Thelma and Me Summer of 65 part 2
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The Summer Child free porn video
Once there were two kingdoms, with two kings. The southern most was warm and fair, with long summers and ample harvest. But the northern one was cold and dark, with little light and fields that grew few crops even when they were not covered with snow. Two kings were brothers. They ruled the lands separated by a single river, one the bright, sunny land, where all prospered and was fair, and the other the hard, lean land were men fought to survive. The people of the north were plagued with little to no warm season, sudden frosts, and worse—the Vargs, killing wolves that ranged the wastes. They called their land Winter and despaired. In the summer country, the harvest was plenty. So it was and so it was thought to always have been. Once a year, at spring, the king of the winter country came to visit his brother’s court and nurse his great envy. One land was blessed, the other cursed, everyone thought it would remain so.
But there was a child. . .
*
They came through the wide corridors between fields thick with wheat— armed riders, dressed all in black and a sight for the farming folk who lived off the lush growth of summer land.
‘They come from the north,’ men whispered, and tapped out their pipes nervously. Life was good and harvest close, and even with peace forever established between the two brother’s countries it was easy to be afraid of the dark warriors, so hard and muscled from a life spent working where every bucket of sweat was barely bread for a day.
‘They’re with the king,’ mothers told their daughters, and hid away to peek through curtained windows as the contingent galloped past.
And then gasps could be heard, for the faces of the men were so stern, and their clothes so warlike and funereal, and the leader rode such a frightening black horse that it seemed that death was stalking the bright gold fields of summer. They rode through the village without slowing, and were out in the country again, leaving a wake of wondering and vague apprehension behind.
If the country folk could have rode with them a spell, they would be surprised to find that the mood among these warrior men was much lighter and easier than their faces revealed. Their garb and weapons were intimidating, to be sure. But these men were on holiday, and in a better land than they had ever known. Excitement was high. Their king had brought them, they had a duty, but the sights and sounds and smells were enough to enchant them. Especially the youngest knight, who was called Hunter.
‘My lord,’ he said, as he rode in a place of honor, next to the winter king, ‘this is a beautiful land.’ They were passing over a river and the wooden bridge echoed soundly under the battle steed’s hooves. The water caught Hunter’s eye for a moment: it shone and wound, a silver ribbon, through the mounded hills of wheat. ‘Well husbanded and fruitful,’ he exclaimed as the band cut through a grassy path between trees in an orchard dripping with blossoms.
His lord, the winter king, did not reply, though a slight twitch could be marked in the cheek, between the steely eye and grim line of a mouth.
A veteran of these journeys let his horse surge forward so that Hunter could hear him call. ‘Better keep your wits about you then, lad. If you like the produce, you should see the women.’
The warriors all laughed as they went through the next village, leaving all the summer folk to wonder what the joke could have been.
*
When dusk finally fell, the warriors cut across the fields towards the forest. Deer ran ahead of them, disturbed from the easy feeding they had on the forest edge. A few of the warriors put their hands on their bows, and watched the deer leap and escape. All of the band reached the end of the open land and stopped, holding on the edge of the forest.
‘We’ll make camp here,’ the winter king said. The warriors immediately dismounted to obey. Those with bows disappeared in the direction of the deer.
‘Don’t wish to sleep in a village, sire?’ asked Hunter. The king, standing on the edge of the camp and gazing out into the thick forest, did not reply.
‘No,’ the grizzled captain answered for him. ‘The Summer king and his court expects us not until tomorrow, and then for three long weeks. The living there will be soft. We need not lose our field skills.’
Seeing the king was lost in thought, Hunter addressed the older warrior, ‘And the people of this land don’t mind uninvited guests?’
The older warrior was about to reply when the king abruptly spoke, ‘My brother keeps these lands, freeing it from tax and sending whatever aid the farm needs from his own palace guard. They are not his, however.’
‘No?’
‘They belong to a woman, a matron of great wisdom and beauty, or so the villagers say. We shall see, Hunter. Perhaps tonight we will pay her a call. Get ready, we’ll leave soon on foot.’
As the young man went, the captain and his king looked at one another in silent communication. Finally, the old man nodded, ‘Whatever you find, we’ll be ready.’
