Drabble/Short Story

Title: Variations on a Theme of You
Characters: Vaeramae, misc
Plot: Vaera doesn’t remember all of the people she meets, but some leave a bigger impression than others. Especially one that she meets more than once
Notes: I cried more than once writing this. Memories are in italics. For those with Spotify, the playlist can be found here. Link will open in a new window.


The first time she met him, he had blonde hair and a piercing gaze that she would remember from every incarnation of him. His eyes were blue. Or had they been brown? She couldn’t remember, except the intensity of his gaze and how they seemed to see right through the guise she wore to be among the mortals. He never asked questions, and so she never lied to him. He died young, in battle, and she mourned his passing as she did every warrior.

The second time she remembered him, he had brown hair. A merchant’s son, if she remembered correctly, and in love with the sea. Meeting him again took her by surprise. How many years had it been? She lost count. Time didn’t mean the same thing to her as it did mortals, ageless and timeless as she was. They spent two glorious days together before he went out to sea.

His ship never returned.

She started looking for him after that, wondering what form he would take. Would he be a woman next time? A priest? A scullery maid? A philosopher? A great ruler? She only knew him by  the look of vague recognition whenever he saw her, and little things that seemed to carry over from each lifetime. His favourite colour was green, he loved to travel, he didn’t like the way he sang, and his favourite time of day was between dusk and twilight.

Sometimes, they would almost meet. She would pass him in a crowd, their gazes meeting for a brief moment. It was always the same look: confusion mixed with a fleeting memory. Déjà vu, she heard it called once. But he would be pulled away, by business, by friends, or shaking himself of the idea that he knew her somehow.

“Do you know her? You keep looking at her,” his friend said.

“I… don’t think I do. She looks familiar, though,” he said.

She wouldn’t pursue, caught up in her own business with high stakes. The gods weren’t known to be patient.

She met him once when he was a woman, full of bitterness at the unfair fate of being treated as a bargaining chip to cement alliances. There was so much she wasn’t allowed to do for no other reason than the circumstance of her birth. She railed at the heavens, but there was no answer.

“This is cruel and unfair!” she screamed at the heavens. “This is not the life I wanted!”

He was born as a man not long after, or maybe it had been some time. Centuries blended together, and she had a hard time remembering mortal history unless it was a momentous event. Wars and inventions happened all the time, and unless it changed the shape of a great many lives, she didn’t care. She merely observed him this time, too busy with whatever machinations the gods had planned for the universe.

When he was a child, she found him dancing in a fairy ring, and the Fair Folk whisked him away. She didn’t expect to see him again after that. At least, not in his lifetime. She did, much to her surprise, at a gala hosted by the Fae. He wasn’t immortal like them, but his life was extended greatly and some of their glamour lingered on him. His features were almost otherworldly, and he knew things before they happened. He wasn’t quite mortal, but he wasn’t one of the Fae, either. Maybe it was something from his fleeting memory of her that prompted him to admit, quite ruefully, that a part of him missed being wholly human.

“Are you made of stardust, then?”

The question made him laugh. “We are all made of stardust,” he said. “I simply have moonlight that lingers on me.”

There weren’t enough hours in the twilight of the faerie realm that she could spend with him during this lifetime. She knew him, then. His hopes and fears, his sorrows and joys, and his favourite things. She wondered if any of them would carry over to the next life that she would meet him in. She held fast to these small things, wondering if she could find him again when he didn’t recognize her with these little details.

“Why is green your favourite colour?” she asked.

“It reminds me of the forest, dark and deep; of the moon that hangs in our twilit sky; of the ocean when the sun hits it just right.”

He was a woman this time, bucking against tradition and running away from home to live life as she saw fit. She was an adventurer, determined to see the world. They met at an inn, the night before she was to set sail for parts unknown. They spent the night drinking and talking. Her favourite colour was still green, her favourite time of day somewhere between dusk and twilight (and she wondered if that had anything to do with her time as one of the Fae, who lived somewhen, before the coming of Man with a pale green moon and sweet smelling air, living in perpetual twilight). They spent the night together, and when they woke in the morning she asked the semi-divine being if she wanted to come along. She could hear the unspoken, “Tell me you will” in the air between them. With deep regret, the offer was declined.

