Wrenogal: Act II, xliii-xlvi
xliii
The Wren flew through the night, to memorize
his route before the real route would be made,
and dipped beneath the clouds with furrowed eyes
to see through night—to know his course had stayed.
“And how has stayed my course!” He called below
to he he rode, whose wings suppressed the sky.
“Not that you’d know. You started it, you know—
the day you should have let my story die.”
He liked being in clouds. The bolt was there
that ‘saved’ him from the dragon in the storm.
Who was the seraph of the whirling air?
Who made sure that his life would be reborn?
Not Aeonia, he knew that for sure.
But he knew not who the three others were.
~
xliv: Lydoria
They say that one was master of the wind
(”that one would fit, whichever that one was”)
but she—if his memory hadn’t thinned—
was not so dreaded as that seastorm was.
They said a name at festivals more than
the others—and whenever there was song.
There was a pure connection that began
with wind to wherever the songs belong.
“That’s not so harsh as our wind,” said the Wren.
“Ours was a hurricane. No song in there.
It must not have been Lydoria, then.
I think that was the name they said at fair.
No wonder Naerendal studiously
rehearsed these stories to the listless me.”
~
xlv: Locrien
Another seemed to fit. The flaming one.
“That fits the lightning, kind-of, doesn’t it?
His stories are all pain, and never fun.
I think that really does.. Accurately fit.”
But he could not remember this one’s name.
They said it very rarely. More, by far,
he was called by his signature red flame,
and by the savage ways he left his scar.
“He’s left his scar on you, if it is he,”
he said quietly to the one below.
“And left an invisible one on me,
though not with fire. Not that I can know.”
Indeed, though not for him to know, some did,
if fire had a role in his life’s bid.
~
xlvi: Prydien
One more, they said, made gardens grow with tears.
She watered forests with her fearful sobs.
So many and so scattered were her fears,
that no-one knew where were her true heart’s throbs.
“That doesn’t sound like ours. Too sensitive.
Too caring, obviously, for new life
to see the likes of us, who would not live
without the instinct-anger of our strife.
Wherever that bolt came from, not from love
it struck. I cannot think anyone cared
enough for us to save, from high above,
a man who had naught but his revenge bared.”
That’s what I like about Wrenogal best.
He comes to wrong even by right’s behest.