‘Relax, Piper,’ with his oldest friend, the king’s usually hard visage cracked a little. ‘We’re only going to visit the woman.’
‘Not just any woman, if you believe the stories…’ He muttered, and fell silent as the youth returned.
‘It will be a fine thing to be able to scout this country. Is it not a wonder? All this beauty and bounty, right at reach?’ Hunter stretched out his hand to a branch full of large white flowers.
‘Huh,’ grunted the captain, turning to unpack his horse. But there was a slight smile at his mouth. ‘Wait until you see the court.’
Hunter would have done more exclaiming, but the king called for him, and he had to follow his liege into the forest.
‘That boy is too star-eyed to be brought to court,’ one warrior commented.
‘Stars fall from a man’s eyes when he grows older,’ the grizzled one said, and a tight expression crossed his lips—too grim to be called a smile. ‘There is no joy for a son of north here.’
*
Across the fields of wheat, a wind came, carrying the scents of all summer. The forest along the field held growth of its own, and two shadows slipped among the green, coming to the edge of the farmland.
‘My brother keeps all this territory,’ the king said, his cold eyes looking out over the expanse of gold that rippled like water under the hand of the wind. ‘He is the overlord of all and the people pay him out of their bounty. But, because harvest is so rich and continual, they never starve.’
‘Surely all men live as kings in this land.’ Hunter said.
‘My brother is the kingliest of kings,’ the winter lord said gravely. ‘And long have I wonder, how is it that his land prospers, while my people starve? How is it that the land is blessed and mine cursed?’
‘My lord!’ Hunter was disturbed by the brooding darkness on the king’s face. ‘The kingdom is well forested, and boasts a fine mining trade. And there are farmers, a few, who can grow hardy grain on their land.’
‘Few. No, Hunter, everything withers in my kingdom. We trade food for timber, iron and fish. But nothing like this. Here is the bounty.’ The king’s voice was feverish with longing. Hunter said nothing, hoping the mood would pass, the king be his strong, cold self again, full of reason and self-control.
After a moment the king did say, in an even tone, ‘For years I have come here and found all I lack. This land is blessed, and its monarch rules without a care for those who have want, for who could want for anything in a land of paradise and summer?’ He sighed. The sun was setting, the rays stretching almost to the men’s feet where they had previous been in forest shadow. Over the hills, the last bird songs could be heard. ‘Too long, Hunter, have I watched my people struggle to survive on frozen ground. Too long, and now I am weary of this.’
‘At first I thought it was my brother’s
power, and cursed myself, for I thought I was too weak. If my land had been another’s, then it would not groan under long dark winter paused only for a fruitless spring.’
‘My lord,’ Hunter said, but the king didn’t acknowledge him.
‘I thought I should leave my land, and give it over to my brother, and never be seen among my people again.’ His voice was almost a whisper. Under the jaw, grey with the day’s stubble, all the king’s muscles were clenched as if in agony. ‘But that is not to be the way.’
‘Surely not,’ Hunter broke in, ‘you cannot end your reign for this. You care for the people, they admire you.’
‘Do they?’ The king turned haunted eyes to him, and Hunter saw the questions, the hopelessness that had burned away many night’s sleep. ‘Will they forgive me?’
‘My king,’ Hunter stepped back and knelt, bowing his head and placing his right fist over his heart, ‘We will follow you into endless winter, if we must.’
‘Well said,’ the king said softly. ‘But it is not enough. A ruler should do what is best for his people. And, if by sacrifice, he can save them…’ He paused as if thinking and then shook his head, clearing the air of his thoughts. Hunter rose when commanded and brushed bracken from the knees of his trousers.
‘I have studied prosperity, Hunter. Want makes a man look closely. And though my eyes have searched for it, I cannot find anything among my brother’s court that would produce such a great paradise as this. It is not my brother’s power or rule that made this bright land.’
A cry went out over the way—a flurry of starlings broke from their hiding place, and swooped across the fields in a mad chase. Hunter twitched nervously, but then stilled to listen, for the king broke none of his concentration.
‘At first I thought I would conquer it, to possess it. I built an army…but no. I cannot move to take this land, in all its beauty. So I searched further without knowing what for, without object. I have consulted the wise who live at the world’s end, by the sea. I spoke with mages and stargazers, and those who know anything of the earth. They have told me this land is golden for one reason and one alone.’ The king stopped.
