Obituary

He was once me. A romantic at heart, full of hope and love; he does not need a long obituary, for he no longer exist in this world.

Rest in Peace.
And don't rise from the dead, as is your wont.

A fairy tale - Part 2

We shall move forward in the course of the history as it is. To know a bit more about our dear boy, who had just lost his master, we shall try to form his thoughts in accordance to the happening of incidents of those moments. And I think it is high time for us to be introduced our character properly to our dear readers. His former master calls him, Matt. And he knows no other name.
To History then:

How the hours passed, I do not know, nor how I slept through the rain; I never knew that one could sleep through, in the rain; it was more like losing consciousness, either from exhaustion or grief. Grief because he was more than a master to me. He was my father, mother, protector, provider, supporter, teacher, friend and everything else in this world. He was the thing I holden on to this world; now I feel all lost. It feels strange. To be so utterly alone, to be so free, yet so afraid. What should I do?

"I shall go to Tamaran", the boy said to no one, exulting in his new found freedom. The morning was bright and warm, nothing remained of the night, except for a fresh mound of earth. A song bird chirped happily in the air, and that filled him with hope. Taking a last look at the mound of earth, where his master rest, he mounted the steed, which was his only possession.

"Fare well, Master"

And he rode. To Tamaran.

A fairy tale - Part 1

...

And thus it came to pass that the evil queen, her power lost and ousted, fled the monastery and seeken the wild men of the north to take refuge; far away.

If you think you are going to read a fairy tale here, you may as well go elsewhere, for what I am going to relate is not a fairly tale with princess and dragons and charming prince.

But rather, I am going to relate history in its rightful form, without the author's imaginative intervention, as history is ought to be told. It begins thus...

It was raining. A young lad of 15; once he was happy, but that he cannot remember. He could only concentrate on the rain and the horse, the freshly dug grave, his dead master. The earth was soft; the spade made it a quick job; but the dead body was heavy. The boy half tug and half lifted the cold body; the body lifeless and limpid, followed his squire's motion until the it felt the embrace of the earth; cold and unforgiving.

The boy shivered in the chill; it was raining softly. He didn't feel sad but he felt utterly alone. He could not cry; he would not cry; something was stuck in his throat that prevents him from crying; maybe the pang that he was the reason his master is dead. The dim light of the crescent moon was enough for this young lad to pack up the things. He made some quiet prayers for his master. And without any remorse, he rode; to where, he does now know, but he rode.


A few hours later, he came back. To where his master lies. From the horse, he unmounted, and kneeled beside the grave; he could not leave; not just then.

The night was too young to leave the dead.

( History as it is; the author shall try to represent facts in an exact manner as is possible. An update each day is expected from the author, but he gave no promise )

A turning in life

There are times when life screams with the sheer heaviness of melancholy, and the feeling of loneliness arose to such height that you feel utterly forlorn and lost. And at such times only I must be strong. But valour first needs a strength and then a weapon. But when all hope is thus lost, where shall I find strength? And where shall I look for a weapon? The rusty axe have served me well, and now must retire; the courage, now too frail, cannot rise to hope.

Of 3 scores and 10, 50 more to go, and with weary feet must I pursue? Must I stay? And when all things seems utterly lost, and when the end beyond all means is looming, then and now I must despair. The old that is strong does not wither, they say; aye, it is true, but they do turn into stone, forever carven and set on solid earth.

Life, its fervid autumn heat wasted, must now pass on to the desolate winter, from where shall pass on the next great journey...


A flash of light
A myriad of colour
Of loud bangs and sudden disappearances

Where went the youth? Ask of the wind and the sun and the moon, but tell no tales of the youth. Where now is he?

What it is to die and live again? A blossoming of heart, a glimmer of hope, so bright was it, as if, Earendil, the evening star, most beloved of the elves have come down to rest upon there.

With eager feet I must now follow, and take some longer road, where then, I cannot say.