May and September

[Chauncey]

Autumn comes with expected cost,
The roof adorned in its blanket of frost.
The garden glory comes of age,
Preparing for winter, to turn the page.

The paper was stained in a rich lavender dye, the ink that was used to write the child like script a dark gray, reminiscent of the dry ash of an apple wood fire. Dried violet petals littered the bare polished top of his modest oaken desk forming random patterns where they fell from the folded parchment of the letter as he broke the seal and opened it.

He read the letter a few times over. It was not long winded. It was obscure and vague, as was her habit. That in itself gave evidence that the letter was genuine.

Chauncey-


I've gone away for now, where the sky is darkened and the wind cries in mourning from the cold. If you ever need it you will find safe haven at the temple. I am lost and trying to find myself.

-Project 27

He sighed as he held the letter up to the light of the single tall candle that illuminated his desk area. Just as the little note included with the letter promised, the details etched into the paper of the letter stood out in relief as the light from the flame bled through the violet tinted page.

A map.

She is inviting me to follow, that much is obvious. Why? What am I to her? Old enough to be her grandfather is what I am.

He thought back to when they first met, although meeting was a loose term for that unexpected encounter. Her almost childlike exploration of the kitchens for chocolate after breaking into the estate. His discovery of her intrusion and subsequent chase around the butcher block. He blushed a bit at that memory, the silliness of the scene reminding him of something a pair of urchins would engage in, hardly the act of mature adult Sin’dorei.

But then she was far from a typical mature Sin’dorei. She was an enigma of womanhood and whimsy, playfulness and deadliness. She was also infectious.

The warmth of Spring a clarion call,
Washing away the sleep of Fall.
Blossoms of apple, lavender’s breath,
Warding off the hand of death.

Chauncey set the paper down and regarded his hands. They were strong hands, browned by the sun and calloused from many ages of honest work. A farmer’s hands, a laborer’s hands. But the hands of an adventurer?

I am too old for this, aren’t I? Adventuring is a job for the young, not some middle aged gardener and estate manager. These hands are more suited to the plow and the hoe than a sword and shield. Dentley would be rolling in his grave if he knew what I was doing.

But he was doing it wasn’t he? The more he thought about it the more certain he was that he would indeed continue the path he had set before himself. It occurred to him that the path was set in motion with that first encounter in the kitchens.

Project 27 indeed. My dear a project you may be, but then so am I. You knew what you were doing from the first day, didn’t you?

At the bottom of the letter a small trinket of Obsidian was tied with gray lace. Chauncey untied the trinket and secured it around his neck. The smooth dark stone felt unusually warm against the skin of his chest.

Maiden of Ashes you call yourself, but I am a man of old stone. One more adventure yes? The lichen has not taken over yet.

He reached over his desk to open a large atlas. A colored relief map of Azeroth spread open, spanning the two sides of the middle section of the atlas. He took up the letter and once more held it up to the light. Tracing with his finger he followed the directions on the atlas. When he came to the end of the trace he sat back and exhaled.

“That is going to take some time to get to for sure. Not the safest place in the world, but I suspect that is what she had in mind all along. A journey and trial. ”

“And if I get to the end, what then?”

Where does the Sun of Spring reside,
Once violets pass into eventide?
What does the autumn wind pursue,
The dark of night or the sky of blue?

[Chauncey]

The wind blows on
to every horizon,
passing through the earth
where it could be heard.

He held his hat down as the gust of warm summer wind blew in from the sea.

The day was wearing on. With his duties completed he finally had the time to complete the transplant that he had been anticipating. The afternoon sun beat down from the cloudless sky, its rays igniting the vibtrant colors and textures of the garden as Chauncey walked through the manicured pebbled walkway that led from the greenhouse nursery towards the bed of prepared soil. Slung over his shoulder was the wicker basket filled with his precious cargo.

It had taken little skill to get the special seeds that had appeared in the post over a month ago to germinate. Once he realized what species it was he seasoned the soil appropriately so that the rare and foreign flower would properly flourish in the alien environment. They matured swiftly.

The cross polination had been more challenging. Carefull selection of the right specimens took trial and error to find the one that would accept the pollen of the foreigner. The result was well worth the effort and Chauncey allowed himself some measure of pride at his botany skills when the first blossom of a new subspecies had opened.

Here comes a flower
in its flourishing,
the spirit of the wind
soaking in every inch of its living.


He arrived at the prepared bed and set down the basket. His gardening tools were laid out with the meticulous order and precision he favored like some surgeon in a house of healing.

Taking up his hand spade he broke the surface of the loose soil and hollowed out a series of holes, eight inches apart and four inches deep. No more, no less. He had originally intended to arrange them in tidy and neat rows but in a moment of inspiration he cast aside that plan in favor of a random, whimsical spread.

When the last hole was dug he leaned back on his heels to wipe the slight film of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and regarded the bed. Neat little mounds of soil stood ready and waiting beside each hole destined to welcome their new residents. He lifted the protective cloth from over the basket and reached inside to take the first plant out.