“My duty is to the gods.” Maybe it was the wrong thing to say.

There were other times they met and he hated what she stood for, hated the gods, hated her, and it nearly broke her heart. She tried to see if the colour of his hair had anything to do with it, or even the colour of his eyes. She gave up over time, concluding that how he looked and what gender he was had nothing to do with whether or not he hated her. Those times she met him were some of the hardest. She began to wonder if maybe she shouldn’t have told him about her sworn and bound duty to the gods and the heavens above.

Maybe it was his bitterness accumulating from those past lives she met him so long ago. He sought to tear down the Heavens themselves. It was her duty to defend the gods, and she fought against him. He seemed to remember her, somewhere in the deep recesses of his memory, of his soul. She tried to use that memory of her to turn him aside, to relinquish this foolish quest to destroy the gods. It was one of her most bitter sorrows, cutting him down and casting him back to earth. But it was that moment that was her greatest joy. Just as the life began to flee him but before he fell back to the mortal realm, he smiled.

“I found you again,” she swore he whispered, and he began to fall away. “I remember you.”

She was given the opportunity to become a goddess for her steadfast duty to protect. She turned it down, choosing to remain semi-divine. If she became a god, would she be able to find him again? The gods didn’t dwell among the mortals often, and when they did it was never for long. He told her that he remembered her. Some part of her didn’t want to let that go.

It was centuries of lifetimes for him, and he still didn’t want anything to do with her or anyone like her. He always turned away from her, a brief flicker of something half remembered before he looked away, as if some part of him still recalled what she did. Maybe it was a thousand years. She wasn’t sure. A thousand lifetimes, at least.

He was a gambler when he spoke to her again. He had a devil may care attitude and a lopsided smirk that reminded her of the time he was a merchant’s son.

“I like the way you smile,” she told him.

“You like this crooked grin?” he asked, disbelieving.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

He could read tells and played his audience well. He quit the table before his luck ran out (or, she believed, before his fellow players became suspicious of the cards he held up his sleeve), and wandered in the direction of the bar. She couldn’t remember what she ordered but it was a stiff drink, neat. She remembered the order impressed him, and he asked for the same. It wasn’t long after that they started talking. He mentioned that he traveled, and she knew it was him. It was one of the constants about him: love of travel.

“Have you traveled far?” she asked. He told her of all the places he saw, sailing beyond the horizon to places never visited by winter and of the northern reaches where the sun never truly sets. His favourite colour was still green, and his favourite time of day was still that moment between dusk and twilight. They spoke of everything and nothing. When the hour drew late, he wished her a good night. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but refrained and was on his way.

“Yes?” she prompted.

There was a look on his face, as if something was on the edge of his memory but he couldn’t quite place it. “It’s nothing,” he said finally with a faint shake of his head. “Enjoy your evening.”

When he saw her the next day, his face broke out in a grin and he made his way over. “Hey there, beautiful.” It was, to her memory, the first time he ever called her beautiful. That day, he reminded her of who he was. It was the moment that they fell in love, and when his life came to an end she experienced a grief so profound that she withdrew from the mortal realm.

The next time she remembered him, he was missing an eye and an arm. Both were replaced by magic silver, allowing him to see and fight. They were dragged into a great war, one that even the gods were invested in. He was loyal to her, even as she destroyed worlds, framed as she was by her gold hair and lightning. They did so many terrible things during the war, things that they would likely never be forgiven for. The very last battle, it was she who left him. Unwilling and without a drop of divinity left, having used it all to cleave a great divine beast in two, she fell to earth.

They met again on a beach. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, she was asleep for so long. For the first time, she was mortal, her body healed but her divinity just out of reach. He was different, but the same. He was younger this time, full of hope and ideas. He was the nephew of one  important man or another. She didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was here, and she was mortal.

“Why is twilight your favourite time of day?” she asked.

“The moment between dusk and twilight,” he clarified. “I’m not sure. It seems to be filled with a magic long forgotten by the world. Anything could happen.”

