Chance let the rest of the warm sun tan his face.
The summer-like streak that stretched on through months about Destrea halted with a torrent of rain a couple nights ago. The Tywyll Forest was cold now, but the sun peeked through the damp leaves. It was just enough to create a warm patch where he laid.
His eyes were closed. His mind was screaming, meditating, but singing. One song replayed in his mind, making his tongue dance to it.
“Rain won't wash away the memories
And the wind won't hide her perfume
But it blows

Caislín fingered her father’s crown.
The funeral was held yesterday. She was officially the queen of Destrea. Instead of sapphire coronation banners, black and purple streamers danced in the whistling wind to mourn the loss of a monarch. She was given word that Sa’di had been implicated with the band of terrorists and had since disappeared, thus proving their points.

The space between two hearts can be a hallowed and harrowing place, and our space widened the next day.

Daniel and I went for a walk. The roadside asters were dried to a crisp. There was no breeze. "That's a New England bog," I told him, nodding to an expanse on our left. Golden rod, purple loosestrife. "Those tall reeds are cattails. I don't think Ireland has them."

"I don't think so."

Crickets and fans sound in my ear
I wait for dawn's rays to appear
But pain cannot be kept at bay
I try to push the fog away
And onwards through the haze I see
That sleep may make its way to me

Don't leave me, no
Don't let me be
You cannot judge
What you can't see

And then the beast draws near again
Insomnia is labeled "sin"
It's dreaded force to me denies
Blessed sleep and still it decries
That I must be awake at night
While rest is scared away by sight

Like an oasis to feet sore from the road,
The city appears - like a wraith - the city so worn and old.
His Majesty nurtured it like an eagle ready for flight.
His Majesty protected it with his strength and his might.

My home stands tall like a jewel from afar.
It’s Rome! As constant as the Northern Star
Is its road and its streets - SPQR!

It has been a long journey,
My heart is set on home.
And I have nothing to fear,
For all roads lead to Rome.

I can't really write songs
My thoughts get stuck
And the words go wrong
They say write from the soul
Let your heart sing it
Well, my heart was a raisin
And someone already ate it

Yes, I'm such a poet
Though they laugh when I say it
My heart was a raisin
And someone already ate it

I’m heartless, it’s true
Needless to say
If I ever get near
Someone shoves me away
I’m hated by many
Disliked by the rest
But I don’t need them
Because I am the best

Crofton Fief was nowhere near a site where people could be found in the most ubiquitous manner.
It seemed like winter all the time. The sky was bleak and bland - there was no way to know when it was day or night. A murder of crows screeched and rested on dead black skeletons of trees that must have lived and died before the Iron Age. The air was stale, silent, still… the party, all of whom were riding towards the town, shivered with both and eerie discomfort and chilliness.

Teren awoke with sunlight shining on his eyelids. He sat up and yawned, then heard a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he called sleepily. Cybille entered the room, then turned around and walked back out.
“You are not dressed.”
Teren rolled his eyes.
“It’s fine. I have a t-shirt and boxers on, you can come in.”
Cybille reappeared with one hand over her eyes.
“Your new suit is done, and I brought it up.”
“New suit? What new suit?”
“The one I measured you for last week. Remember? Your father wanted you to have it for when the guests arrive.”

Cybille sat in the kitchens, sipping a mug of tea, a small break from work. The door from the back walk was suddenly flung open, and one of the cook’s boys came in, soaked to the bone. Cybille raised her eyebrows. It was a sunny afternoon last time she checked, and the sprinklers weren’t on outside at this time of day, unless… She smiled into her tea as the cook came and began to dry her son off. The boy was complaining about “annoying brats” and “hooligans” and Cybille laughed under her breath. A sudden rain shower on a clear day sounded just like Teren, Hugo, and Jason.

[Younger readers: drug use mentioned. And maybe some brief thematic content that could be upsetting. I would keep this to the older readers.]

----------------------------

Secondo movimento. A word on how I met my Irish soulmate.

I remember it in only blurs and pieces: