What if the Princess fell in love with the Dragon?

Artwork by Anne Stokes.
Go to www.annestokes.com to order.

The mist is swirling on the waters of the lake, which is magically painted rose by the setting sun.  On the opposite bank the solitary figure of a unicorn appears evanescently.

            The knight skulks back amongst the huge, purple leaves of the lakeside ferns, making sure that his weapons does not touch his armour.  Secrecy is paramount.

           

The unicorn finds its way back to the courtyard of the castle.  Its magnificent stone towers reaches up into the sky of silver and navy velvet.  The magical horse lowers her head and gently jabs with its hoove at the loose cobbles in the courtyard.

            A menacing shadow falls over the beautiful white horse.  She looks up at the enormous dragon bearing down on her.  The gigantic creature’s wings does not make a sound in the ominous hour after dark.

            “Is he there?”  The resplendent creature’s blazing yellow eyes would have intimidated a lesser creature.

            The unicorn winnies softly.  “He thought I did not see him.”

            The green and gold dragon lifts its body with one sweep of the magnificent wings.  It soars through the sky.

            A light appears in the small window of the turret to the left.  The unicorn looks up and murmurs, “She is awake …”  Moonrays bounce of her white and pink wings as she opens them and effortlessly finds her way through the dark sky to the window with its golden light.

The princess’s floor length red copper hair falls in a thick braid over her shoulder as she leans out the window.  “What is wrong?”

            The unicorn whinnies.  “He is here again, my lady.  Stay in your tower. Bhaltair is keeping watch.”

            The girl looks up at the battlements where she can barely see the silhouette of the dragon.   

“When will they stop coming?”  She pulls the white woollen shawl snug around her shoulders.

            Saphira tosses her head back.  “They will stop coming once there is no dragon to rescue you from, my lady.” With that ominous pronouncement the unicorn sped away through the dark sky towards  Bhaltair.

In the shadows of the mistical island a creature with matted grey hair and filthy robes cackles softly.   Maybe it is time to transform Bhaltair to his human princely form… and would it not be amusing to transform the beautiful love of his life with her red copper hair into a fiery red unicorn.  Saphira will make an attractive blonde princess … The  diminutive figure of the old woman toddles to the edge of the water where she contemplates her features in the mirror of the water.  I was once in love …

But this time the knight did not come to save the princess from the dragon. 

When the golden rays of the sun spread its benevolent fingers over the island with its silver lake and magnificent castle, the princess saw only one of her flying protectors.  The sun’s rays bounced of the white wings of Saphira.  She delivers her rider, Bhaltair, savely into the arms of his princess.

            On the shore of the lake a bundle of rags lay abandoned amidst aromatic purple flowers and the sword of a mighty knight. On the grassy plane across the lake a fair maiden walks hand in hand with her knight, without a sword. 

            Magic was in the air.

            Only magic could transform a dragon to a prince.

            Only magic could transform a little malevolent witch into a fair maiden.

            “What potion did you use, my love?” , she asked of her knight.

            “They call it love.  Unconditional love.”

If I were a pirate ... (This week's writing prompt)

Found on goodstuffsworld.blogspot.com

If I were a pirate I would swagger because I would own my very own pirate ship.  A Brigantine.  The two-mast brigand's ship gave terrific maneuverability and speed. It had adequate firepower and a large hold and was much roomier than the Schooner or the sloops of the day.  Which meant I would have a large, exquisite cabin, where I could dress in my pirate’s finery.

            If I were a pirate I would wear tightfitting black trousers with black leather knee-boots and a startling white linen shirt with wide sleeves.  I would have hip length, jet black, curly hair, which would blow in silky tendrils behind my back when I stood on the deck, shouting orders at my well organized crew of cut throats.

            If I were a pirate I would have at least one splendid treasure map, which indicated a hidden treasure on a tropical island.  This map would be rolled up and kept safe in a brown leather cylinder, with my name engraved on it.  I would always carry it on my person.

            If I were a pirate my Brigantine would fly a terrific black, white and red Jolly Roger (that is the term the English used for any pirate flag).  My flag’s design would consist of a black rose and white cutlass on a jolly red background (joli rouge – the French for “pretty red”).

            If I were a pirate I would know at least one mermaid, two talking dolphins and three friendly sea horses.  I would sail the seven seas as its undisputed queen and my name would be on the lips of all respectable ladies, yearning to have the freedom I have.

            If I were a pirate I would take in all abandoned children and animals, because they deserve better and as a pirate I could easily steal money and other riches from stingy, villainess or crooked rich merchants to help the unfortunates. 

            If I were a pirate I would not have a long life.  I would in all probability die a horrendous death in an timeworn, musty and dirty prison in a place that does not even appear on a decent map.  I would not have been a mother or a wife and I would not know the luxury of gracious love and tiny hands around my neck.

            If I were a pirate I would long to be who I am today…

            

She was the ghost haunting his dreams, with a sad song and murderous eyes.

Artist: Sandra Kuck (Mother's Touch)

She is a vision to behold.  Long dark hair frames a beautiful face noted for its aristocratic cheekbones and mesmerising eyes.  She walks with confidence and elegance marks every movement of her lithe limbs.  A smile touches the corners of her sensual mouth, yet – it seldom reaches her eyes.

            Here is a woman who has survived a brutal war and shows no signs of the effect the period in the concentration camp had on her.  She lost her parents and two brothers in the war, took what was left and bought a new farm in the Cape – away from everything that reminded her of that time.