Shaking and trembling
the flower nearly stops breathing.
A new home, a strange sight.
The flower's roots,
searching for something to cling to.

He moistened the soil with the watering can and laid the tangle of dark roots gently inside the hole. He supported the plant with one hand while scooping the little mound of soil with the other into the hole, being careful to ensure an even spread and that all roots were well covered and secure. A gentle pat to firm up the base and he moved on to the next planting.

Struggling against its origin
the flower dreams to fly away.
To be free,
gone with the wind.

The sun had dipped well down towards the mountainous horizon to the west when the last flower was planted. Chauncey stood up slowly and stretched, his back creaking slightly with each turn and twist. He stooped to gather up his gardening tools and deposited them into the basket.

Nearby along the path stood a small garden bench with a marble side table. On the table rested a silver tray with a crystal decanter of light red wine and a similar designed crystal goblet. Settling down onto the bench he poured himself a glass of the scarlet liquid and settled back to watch the impending display.

But the wind is gone,
leaving the flower alone.
Scattered like a fragile bone
until the day is done.

When the last rays of sun faded behind the mountains and the shadows of the evening fell over the bed the flowers responded. With the grace and fluidity of tiny dancers the small bulbs spread open, their petals dim at first but gradually the inherent luminosity gathered strength until each small flower shone and twinkled in the dusk. All around was awash in violet light.

Chauncey smiled with satisfaction as he sat sipping his wine in silence. They could not be called Netherblooms any longer he knew. They had mutated well beyond that original species once crossed with the native flower he had selected. A new name would have to be chosen.

After a few moments consideration he settled on the perfect name. There really could be no other.

Viola Maloriia The Maiden-of-Ash Violet.


With the setting of the sun,
When the day turns to ash.
She shines in the night.

[Evanthe]

Viola Maloriia The Maiden-of-Ash Violet.

[Perfect.]

[Chauncey]

The only thing in life so certain,
My shadow appears when I draw the curtain.
Cast upon my bedroom wall,
Silent, yet I hear its call.


Wretched and warn, stalking through the underbrush a figure cradles the shadows close. Sleeping doves startled by movement of the violets take wing with a deep resonance and are sent skyward. A single white feather falls to the ground, floating downward in lazy spirals like a lost passenger from some high flying zeppelin with no railing.

The air is hot and humid with the sweet scent of decay and temple incense wafting on the breeze, the only other evidence of the figure's passage. The stars shine bright and in sharp relief against the deep indigo of the late summer sky. The moon shines brighter still, an orb of sterling trying desperately to rival Brother Phoenix in luminescence.

From deep inside the figure's chest a low pitched almost inaudible sound rises; howling, weeping, growling. The sound of a lost animal separated from the pack.

The house was close now but closer still were the first creeping rays of the morning light. However it's always darkest before dawn. The panes of the windows are still fogged over from the early hour mists. The stray figure places it's hands against the glass after nimbly climbing the considerable height up to the upper floor of the house using the gutter pipes.

A solid shadow, a silent ghost the figure works a dagger under the sill until rewarded by the tell tale click of the latch. The window is quietly pried open. A long feather is left to fall to the carpet below, pure white and cold, full and lush. An owl's feather. It carries the scent of pine needles. A violet is tied to the quill.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morning light shines into the room. Outside the songbirds have commenced their lauds, accented by the barking of the estate dogs.

Chauncey rises from his bed and yawns prodigiously, straining the cheeks of his tanned face. He wipes the sleep from his eyes and walks over to the small table set under the sill of the east window to the room where a large ceramic bowl sits filled with cool water. He reaches in with cupped hands to douse his face several times before taking up a small cloth to dry himself off.

His eyes light upon the feather lying on the woven rug beside the table. He stoops to retrieve it, curiosity chasing away the last vestiges of his early hour dreams as he examines the feather closely.

His heart skips a beat. He looks to the window.

The rays of morning sun filtering in through the glass reveal two bloody hand prints and an even bloodier kiss stain.

A single raven cries out in the distance.

By now it seems I have come to accept,
Always my shadow, is my company kept.
The times she is gone from the world without,
Are the times filled with darkness, sadness and doubt.

[Chauncey]

The flame-red moon, the harvest moon,
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing,
A vast balloon,
Till it takes off, and sinks upward
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon.
The harvest moon has come,
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon.
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum.

The harvest moon, the first of the season hung in the cooling humid air of the estate. It was a large golden eye that watched as the shadows tried to hide from its luminescent grasp. One shadow did not move.

It was a bold little shadow, at first being mistaken for one lone Sun saber that still hunted the grassy knolls and stalked the vineyards after dusk. However upon closer inspection should one be so bold and should the shadow allow it, one would perceive the lone figure of the pale little Ghant girl.

She hung tightly to the eves of the window pane on the second floor, her left hand steadying her body from the low blowing wind as she swung perilously over the gardens below.

So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!


