his best to tell himself that no one would let a mere girl dally with such men let alone take arms and attempt to battle them, nay, lead them in battle. Halthor shuddered.

Outside, the voices on the wind began to stop begging for entrance. They sang of dawn and daylight. They called out for him to step out into the day. Halthor's right hand gripped and released the haft of his hammer rhythmicly. It wasn't a conscious gesture. "I wish they'd shut up and let me think," he muttered. Ewen scoffed in his bundled up blanket.

"That'd make it easier. You sleep and I'll mind the night singers," the ferryman said. Halthor looked over at him as he sat up. Ewen paused a moment and tipped his head slightly to the right to listen better. "They're singing of day break. That's a good hour off. This is when they get you," he said, shaking his head, "You hear a choir singing of dawn and rising light. It sounds beautiful and as though it was a thing of the world that should have been. Then you open the door and the screaming horrors come in. And slaughter comes with the wind that puts out most of your hearth light."

Halthor looked over at him. "I thought that was just a story," he said.

"After last night?" Ewen said dryly and Halthor looked mildly chigrined. Ewen waved a hand. "It's a good hour to be up. Then I won't be away from Grand-da too long. Last night was not good. I am concerned for him."

"What happened to your father? Was he a priest as well?" Halthor asked. Ewen shook his head. He looked over at the door that rattled slightly with the force of the wind blowing on it, making it press insistently into Halthor's broad shoulders.

"I was seven. I woke up early because I hear voices singing. I wanted to see who was singing so early in the morning. I opened the door. A woman walked in with her feet not touching the ground. She opened her mouth and it was full of teeth like knives. I screamed and ran. Grand-da heard my scream and my parents. Uncle Mavora ran in and pulled him out as the gore eaters were clawing for him. They ripped out uncle Mavora's tongue as he threw Davian to safety. Stag's grace that dawn came when it did, for they very nearly pulled my uncle into what was once my home." Ewen looked at his cousin that was also his brother. "Until we were of age, I was raised by Grand-da and Davian by Mavora. Then my older brother came here to mind the traveler's rest. I became the ferryman after an arguably short apprenticeship and uncle Mavora went into the temple. Davian doesn't think of himself as my brother. We were but a year a part. Some thought us twins. I doubt that wound will heal. I understand why."

Dacia's War: Al-Uzza's bane.

The rain that Althos had predicted started falling as they reached the gates of Midloth. The setting sun turned the eastern sky aflame with a ruddy colored rainbow over the city. Lady Al-Uzza would have been less annoyed if the rain had waited after they were indoors to start. The desert god's warrior, however, did prove himself reasonably accurate with his estimate of when the rain would fall. Under the pretext of providing the priestess greater security as they moved away from the village, Althos rode at her side and subtly encouraged her to hasten. If the priestess was as clever as she thought she was, she may have realized what Althos was doing.

Instead, she found herself anxious over the idea of brigands and lawless wild people as Althos began telling stories on the ride to 'entertain' her. As the ground grew more uneven and moved higher, so it was that Lady Al-Uzza, priestess of Julara the blessed Rain Mother, found herself envisioning awful things happening if the raider or the escaped prisoners of Governor Bastizia, whom she was sure had a lax grip upon his domain. Why else, she thought, did it happen that his own wife was murdered?

As they entered into the small city, Althos looked about. He stood up in the saddle and pointed down a road. There, Lady Al-Uzza could see something of a city square. As per imperial decree, the eastern side of the square would be the governor's palace and the home of the priestesses of Julara. The southern side of the square would be the home of the priests of Ashur. And the garrison would be upon the western side. The northern side would be where imperial business was conducted and the business of the domain. The noise of the city if Midloth comforted the priestess for it reminded her of Dacia, the heart of the empire itself. When they reached the great square of the city and passed through the archway of the second gate, Lady Al-Uzza noted with surprise there was but one wall surrounding the governor's palace and the holy places there making a total of two walls of protection.

