Behind the Curtain by Elizabeth J. D. (reading well .txt) 📖

took a step back. Something about the way he did it told me that, though Daddy did not know he had been the one to betray us, he was still letting go. Of this land. Of the kingdom. Of our friendship.

And that he hated letting go of any of it with every fiber in his being.

With clenched fists, he nodded a farewell. "Good day, my lady," was all he said before turning around and running. His words were so formal. Like a stranger. I watched until he was out of sight, bewildered, hurt, and half-blinded by tears that welled up in my eyes but would not spill over. I didn't even get to say goodbye, farewell, or anything words of the sort. Maybe because, deep down, I didn't want to face the reality of it being time to say goodbye. Or maybe....because this simply isn't goodbye.

It has been months. I have not received the slightest hint concerning Tenakha's whereabouts. But I know where I am.

Though I am distracting myself by studying law and philosophy, I am still in that garden.

And I will be in that garden until he returns.


Kingdom of Isthin

Queen Maoika

The sliver of night and the quieting hush
Goes undisturbed by the treading in the underbrush
Her tread is a graceful wild waltz, yet her strides are commanding and long.
Silent and true is her hunting song
Elegant and fierce, her discernment and spear both pierce.
Her rule is just, her arm is long,
To heal or to defeat the weak or the strong.

Meet Maoika, Warrior Queen of the prosperous,
colorful, and vibrant war-tribe in the forests of Isthin.

Her noble character is undisputed.
Her voice rings unquestioned.
Her kindness is unrivaled.
Her judgement is honest.
Her reign is celebrated.


On The Hunt

As the moon shone down its silver beams, bathing the world in an icy liquid light, several dark shadows marred the unity of the illumination. Strangely to say, this was all they marred. The trees' leaves did not sway by their cause, nor did the twigs break asunder. This band of beings were far too skilled and lithe to have made noise enough to startle a dormouse; for this was the Hunting Party, the renowned warriors who were so familiar to the depths of the forests of Isthin that the grass all but parted respectfully before their silent tread. At the current moment, nigh on ten of the hunters crept through the underbrush, having sighted a stag in the moonlight and trailing after the creature. Quietly, quietly...part the branches of the bramblebush. Silently, silently...ready the arrow adorned with the rainbow-colored feathers. Skillfully, skillfully...narrow the eyes, draw back the death-bringer, take aim. Swiftly, deadly, the arrow flies steady and true, the path ruler-straight, towards the heart of the stag. With a dull thud and barely a startle from the creature, the Hunting Party has felled its first kill of the night. Small nods and smiles of congratulations and victory are passed around the ten hunters. It is an unspoken rule that there is to be no verbal communication on a Hunt. One reason for this is because it disturbs the night. Another is because the noise may startle an animal, causing it to bound away, and the Hunting Party to lose a kill. The third reason, and the most important, is that it would be disrespectful to their prey. The need for sustenance was great, but the need to honor the life around them was greater. Far from being a rule that the hunters were forced to live by, it was instead almost magnetic, the need to treasure the life flow abounding around them. If the need arose to either kill in brutality and reckless abandon, or starve a slow death, any warrior or hunter of honor would gladly take the latter before they would pierce the heart of nature by such disrespect.

The leader of tonight's Hunt bounded forth into the clearing where the felled stag lay, his motions nearly as trained as the now-lifeless creature's had been only moments before. The man crouched before the stag, placing one rough hand on its hide where barely a trickle of blood flowed. It was in the best interest to all involved to attempt to make the puddles as infrequent and small as possible. Firstly, for protection of hunting grounds. If another tribe were to follow a trail of crimson, they could very well be led towards the Hunters' Camp - or worse, the Monarchical Court. Secondly, it was not the Hunters' wish that the creatures who met the fate of the death-bringer to lie and suffer, to spill its life. The sight of the liquid was not gratifying to the Hunters.

Even as the man who was leader of tonight's Hunt crouched next to the stag, he searched for any sign of a flow. Finding a slight bubbling, as if from a brook, he stoppered it with his hand. Leaning forward, he took the stag's head in his other hand. Meeting its nostrils with his, he breathed into the creature. Life for life. Acquainting the stag with who its life would transfer into upon being consumed. It was said that there were times when a creature would deem a warrior, hunter, tribesman, or royal unworthy of having its life transferred into. On those occasions, the kill would awaken in anger or confusion. Depending on the nature of the creature, it could react by any way from fleeing from its near-captor or by trampling or tearing him or her. Given these consequences if found unworthy, one was expected to be diligent in matters of integrity, lest he be found lacking.

Leaning outward again, the man who had breathed into the stag swayed on his haunches, gazing up towards the moon, and whispered a chant. The whisper was so soft that the slightest of breezes would capture it and carry it away. This was the only time speaking was allowed on a Hunt; when the kill and the life flow was thanked for its transfer from one body - the creature's - to another's - the Tribe's. Glancing downward once more at the stag, he applied more pressure to the hand stoppering the flow, and with the other which had been on the head, he deftly pulled out the death-bringer from the flesh of the stag, cleaned it on the brown leather of his pants, and returned it to the quiver. Gently, his arms stretched out beneath the warm body heat of the kill, which was quickly fading. Making use of the strength acquired on many Huntings, the man lifted the body, repositioned it, and draped it over his strong shoulders. They could not help but to be strong, and yet, they were not broad, for it was not in the Tribe's narrow build.

The Hunter could have just as easily beckoned to a fellow Hunter to carry the stag for him, especially since - for tonight at least - they were under his leadership. However, it was the expected conduct for the killer to serve the killed in this small way; being the first to carry the body, at the very least. Some went further and would not allow any but themselves to carry their kill back to Camp. There were those who did this in order to display their strength, especially when one had felled several large creatures in one night. Others, however, did this for the reason of true integrity and respect to the creature.

Turning towards the rest of the assembled and waiting Hunting Party, the man nodded slightly, his dark green eyes sparkling darkly in the moonlight.

It was time to track their next kill.

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Publication Date: 04-02-2011

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