‘My lord—’ Hunter began, but he was silenced with a gesture. There was some human movement coming over the fields, back lit by the setting sun. The sounds blended, and at last, overpowered the birdsong. The two watchers drew back to a place of hiding in the undergrowth as a small procession of maidens and children came closer. A few lads were with them, guardians, or stragglers draw to the sight of sweet limbs in light cotton, and voices lifted in laughter and song. It was no work party this, or if it was, the work was done. The air was festive, with a few scattered fragments of a tune, even the bright sound of a tambourine.
‘There is a source of life, here, in this country. But it is not the king or his magic.’ The king said softly, without taking his eyes off of the party.
‘What then?’
The king shook his head, ‘Not what, Hunter… who. It is a person. You look at me as if I am mad, Hunter, and if I am, perhaps this is all a dream. But if not, then I have found the source of all this summer.’
A shout from the activity in the field drew their attention. The party was closer now. The two shadows in hiding watched them pass, seeing their bleakness reflected in the party’s happy laughter. The cry made the youths turn, and a child came running up from behind, carrying something that gleamed with polished wood.
The small crowd parted, letting the child—a girl or boy with short gold curls—through to lead them. And, for a moment, all heaven’s light shone down on the yellow head, until the very sun was rivaled by the blazing halo of the child’s hair.
Trained as he was for silence and stealth, Hunter let out a gasp. Beside him, the king shifted once, but otherwise was still. For a moment Hunter glanced at the king, but whatever the king was thinking was hidden away. Hunter looked back at the child, not bearing to look away long. The beauty was painful to watch, and painful to miss.
The other children seemed to be used to the amazing light, for they approached the child as one of their own, a favored one.
‘Play us a song, Ky,’ they begged, and immediately the young hands strummed the harp. The friends gathered round, and their own skin glowed with the light from the girl child.
And then the picture was too much too bear. Hunter looked away. It would have been easier to stare at the sun than to see such beauty. He felt like a starving man who, gone out to beg for food, comes upon a long table laden with a feast. But when he looked to the king, he did not recognize him. The hardness, chiseled out of many years of desire and despair, had given way, and a softness had crept in. And still the king was staring, staring straight into the sun of the child’s face.
The moment passed. The celebrants moved on. The king still stood mesmerized, as Hunter had never seen him before.
‘My lord,’ Hunter said softly, and the king awoke. They stared at each other, stunned by what they had seen.
‘Come,’ the king’s voice was too deep for Hunter to find emotion.
They did not return to camp, but circled this field, and others, keeping hidden in the forest. Dusk fell as they went. The forest trees darkened and blended as the light went away.
Finally the king said, ‘The matron of these lands is well respected and prosperous. She has no husband, but lives well with the king’s favor. We will sup with her tonight.’
They came out towards the lady’s place, great noise and light sifted through the trees, until they realized they were coming into a festival, complete with bonfires and minstrels.
‘She keeps a merry home,’ Hunter ventured, after the two crept up to the edge of the trees, and watched the party goers for a time. Huge fires had been lit, some held spits with heavy roasts turning on them. There were tables full of grains—oaten cakes and buckets of rye finely sifted.
‘It is a celebration of the first produce,’ the king observed, and slipped from Hunter’s side, into the open. Hunter waited and then did the same.
If the summer land was a blessed place, the folk who lived and worked there certainly were under blessing as well. Their faces were tanned and their bodies strong from a life of good eating and then toiling slaving under the load of abundant harvest. This day was a celebration as well as a fair— farmer’s wives were busy packing up a stall of jams or honeys. Hunter was charmed enough to go and buy a pie from one dimpled bride. She smiled up at him as he took a bite and gave a satisfied nod when he looked to be enjoying himself. ‘Perhaps I’ll see you at the party,’ she said, and scampered off. Hunter’s eyes followed her exit no farther than the hulking muscle farm of a husband waiting with a cart and horse. He finished the pie, chewing thoughtfully.