The great square was not a place of serene order as in Dacia city. Because Midloth was a smaller place, the market was set up in the great square. Lady Al-Uzza scowled a bit at the straw piled for sale near the gatehouse. When the party passed through the ring of market stalls that were closing up for the day, they entered into a smaller square at the center of the great square of the city made by that double ring of ramshackle stalls. People stopped and stared at them. They had not seen such a company come into their city before. A man walked down the wide staircase that came from the portico of the governor's palace. Behind him came another who was older but not as aged as Lady Al-Uzza expected.

The pair walked up to the party. They bowed before Lady Al-Uzza. The first man, who was armed with a curving sword unlike what she had ever seen before, bowed deeply where as the second gave a very short bow. "My Lady, you honor our city with your presence. If we had known of your journey, we would have sent outriders to greet you and accompany you. If I may be so bold, for what reason have you come to my domain?" the older man said. Lady Al-Uzza blanched beneath her sodden veil.

"It is by her Serene Highness that I go north to bring aid and counsel to Govenor Bastizia," she answered. The man nods slightly and adjusts his cloak slightly as rain began to fall harder.

"Midloth will gladly shelter my Lady's party and supply you for the journey north. Has there been any news of the business in the sands?" the ruler of the city said as he took hold of the reins of Al-Uzza's mount. She glanced over at Althos. The man arched an eyebrow. "I see this is a discussion that requires some privacy," he said, "Grent, make sure that these people are well cared for. Send word to Erlion that his brother has arrived." Althos dismounted and respectfully bowed to the subconsularis of the region. He then assisted Al-Uzza with her dismount.

"The evening meal is prepared, for Erlion had spoken of your arrival after consulting the sand mirror," the Lord Decebal said, "Let us dry off and attend it. There after, we shall speak of business." Lady Al-Uzza found herself annoyed that Decebal had the presumption to make plans for her but was too busy feeling more annoyed that her garb was steadily being soaked through by now driving rain.

"Yes, let us do so," she said, struggling to figure out Decebal's name. As the party moved off to their separate locations, Al-Uzza, Althos, and the grey robed Iona walked with Decebal. "Lord ..." Al-Uzza started when Iona, who was at her back whispered his name very quietly, "Decebal, has the business of the north reached your gates?" Decebal shook his head.

"Refugees come from time to time, but right now we are secure. Three day's hard ride north, we would find things different. Another three days, you will find Lord Bastizia's balwark is threatened. We have answered his call for aid as best we may but we are bound to serve the Empire first," Decebal replied. He sounded exhausted.

"All must serve the Empire," Al-Uzza said, "But their Serene Highness would see the North secure and well. So we have come to render aid as we may." Decebal thought about the party that Al-Uzza arrived with. The warriors seemed hardy enough but this was nothing more than a small squadron at best. He found himself hoping the stories about the witches and their powers were true. For if the black and grey clad women had the ability to rain hail down upon the enemy it could be the beginnings of something hopeful. He kept this thought to himself.

Althos found himself growing angrier with each word that Al-Uzza said. He knew she was putting words in the mouth of the Empress and Emperor. He knew that she had no interest in what Decebal said and likely was thinking it was simply idle talk. "My Lady," Althos said smoothly, "we do not wish to trouble your sweet voice more than necessary. The cold does not suit you, as you had said earlier. Perhaps after a warm meal it would be a better time to speak of such weighty matters, giving your voice a chance to rest."

"A brother of Ashur learned in medicine?" Decebal said with surprise. Althos bowed slightly. "The warriors truly have learned more than I thought they did in my youth," Decebal chuckled.

"I would but aspire to his Lordship's wisdom," Althos replied. Decebal laughed. They stood before a room with a fire burning that was small but quite warm. Robes were laid out for them. Deep blue for Al-Uzza, white for Iona, and red for Althos. The robes for the priestess and acolyte of Julara were hooded. Althos looked at the hoods for a moment with longing as a chill breeze blew in the doors while they were closing and passed over his bare head. Decebal gestured towards the chamber.

"Towels also await you, my chamberlain insisted it was necessary. I did not know you were coming so far and were unaware of the coming weather. If you do not have heavy cloaks, they will be provided to you when you go farther north. By the time you reach Govenor Bastizia, the first snows will likely have fallen," Decebal, "A servant shall bring you to the feasting hall. You need only ring the bell."

