The old wounds scrape open often enough with
My stumbling into walls and doorframes or
Brushing up against the thorns hiding under more flowers than you’d think
Ripping open again to bleed and stain my shirts and pants
That I then have to throw away because
I cannot show myself as I must appear
If such stains linger where they can be seen
So I do not need to pick at them to keep them open
Although my bitten fingernails are drying red beneath
And I certainly do not need
Other hands tearing at my still raw skin
Flaying me a little bit at a time
These’ll do for now. Photo by Tara Winstead on Pexels.com
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As out into the world this verse does come,
I go, as I too rarely do, for some
Conversing lunch. I seldom brave the scrum
That comes with ev’ry workday’s afternoon,
And seldom spend the cash to fill a spoon
With soup or fork with meat from cattle hewn,
More often eating at my desk from home
Than daring from my office out to roam.
As staid and stolid, I am rightly known,
Both plain and proper such as well enough
Will serve those I am often near. Such stuff
As tales are made of, I from me rebuff,
For I know I am not of such a kind
As greater stories keep in their designs.
Poet not pictured Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com
I do not do great deeds, but I write well about them. Try me out!
That my coffee for the day is done, I know, Yet still I reach for a cup I expect to find there and filled, And when I do not find it because, Responsibly, I rinsed it out and put it away, The tide rolls in from the sea without which I cannot see, And I cling tightly so that I am not swept away, Small and weak against the world
Given that I swim less well than some stones… Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Read the previous entry in the serieshere. Read the next entry in the serieshere.
Got another content warning on this chapter: torture.
Following a report to Chade that discusses the end of Andronicus Kent and the ascent of Chassim, “Red Snow” begins with Fitz and Fleeter proceeding at speed, Fitz detailing their progress through the night and into the dawn. He notes passing “a rare shrine to Eda” (474) as he and his horse move ahead, and Fitz tries to puzzle out his quarry’s path. His thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of the crow, Motley, who croaks out a warning that Fitz heeds, and he is more cautious as he approaches the remnants of violence.
This is probably closer than it should be… Photo by David Bartus on Pexels.com
Fitz surveys the scene, searching for Bee and finding no sign of her. Fleeter’s sudden fatigue reaches Fitz through the Wit, and though he sees to her, he still hardens himself as the assassin he had been trained to be, reflecting on the quiet work he did for Shrewd. Fitz skulks through the terrain, considering implications of the evidence that presents itself to his senses, and he finds the results of the fracas that had broken out between the Servants and the Chalcedeans.
Fitz also finds there are survivors, and he watches for a time before advancing with fatal intent. Seeing the spoils of his own home on display, he questions one of them, Ellik, and secures his person before settling in to extract information. It is forthcoming, and it details how the Chalcedeans were hired and brought into the Six Duchies to effect the raid on Withywoods. It also details the lead-up to the violence that had erupted, and the escape Dwalia and Vindeliar had achieved. It does not report on Bee and Shine.
Securing Ellik, Fitz moves to confront another Chalcedean. He is not more merciful with him, and what he learns confirms what Ellik told him. And then he is beset by Ellik, melee ensuing until interrupted by the onrush of fleeing Chalcedeans and Six Duchies soldiers in pursuit. Perseverance is among them, and his untrained efforts save Fitz from death at Ellik’s hand. The general melee is soon concluded, and Fitz commands a search be organized in haste.
The mention of the shrine early in the present chapter brings to mind some work I have done explicating how Hobb works with concepts of medieval religion in the Realm of the Elderlings corpus. (The short answer is “not a whole lot, but not not at all.” The actual answer is more complex, as the paper bears out.) I am a bit embarrassed to admit that I had missed in the paper the mention of the shrine in the present chapter, as well as its description: “The goddess slumbered under a mantle of white snow, her hands open on her lap. Someone had brushed her hands clean and filled them with millet. Small birds perched on her fingers and thumbs” (474). I’m sure there is something to trace out in the description–there’s enough medievalist resonances in the Disney princesses the shrine’s description evoke that something could be plumbed–but I think it would not be something to stand on its own. Perhaps if I were to rework the conference paper into a longer piece…but that’s just another scholarly someday for me.
I note that Hobb returns again to the theme of torture that pervades her work–and not only her Elderlings corpus, as this rereading series will hopefully address at some point; it factors into the Soldier Son series, as well as some of the out-of-series works such as are in the Warriors anthology edited by Martin and Dozois. A quick glance at available scholarship–which reminds me that I need to do more to update the Fedwren Project–suggests that there is some attention being paid to the topic, which I am glad to see (even as I am somewhat jealous that I’m not the person doing the work). I’m not seeing an extended, systematic study, however, although I will concede that that might be simply a matter of my not having / taking the time to look more closely through the available scholarship at this point. I think I have already noted that such a project is among my many scholarly somedays; I should do so if I haven’t already. Perhaps, as things slow down a bit for me in my “real” life and in the more formal scholarly work that I am, somehow, still doing, I will have time to attend to some of them.
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They gave me back the words I had sent to them, Put their pens to my pen’s work And written that they thought that they were good, But If some things could be changed, They would be better yet, And I thought for a little while before I decided they were right
They’re not always out to get you, you know… Photo by Ron Lach on Pexels.com
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They said something about Both hands and a flashlight, but I’m still not sure what it is I’m looking for, and If I don’t even know that, How can I hope such tools will help?
Maybe I need one of these? Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
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A third of the way along, and I have to wonder when the ceasefire will end Or if it has already ended and I have frown so accustomed to the voices Of Smith and Wesson, of Ruger, and of Sig That I no longer hear them as They call to one another from afar, Shouting out their responses to the Putative Prince of Peace, in Whose Name They stand forth proudly and Spew their innards all around, Leaving messes for others to clean because They are, after all, only tools
This is what I’m talking about, of course. Photo by Lisa from Pexels on Pexels.com
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The leopards lick their fangs in new delight
As gath’ring clouds choke out the fading light,
And we, bare monkeys, shiver in the night.
Who knew that orange shines so in their eyes,
Them serves as spice? There should be no surprise
On faces facing fountains spewing lies
That they are wet, made moist that they might feast,
Those spotted cats. No warnings yet have ceased
That such would be the fate brought by such beasts,
But though the klaxon sounded across years,
And though full many voiced aloud their fears,
No sound of thinking reached between the ears
Of those who shiver now and seek to cling
To falling trees as leopards ruin bring.
Here, kitty, kitty, kitty… Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
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I am remembering my dreams again–
Sleep-borne shadows of the world,
Not grand ambitions for how my life could go.
Those are long since gone away,
Others’ wills having worked in the world,
Mine never having been so strong,
No more true than the slumbering seemings
I have remembered more in these past days
Than for years that have pissed themselves away,
And I have to think that I was more at ease
When sleep was a blank
Than I am when it tries to show me something
I do not want to see.
Elliott RWI 