Time and Power.

There’s a rainbow. The colors are faint and it doesn't sparkle. Sometimes you’re not sure whether it’s there, of if it’s just a figment of your imagination. But it is there. Whether you walk past it with your face hunched over your gadget, or if you’re chasing the bus that just moved away, it’s there. You can try to reach out your hands to it, try to stretch out and grasp it, but you will come up empty handed. You choose to believe in something that you can only see, that you cannot touch, that you cannot taste, that you cannot smell. But it’s there. I hold on to the faith that it is there. It might not show itself all the time, it might not appear in the same place, it may not be the same strength in color, but when I see it, I know, it is there.

‘Twas a day of merriment and valour. One where chivalry and grace was in the air. The palace dined and laughed and danced. They chanted their graces and gave thanks to the Lord for His generosity. They ate heartily; lavish meals were continuously served on the grand tables. The men drew their strengths and the young knights were trying their hands at the wheels. The women, in their fine dresses and tresses exchanged excitements and sorrows as they brought out the meals. Warm embraces, kisses in the air, twinkling eyes, and the welcoming stare. They all gathered and worked and laughed.

‘Twon’t be a tale worth sharing if no tragedy had occurred. And sure enough here in the lands of The Dry Shredded Meat, Sir-Rant-A-Lot finds a devastation that hits close to home.

Sir-Rant-A-Lot has spoken of a certain feline he has taken a dis-fancy unto. Yet he too has learned that time and blood lines can embellish such feelings. The feline, though incapable of wisdom and wit, borne over by shallow thoughts and murkish humor, has found a fondness from Sir-Rant-A-Lot. And to this Sir-Rant-A-Lot must declare she is a grand surpasser of Tweedle-Dee. And tonight, this hot and dry, night that started with merriment and glee, ends with hidden tears when the two tales collide.

‘Tis custom of The Dry’s that they give out potions to the wizards who come to lend voices to the ceremony’s chants. The potions need be embellished and fragranted to please the warlords; as is the custom. The maidens were ordered to prepare such potions and embellish them with a fine silken hue of the Flamingos. There, who would have known it shall bring such grief to one small soul.

Sir-Rant-A-Lot must admit that time may heal a wound, but a wound of the heart is not as easily sealed. No one knows if the scars mean that the pain is forgotten, or it has merely been buried so the body may continue its adventures..and so this silken hue was placed, flaunted, glaring into the maiden’s eyes and as Sir-Rant-A-Lot would admit, would feel like a dagger straight to the heart. This valiant maiden hid her wounds and pain and smothered her pain with banter and candid jostles, but Sir-Rant-A-Lot knows that the pain of the past never really goes away. One can only pray that nothing brings back to those memories of pain. But for this poor, unfortunate maiden, the dagger strikes deep and she is left in the middle of the palace merriment to bleed silently; each minute feeling like fingernails being pulled out from her fingers one at a time.

When she is finally alone, she does the only thing a maiden may do to regain her strength. She sheds her tears. She lets them flow and locks herself away and prays for time to pass so the pain will lessen. Pray that with time it will not be painful to be reminded of a joyful past. One that did not include her. Pray that what time she has had has built a strong wall to keep the monsters out. Pray that someday her smiles won’t be weighed down by distant thoughts.

Pray.