Lady Al-Uzza stepped into the warmed room and noted with some alarm that there was nothing to shield herself from Althos's gaze. She looked at the hooded gowns and at the garb for Althos. "Step outside, Brother Althos," she demanded, "It is unseemly for a man to behold a woman unadorned."

"And yet, my Lady," Althos said dryly, "Her Serene Highness is beheld by two men unadorned many a time. And she has birthed a child. Indeed, the Empress herself is most holy but unafraid of the gaze of men. Sure her bondswoman has no such fears." Al-Uzza turned sharply on her heel and moving with more speed than he expected, she slapped him across the face with her left hand.

"You shall not sully the name of Julara's daughter by speaking of such filth," she hissed at him, "Leave my presence at once." Althos didn't move. As Al-Uzza made ready to strike him again, he caught her wrist. "Unhand me at once," she ordered the warrior-monk.

"Lord Decebal would be most surprised to see you missing your left hand," he replied. "One blow," he said, "One blow is all I'll allow. Upon any of our party. Harm anyone, I will personally see to it that the Empress and Emperor themselves learn of how hideously unfit you are for this task. Julara's mercy is kinder than your anger. Would you see her disdain? You've already insulted the Great Mother by demanding a woman great with child draw water for your horse. Even a priestess bows to a mother and asks blessing. The Empress herself had done so when she journeyed out to greet her Lion from calling on his distant kinsmen and passed through a village where a woman was due any day. Indeed, the Empress not only asked the mother's blessing upon her but helped deliver her child."

Al-Uzza glared at the man before her. "Let me go, monk," she said, "Your life lies in my hands."

"And yet I have possession of one, and your silent sister watches all. Try me, old woman," he replied, his grip tightening painfully on her wrist.

"Release me and this matter will be forgotten," Al-Uzza said, "Do not and I'll have Decebal divest you of your bald head. You haven't the protection of priesthood." Althos smiled. Something about that smile made Al-Uzza uncomfortable, more so than how quickly he caught her wrist. There was the suspicion that Althos allowed her to strike him, not that she had surprised him nibbling at the back of her mind. Althos opened his hand, holding his fingers splayed in a gesture much like one of giving mass blessing.

"I bow to the Lady's will, and shall await her in the corridor after I have donned more fitting garments," Althos said. He stepped back and gave a half bow before turning his back to her. Briskly and silently, he stripped off his sodden clothes and hung them upon the rack near the fire. Al-Uzza looked upon the shadow of his form as he moved, scowling with displeasure. Once he was dressed, he put on the slippers that his brother had sent with the garment and stepped out into the hallway. He stood at the doorway with his sword belt at his side in a very clear position of guarding said location.

"I like him not," Al-Uzza said when she finally began work on changing her garments, "Let his defiance this evening be noted." The large woman looked over at her silent companion. The sister's head had been closely shaved, marking her has a novice. Blond fuzz was over her scalp and she seemed to barely be into womanhood because of how undeveloped she appeared to Al-Uzza. "A child," Al-Uzza muttered with disgust wriggling into her gown, "A defiant, barbaric creature and a child. No wonder my civilizing hand is needed." The novice nun managed to maintain her vow of silence despite the priestess's scornful words. The nun carefully laid out the linen veils for herself and her mistress to dry before hanging up their gowns upon the rack. Al-Uzza had blue leather shoes lined with velvet to wear, soles that were surprisingly solid. The nun left her traveling sandals sitting where she had changed clothes and walked out of the room behind the priestess in bare feet.

Al-Uzza rang the bell and a servant scurried down the corridor. Al-Uzza glanced over at the nun walking at her left shoulder and realized that she was dressed in pure white, not grey. This was not a librarian in training, realized Al-Uzza. The nun at her side was a walking weapon and one who enforced the will of the Empress herself. A cold trickle of fear ran down Al-Uzza's spine at the realization that she had been deceived in something by the Empress. Only then did she realize that her being sent north was a test of loyalty, and if she was found wanting she'd meet Julara personally. Suddenly, impressing Decebal became far less important.