She knocked again, slightly louder this time like a stray cat scratching at the windows, hungry for a head scratch...or maybe a bit of meat. Malorii called out again in a harsh whisper lest she wake the guards whom so carelessly left their drinks unguarded for a full 5 minutes on their patrol. She found the bodies heavy to move, but quick to bound and tie.

She hadn’t made the poison lethal. That would upset the groundskeeper. Honestly, corpses sprouting among the tulips, when they should be sprouting up daises? Malorii was cruel and wild; however she was not completely left without a heart albeit one often as black as the nights she prowled.

The tick-ticking of the glass, of torn finger nails rattling the panes in a gentle manner. She had half considered just braking down the window or picking it open.

And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.

Chauncey had spoken with her briefly in the past but not in detail about "manners" and "formalities" about other people’s homes. One concept however that Malorii was never able to grasp was "mine" "yours" and "Private Property. She had always thought this was a ridiculous concept. When you died you can't take your pretty trinkets with you. They either became dust, sold at estate sales or foisted upon the eager salivating lips of distant relatives that appear from the far reaches of creation.

You can't own the moon, nor should you be able to deny food to anyone who was hungry. She often thought to herself.

She was not thinking that at the moment. Her only thought now was waking the near deaf bastard up.

Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry `We are ripe, reap us!' and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.

[Chauncey]

What dreams we dream when night’s cold fires are fanned,
When sun retires and moon’s rise is at hand.
Lost memories, dusted from shelves forgotten?

He stood on a shore of golden sand, the wind cold and biting into his skin with the sting of a thousand needles. The waves broke against the shoreline with the rhythm of a slow heartbeat, each one bearing small floating islands of slush and snow and ice.

The sky was grey and overcast. A dark iron shroud that cast a mournful shade over the dark mass of the mountainous land before him. A sound echoed in their deep valleys and gorges, a simple whisper at first but building with each reverberation until he could make out the name.

Chauncey.

He reached out with his hand towards the sound, noting the dark gauntlet he wore with curiosity.

Or visions untold to waking mind,
Promises of fortunes to find.
Elusive prophets or tormenting shades?

Suddenly he was in his garden, his favored spade held tight in his grip. The sun was warm against his skin as he planted the broad blade of the tool into the unbroken soil. With booted foot he bore his weight down to bite into dirt, twisting and lifting until rewarded with a perfect basin.

He slowly reached into his seed bag and removed a large silvery acorn, letting the seed fall from his brown calloused fingers into its new home. With practiced ease he shifted the disturbed soil back into the hole, patting it gently into place until once more the ground was flush and seemingly virgin.

How long he planted he could not say. The sun did not move in the sky. It was not until the last acorn sown did he drop the spade and wait, expectantly.

As if on cue the skies churned as the same dark clouds rolled in from the north. A cold icy rain fell in thick droplets, spattering the soil where it was loosened from his labors.

He stood in rapture, watching.

He saw the soil move. Shifting and rising from below as growth came to the silvery seeds. The dirt cracked and expanded, forming mounds where each seed had been planted. He held his breath expectantly. There was a grating, scratching sound coming from the mounds. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, drowning out all other noise…..

Chauncey bolted upright in bed, casting his eyes about in the dark for several seconds until slowly his mind registered where he was. He exhaled and put hand to his brow. It came away damp with cold sweat.

“A dream. Just a dream.”

He scratched an itch on his chin before turning to fluff his pillow again to the form he preferred.

He froze. The light of the harvest moon shone in from the nearby window, forming a bright orange tinted rectangle of light, unbroken save for the dark willowy figure framed in the window’s center. The figure moved slightly.

His heartbeat was loud in his ears, drowning out all other noise.

All noise save the scraping of broken fingernails upon the glass pane.

To welcome them or fear them we cannot say,
Each dream comes and goes as it may.
Yet come they will, bearing their purpose.

[Chauncey]

He jumped out of bed arms outstretched towards the window, almost falling face first as the sheets tangled around his legs in his haste. He took a second to rub the sleep from his puffy eyes but when he looked to the window again she was gone.

He unlocked the latch and pulled the window pane open, thrusting his head outside to scan the gardens below for any sign of his visitor. The slight evening breeze made the shadows dance among the shrubs and perennials but there was nothing to indicate her passage.

He withdrew into his room and sighed. He was about to turn back towards his bed when his eyes caught the pale beige rectangle of an envelope on the floor where it had fallen from the window sill.

Chauncey picked up the envelope and examined it.

It carried the scent of lavender and violets. Its seam was sealed with the crimson stain of a kiss. Carefully he opened the letter and held it up to the window where the moonlight flooded in.

Mid-Summer tea party,

You are invited to attend this festivity by invitation
only. The Lady of the house awaits your presence.

A map, date and time followed the brief note.

"Why, that's tomorrow afternoon!"

Chauncey paced his room fully alert now. There could be no telling what this was all about when SHE was involved. Yet he already knew that he would be attending.

(( To be continued on Violets are Blue. (http://www.wow-tng.org/showthread.php?t=12563)