To Lady Seven: Well said, fair one. Everywhere about these halls there is treachery! But love hath neither wisdom nor foresight. Blindly it walks about down dark and dangerous corridors unawares of dangers that lurk in the shadows cast by the flickering, smoldering candles. I say unawares of dangers but rather still love appears to favor the danger and recklessly plunges forth insanely though certain destruction awaits it. Like the moth drawn to the fatal flame, love lunges forth and impales itself upon the lance of the uncaring. Such is the nature of love.
I have imbibed a tankard of ale and I am moved to tell you a story. 'Tis an old tale and not of my invention though I wish it were. You may have heard of it but even so perhaps the telling of it again shall a lesson bring to us all this quiet evening while the day settles in and contemplates its slumber.
There was once a young man who lived with his mother. In time, as is the custom with young men, he fell in love with a lovely but heartless and cold wench. The kindly old mother with only the deepest of concern for the only son which she loved so tried her best to convince the young lad of the folly of giving his heart to such a vixen. The young man, of course, was blinded by his passions for the lovely lass and all his mother's words came to naught.
Though the young woman was want of heart she was not so dull as to know that the young man whom she craved to have as her own would never truly be hers completely as long as the mother remained. So one quiet evening while soft breezes carried the fragrance of jasmine in the warm air, she whispered in his ear while they were entangled in a lover's embrace: "Do you love me?" And the young man, full of passion and desire for the lovely siren whispered to her loudly: "With all of my heart!"
"Then bring to me your mother's heart in your hand this evening." The young man was crushed to hear these words from the lips of the one whom he loved so. For tho he loved the fair maiden more than life itself, he loved his mother dearly also. The pale maiden whispered once more to him. "Do this for me or return to me nevermore"
With his heart broken he walked away from the garden and the beautiful maiden. All the way home his heart ached at the prospect of seeing no more the woman who haunted his every thought. In the end he could take it no more and braced his mind for the foul deed he must perform. He dashed into his house and plunged his dagger deep into his mother's chest and cut her heart out.
Weeping and trembling over what he had done still he clutched the bleeding heart that was yet beating and ran as fast as he could to show the maiden the extent of his love. In his haste he tripped and fell as he entered the garden where the cold hearted wench awaited him. And as he fell to the ground he heard his mother's heart say to him: "Did thou hurt thyself, my son?"
And so it be with love that so often it is witheld from the one most deserving and given to the one which places no value on it.
The French Knight
Edited by - Frenchy on 30 May 2000 20:39:51