The truth of who and what she was became apparent. It was necessary, and she knew it was bound to happen as her powers manifested. She could see the old resentment there, and she wondered if he knew what the true source of it was. She didn’t want him to hate her again, the last time being unbearable. With an apology and a wish for safe travels, she returned to the heavens.

She existed listlessly, ignoring the passage of time and willing the hurt away. Time heals all wounds, she was told. It didn’t, but the ache dulled. She performed her duties and did little else. She collected the souls of those who died in battle and brought them to the halls of their fathers. None of them were aware of her, until she nearly stumbled over one who could see her. It wasn’t his time to die, and she returned him to the living world. The second time she saw him, he was in that inbetween place of the living and the dead. He delayed his return by asking her a question. On some whim, she answered him before returning him to his loved ones.

She began to watch him. He was a prince, brother to the king and general of the army. He was reckless and brash, gambling on chance and somehow, someway coming out the victor. He was smart, his men loved him, and his seemingly chaotic plans made a great deal of sense from a broader perspective. He was young, but not so young to be a callow youth.

They met, again and again, in that inbetween place. He always asked her questions, and she began to think that it was him. He knew what she was. “Death maiden,” he called her in his tongue. There was no resentment in him for what she was. Did she dare hope that she found him again? But always meeting in this inbetween place was slowly killing him. She admonished him, told him not to return. He made a deal with her.

“Tell you what,”  he said, “if you win this hand, I’ll do whatever you want. But if I win, you have dinner with me. Deal?”

She laughed, knowing full well that he would likely cheat. She didn’t mind. She wanted to have dinner with him. “Deal,” she said, shaking on it.

She agreed, but on one condition: he would have to find her.

He did find her, after a time. She was in a wheat field, harvesting, separating the wheat from the chaffe. He remembered little pieces of her life that she told him over time. There was no more resentment for what she was, that she belonged to the gods. He was content to be with her, for however long this moment would last.

“What would you have me do?” he asked her.

“I hate my singing voice,” he grumped.

“Why? I love it,” she told him, her smile bright.

“Come, and sing me to sleep,” she said.

They fell in love, all over again.


The Muse Was Intrigued by a Line in a Movie

Prompt: We are Pilgrims in an Unholy Land

Character(s): Cinnia, Vaeramae

Music: Indian Jones and the Last Crusade playing in the background

Notes: I was watching Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade when I heard the line. I thought it would be an awesome prompt and decided to see where it would lead me. Not sure if I’ll end up using it, but it’s an exercise in writing at least.


“This isn’t happening!”

I heard panic creep into her voice, and I spared a glance for her. Cinnia’s face was white, her grip so tight on her sword that her knuckles were pale. She was a smithy; an artist. Asking her to fight was unfair; however, we were running out of warriors. She possessed the training and was capable, therefore drafted into service. Fighting with the others wasn’t what bothered her. What had her panicking was the sight before us.

Former friends and warriors were quickly approaching us, but something wasn’t right. Some seemed listless, as if they weren’t completely aware of their surroundings. Others seemed to be acting irrationally, attacking friend and foe alike. What happened? What was going on? What did they do to our former allies that made them this way?

Questions that had to be answered for another time. They were upon us before we knew it. My job was to inspire warriors, to keep them fighting. I extended what little extra influence I could to Cinnia to keep her calm and focused. Her actions were sloppy, and she hacked at the enemy; however, she wasn’t fleeing or panicking. It would have to do.

I left her side to make my way to the front, hoping that my appearance would inspire the frontline soldiers to maintain the line. My fellow Valkyries came to the same conclusion, for I saw many of my battle sisters joining me. I spared a glance upward and saw Nike, Greek Goddess of Victory, lending Her aid. We were willing our warriors to win this battle, and we were going to run them into the ground to ensure our victory. We were going to allow them to die here to stop the Devourer. There was no other way to explain it.

