Homeless

“We are homeless Francis - we have no real place in this World or this time” Chips said, for the thousandth time.

Francis placed his hand to calm him on the ruff of his neck.

Telepathically he smiled a half smile - designed to be consolatory and reassuring. He paused for further thought.

“Pietro” he said “You and I both know there is no going back” he hesitated here as he saw the large brown eyes begin to weep. The fur down to the big dog’s snout bore trails where the eyes had cried day after day with such sadness.


-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Despondent Chips

Chips was despondent - his coat itched terribly like the twig woven tunics of the penitent monks - his was a misery of crawling fleas and canine eczema.

The diet at the lab was not at all what he was used to, and the fumes from the cleaning agents there were excessive. Basically he was suffering ‘lab coat’.

He often sat mournfully at the feet of Francesco, whose sympathetic nerves twinged in unison with his beloved companion.

Both were captains of non-conversation. These mute spirits would telepathically converse, one to another with a constant ease, and over time it had grown to be something of a single-minded dialogue.

- Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Different to most

Francis of course was different to most, for his Elvish blood gave him the perception and skill that charmed the woodland and the farm - and attracted even the terrible.

And whilst he could not coax a daisy from the moss, as Puck could do, he could multiply fish as his Master had done, and pacify the natures of both beasts and men, just by his presence.

The old Pope knew not of the Robber Hode and his connection with the Elven nephew, but he had had his wonderings, and it was for this very reason he had sent spies into the community now five years old.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Daffodils would spring up

Daffodils would spring up wherever his feet touched the ground. It was just one of his many tricks in the common world for the fay - for when developed, they can inspire life wherever they go.

Depending on which season, the bulbs might sleep and wait until Spring, to push their way up through the dirt, to answer their calling sun - but nonetheless these floral tracks and trails would begin at the footfall of this ageing elf.

Words, like flowers, would spill out from the mouths of mortals around him involuntarily - their trails wound pathways back to their heart-forged thoughts - fast flying and skimming the ethers - like fireflies in winding lines, illuminated by their passions of any given moment.

Puck always knew their thoughts, and their intentions, before they were forged into words. He knew it all, for you see human beings really aren’t all that complicated or profound … they can be confusingly random, but were never really a match for his own wit and knowledge.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Early Morning

Darkness was all around as it was still the early morning and not yet lit.

He couldn’t see where the words were coming from, yet the voice sounded cordial enough.

“What would you have Francesco, if you could have anything?” was asked, deeply, with consideration. It seemed to be coming from the lion above from where he sat.

Perhaps this was an invitation to pray out loud, Francis bethought. I will oblige -

“Here then”, he began -

“Merciful benefactor,
Lord of Lords,
Creation’s gate
Today I pray
I pray this day
this day of days
this prayer of prayers:
for Wisdom’s light: to bespoke our minds
for Grace’s charity: to provoke our cares
for Heaven’s bounty: to sustain our souls
for Godly Reason: to make calm our selves."

He stopped here, for there was a great cracking noise above and Francis moved quickly, instinctively rising to his feet, in case any of the stone were to fall.

It was the lion - the great stone lion from up above — whose hardened shell had taken on a living form, and with a heavy thud, sprang all the way down, and there stood right before him, staring at Francis in the half-light of the new morning.


- Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Metropolis of Antiquity

Francis felt himself to be a very long way from home.

At the first he had borne the delight of a tourist - wide-eyed to the fascinating aspects of this metropolis of antiquity and faith. 

But then the ghosts had crowded in on him - whispering their complaints with rasping wraith-words … a breathless petitioning for his interest, forlorn in the injustices that had taken them and their loved ones into their sodden graves.

How did a city as beautiful as this, house so much sorrow?

He was conflicted more so.

The aged Pope had required his reporting, asking for this audience now due the very next day; but he had not the heart to fulfil this meeting. In fact, he had so much heart the anomalies of Rome were eroding his confidence entirely.

He stopped to rest at the foot of one of those lions, sitting at the ground beneath, he opened a roll of wool that he carried with him, and wrapped it around his shoulders to the ground. Closing his eyes he started to pray.

“Be careful my boy, lest your prayers disturb the pious” he heard a voice say. It had come from above him.

“I know not what you mean” he answered back.


-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances

Monuments

There were Roman lions cast in bronze, carved in sandstone, and sculpted in marble, almost everywhere all over the great city.

There were so many, one could say, that it was almost expected, when passing by a fountain or an public place, to find one or two of the giant cats lying stretched across a pillar or a gate.

When Francis had been summoned into the Holy City he had been transfixed by the lavish empire of artists, with their great works around the colonnades and vestibules, in houses large and small - detailed paintings and engravings, mosaics and marvellous effigies. It was apparent to him that the entire populace was touched by this beauty.

The faces of the folk dwelling in the city were markedly different, he had observed also. Perhaps it was that the wear of poverty, or the shadows of ale, did not afflict the countenance there.

No farmer or miner could be found in these streets. The merchants, and the soldiers who ventured the roads, appeared refined and well kept. Everywhere there were cassocks and shrouds, and an uncommonly vast number of Muslims who were taking quarters at the outskirts on a pilgrimage all of their own.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, AZLANDER: NEVER ENDINGS: Second Chances