            She is the woman in his dreams – with the sad song on her lips and murderous eyes.  The man clenches his fists.  It cannot be possible.  He thought she died …

            “Good morning Schalk.  I see you are also admiring the widow.”

            “Widow?”

            The rotund little man laughs.  “Yes.  Lost her husband in the war.  Only she and her daughter survived the war.”

            “I thought … she was British …” 

            “Let me introduce you.”

            “Mrs. Grobler, please meet my friend, Schalk Du Toit.  He was one of Smuts’ men during the war.  A true hero.”

            The beautiful woman holds out her hand, a Mona Lisa smile on her face.  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Du Toit.”

            Schalk Du Toit forces himself to take her hand, bends slightly and let his lips float over the soft fabric of her gloves.  “The pleasure is mine …”  It is hard to meet her eyes.

            “Is everything all right, Mr Du Toit?”

            Schalk straightens.  “Yes. I am sorry.  It is just – I thought you were British.”

            Her laugh is throaty and sensual.  “Whatever would give you that idea?”  She flicks the train of her white gown out of the way, when she turns, hand on his arm, as he leads her to the refreshment table.

            The fact that you were dressed to the nines and in the company of two British officers … But off course he cannot say that.  In stead he smiled.  “Leroy tells me you have a daughter?”

            “Yes.”  Her eyes lit up for the first time.  “She is one and a half years old.  Truly a gift from God.”

            Schalk forces his legs to walk and his knees not to buckle.  One and a half year! Exactly eighteen months.  “I see.  How did you come to live in the Cape?”

            “I lost everything in the war.  Everything.  I know only farming, you know.  So I started a new life far away from … from the war and everything that reminded me of what I lost.”

            “Amongst the enemy …”  He hands her a cup of tea.

            She turns towards him.  “Enemy.  Such a simple word for such a difficult concept.  Who is the enemy Mr Du Toit?”

            “I am sorry.  My remark was in poor taste. The war is over. You lost your husband …”

            “I have never been married.” 

            The world crashes in around the handsome Boer.  He stared at her.

            “I never said or told anyone that I was married.  Everybody chooses to assume I was married, because I have a daughter.  I was raped, Mr Du Toit.  By a Boer.  Not the enemy, so to speak …  So for all practical purposes I am not living amongst the enemy. ” 

            Schalk Du Toit stares at the brave woman in front of him.  Shame washes over him in torrents of scalding hot and icy cold waves.  Never could anyone during the war say that he was a coward.  On the contrary. 

            His voice is soft and tortured.  “I am so very sorry, Miss Grobler.  So sorry …”

            She smiles.  “Why?  Everybody lost something in the war.  Someone told me you lost your wife, that she was also raped, by English soldiers. ”

            “She lost our baby … died in my arms.  And I thought I took revenge.  Did you ever found the … man who raped you?”  It took more courage than ever in his life not to break down and cry.  All he wanted to do was to kneel in front of this woman and ask her forgiveness.  But her eyes, her whole demeanour forbids him to act in such an uncivilized manner.

            “Revenge Mr Du Toit, is never as sweet as it is purported to be.  It was dark and I was terrified. I was in the company of two enemy soldiers, who escorted me to a concentration camp.  He killed them.  If not for that my baby would have died in the camps.  I fled and lived out the last months of the war in the mountains.”

            But how is it possible, that even in my drunken state I can remember every plane of your face?  He clears his throat.

            “I would love to meet your daughter.”

“You are invited for tea tomorrow afternoon.  We shall look forward to your company Mr. Du Toit.”

For the rest of his life he would regret his cowardice. 

Even on their wedding day, he could not bring himself to tell her.

For the rest of his life he would be punished every time his daughter smiled at him, not knowing that she was his!

For the rest of his life Rebecca du Toit, formerly Grobler, will be the ghost haunting his dreams with a sad song and murderous eyes.

Found on blogtruyen.me

             

"There's a wind inside of me that remembers.  Sometimes in breaths, sometimes in hurricanes."
- Maza Dohta

All she had left of her wings was a single, solitary feather.

Image from: jilldiana.homestead.com

She was the chosen one.  Pale, beautiful and slender – not like the others, who were plump, rosy and cheerful. 

            Her pale blue eyes turned towards the heaven.

            Thin white hands covered her ethereal face.

            Teardrops of pure silver slid over her marble-like cheeks.

            How long must she remain here?

            Until the task I send you to complete, has been completed, a Voice said in her head.

            She closed her eyes against the bright yellow sun.  But that will be never!, she protested.

            That may be so, but that is where I need you …

            She stands up from the parkbench where she sat and looked at the ambulance and police officers, gathered around the body of a naked newborn baby.  Another tear slips from her eyelash and rolls down her cheek.  She is with you now, Lord. I comforted her when her mother left her there to die …  Please let her feel loved and warm and …

            “Is this your feather?”  The little girl is about four years old.  Her wide brown eyes look inquisitively at the beautiful, pale young woman in front of her.  “Why are you crying?”

Nobody else ever sees me … How is it possible?  The angel bends down.  “What is your name, little one?”

“Hope!”

“You can have my feather.”  She folds the small hand around the silky

feather. 

            “Thank you! I will keep it forever!”  The angel watches as Hope runs towards her mother.  Thank you Lord, for Hope …

All she had left of her wings was that single solitary feather.

Which is now the property of Hope.

The Lord shall send his angel with you and make your journey successful.

Genesis 24.40