‘We’ll move on to the lodge,’ the king was at his elbow. Hunter shrugged, the fair was almost over, and all the village folk and minstrels, food and laughing young ladies were going inside the great lodge. Inside there were long tables set with platters of fruit, and roasted boar and fowl, and every sort of raw or roasted vegetable. The two Northlanders followed the stream of people to take a seat. All around were plain farming folk, laughing and drinking, enjoying the result of their sweat and labor under the sun. Young women went to and fro, carrying large horns of mead, dripping with condensation. The atmosphere was infectious. After a time, even Hunter helped himself to a roasted leg of fowl on the table, and the king sat with a cup of mead in his hand, the sharp planes of his face softened by the firelight. There, at the hearth of the room’s end, was the large dark haired matron, presiding over her land and party, laughing at the minstrel’s fun.
It did not take long for them to spo
t the child, whose tousled curls and plain smock ran among the rest. Indeed, in the corner of the eye, a gleam of gold like slanting sunlight came from her direction. She was among the dancers, and then the singers, but most often near her mother. The matron sat at her hearth fire, the shadows of flickering flames going up her arms. As the night drew on, and the mead flowed more freely, the light was a trickster. Even for the king, it was hard to see whether it was servant men or fire demons who, at the matron’s bidding, brought the logs to build the ever consuming fire. Then the child ran to her mother, and the heavy spell disappeared.
The king blinked. A farming boy walking by, groggy from all the mead, was surprised to find a hand on his on his collar, pulling him off his course.
‘Who is that golden child?’
The lad tried to shake off his stony-faced questioner, but tanned muscles were no match for the king’s might. Circulation cut off by the clamping hand, he said, ‘The matron’s daughter.’
The grip lessened slightly. ‘By what man?’
‘By no man, as far as the two of them are concerned. They have only ever loved each other.’ As if on cue, the girl ran to her mother and put her arms around her. The matron pulled her daughter onto her lap, and together they sat, stroking one another’s hair—one raven black, the other so sunny it was almost white— and watching the players.
Forever that evening would be in Hunter’s memory: a blaze of gold and fire, and, everywhere, the laughing, shining child. At last, the king tapped his shoulder, the two rose and bowed to the matron, and, barely noticed, left.
*
The two men made their way back in full dark. As soon as they reached camp, Hunter was ready to burst with all they had seen. But in the thin moonlight the king met his captain’s eye, and the warrior called them all to attention with a word.
The king spoke, ‘We break camp at the third watch. We will leave this place, and return to the north.’ Signaling one rider after another, he gave them their orders. Two left immediately. Hunter stood by and watched with a troubled look on his face, hearing little of the whispered conversations. The king spoke privately to the captain last.
‘You think this could be the one?’
‘Piper, if I can believe what I have seen… she will be no less than the salvation of our land.’
‘Wait for me at the bridge. I will ride last, in case we are followed or found out.’
‘I have not seen any lookouts for us. No military person knows we have come,’ said Piper.
‘My brother’s security is soft, but he does not rule in this place. Magic does—it has a stronger presence here. I feel it even as I move,’ he put out an arm and Piper saw the skin was prickled as sand paper.
‘My lord, it’s too dangerous—I should be the one—’
‘No. It is my magic that will protect me, you could not do it.’
‘Then,’ Piper gripped his lord’s forearm in allegiance, ‘To death or honor—or both,’ he pledged, and withdrew. The camp was almost cleared now. The pit where a few fire coals had been was covered with leaves as if it had never been. Before the moon reached third watch, only two men were left with their horses. The king’s stallion was almost invisible when he was still, a mere shadow of the night.
‘Meet me at the bridge,’ the king ordered Hunter.
‘You are going to take her.’
In answer, the king swung up onto River. Hunter could barely make them out from the branches behind them.
‘What good will it do?’
‘Much good, if she is the reason this land prospers.’
‘What if she is not? What if it is her mother’s power that works endless summer? That child is pure light—surely stealing her would mean a curse—’
‘You aspire to know the deep and spiraling secrets of this land magic?’ The king’s deep voice was like a fist. ‘Are you a ruler, that you can feel all the power of good or evil running through your land?’ The king turned in his saddle—man and beast had faded almost to complete invisibility, but Hunter could still see the steely eyes. ‘I know the pain of a dying country. I watch it every day.’ He took a deep breath and continued more calmly, ‘You have sworn to follow me and bow to my will at ever turn. This is no small thing, here, it is the fate of a country. Will you obey?’
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