I felt myself become distant from everything. If I became too attached, I wouldn’t be able to function, to perform my sworn duty. I couldn’t allow myself to care for those that fought now. The battle raged on below, and I went where I felt my presence was needed most. It was a crash of sight and sound, blending together in distorted memory. Only a few instances stood out in my mind with resounding clarity, and even those were mundane in nature. This was a nightmare made reality, and there seemed to be no stopping it.

No One to Blame But Myself

New Readers: can begin reading the first arc here.


And two sisters moving to the area.  Things have been a little slow this past week as not only has Travis’ sister moved to the area, but so has my youngest sister.  Needless to say, we’ve been busy helping them get settled and show them around our town and introduce them to friends and reacquaint them with any family that happen to live in the area.  We’ve been having a fantastic time.

That said, this week should see more progress.  Also, my beta reader/editor invited me to attend the local Society for Creative Anachronism, Inc. chapter (shire?)to see a lot of weapons and armor up close.  Many are very knowledgeable and there’s a love for what they do present in everyone.  Have a question?  Someone is bound to know the answer.  They loved the idea of pictures being taken for reference and were keen to talk with me and answer any questions I had.  They even let me handle some of the weapons.  I plan on going back next week to take pictures and ask more questions.

I should be able to make more progress this week.  Especially now that the summer term is looming ever closer.  I want to try to get the edits done before all the homework arrives.

Progress for Blackbird

of Men and Gods Arc
Typed: 100%
Edited: 17%
Proof Read: 10%

Editing and Decompression

New Readers: can begin reading the first arc here.


I’ve been working on scenes in “of Men and Gods” and making sure that it flows well with the first arc.  It’s allowed me some time to not think about this past semester as well as the one that will be starting in June.  I downloaded the WordPress App thanks to Satis, who let me know about it.  I’ve actually been able to get more work done on the iPad than on the laptop or desktop.  My theory is that internet isn’t the first thing I think of when I use it, as its primary use is for school and keeping track of assignments and grades.

However, the muse seems eager to work on the next arc.  It’s been a battle trying to please her as well as focus on the editing for the current arc.  We’ve since come to a compromise and we’re making progress: edit “of Men and Gods” during the day and write “The Tablet of Destinies” at night.  The system appears to be working so far.  I hope that it continues.

On a whim, I did create a banner for CA.  It turned out better than I expected.

That’s all I have for this week.  Expect more relatively boring posts from me until either the summer semester starts or I’m done editing.

Progress for Blackbird

of Men and Gods Arc
Typed: 100%
Edited: 15%
Proof Read: 10%

Beta Reader is a Go!

New Readers: can begin reading the first arc here.


As you can see, I’ve added a few more banners to the left for recommended reading.  I highly suggest you check them out whenever you can, especially if you’ve been looking for something to read.  They’re all fantastic reads!  A couple have just started out and a few others have several chapters posted.

I’m also pleased to say that I have a beta reader/research assistant.  He’s an English Major, which makes me tremble and quake for what he may think of the story content, but I trust his judgement when it comes to grammar, spelling, and flow.  He’s also a bit of a history buff and has been helping me with research for armour and weapons, as well as time period.

I like history and I know about the events leading up to wars and the outcomes and how those outcomes influenced later events, but I’m clueless when it comes to the armour and tactics used in those important wars, skirmishes, and battles.  Just…. clueless.  And I think he’s been relishing that, because I want to learn.  I was able to handle a couple of knives and daggers, get a feel for the weight of them, get a closer look at the designs, and learn about how they were used.  Same goes for a spear and a couple of swords.  Contrary to popular belief (read: how Hollywood likes to portray the use of in many instances), spears are used completely different from a staff and they’re a bit more versatile than one may initially think.  I also got the chance try on some chainmail and received a crash course in armour parts.  As far as writing goes, this has been one of the best decisions I’ve made. 

Rest assured I’ve been happily plugging away at “of Men and Gods” when I’m not busy watching DS9, which has also been helping tremendously with the whole writing process.  I can’t fully explain it myself, but it has been.

I’m off to go write and/or work on rough sketches.

Progress for Blackbird

of Men and Gods Arc
Written: 20%
Typed: 0%
Edited: 0%
Proof Read: 0%