Mission Accomplished

I did answer my own call. In a barbershop.


I suppose I cannot fault him. He had always had the most pressure put upon him by my father, and had much expected of him for the present and in the future. I thought at times he might feel some tenderness for me, especially as I grew in years and intelligence and was allowed greater part in the managing of our father's affairs. It could simply have been relief that encouraged his infrequent thanks and fleeting kindness, but I chose to remember it as familial warmth, a hearth long ashy with disuse, but conjuring still the memory of flame.

Arnold, my middle brother, was like an adder in the grass, or the dusty leavings of the stable. Even when possessed of callused foot or heavy booted, he would find the means to strike. He was quiet, and preferred to be seen as dull lest too much be asked of him in work at home or in the village. He knew how best to cut to my heart, at least, and would often allow me long enough respite from his bitter tongue before striking with long stored force. I had been caught unawares many times before I found out his game, and knew far better now; so many year's absence would no doubt prove him eager to cut.

Carradoc was nearest to me in age, and the most ambitious of all of my brothers given his share would undoubtedly be least. I knew from what little word I'd had early in my exile that he had protested the easy conquest of the Normans, and threatened against my father's will to join those who continued to fight in the North. I would not be surprised to return home to find him serving in the local garrison under the yoke of one our new Norman lords. Anything to sharpen a blade, his desires lying far from the cause. Besides, should he prove himself by other means, he would not rely too much on my father's generosity.


I've tried not to edit overmuch, though I'm not sold on the names. I basically picked up from the last place I could remember having left off at home. Maybe my winding, prosey style will lend itself to historical narrative. Maybe not.

In new new new new new news, I've been considering my tendencies to indulge in projects I cannot take seriously, and immediately countering such feelings with a refusal to justify what I am doing with any workshop sanctioned reason for writing. I daily resist the urge to say that I am building characters and particular skill in characterization... but there, now I have said it, so I suppose those efforts are empty ones.

I'm just swimming in this playful feeling reminiscent of the years I spent calling my best friend on the telephone every time I had three new pages worth reading out loud.