(A stab at ancient, poetic prose)
Thick the scent of baked green things rises heavy from the earth. Light hangs low and dusky over the fields, warming the bows of trees and brushing the grasses in painted gold. But the hour grows late, and the glory is fading.
Low the light falls, softer grow the shadows, ‘till all is grey with dusk.
Glory turns to glory as darkness claims the earth. The little people of the brush greet it, voices raised in lighthearted symphony. Winds play freely now, sweet with evening dew. Slowly stir the creatures of the dark, stretching, yawning, waiting for the wings of night.
Hooves pound fast along the path; the singers are stunned to silence. Hard does ragged traveler ride, collar up and cloak pulled tight, head down against the reins. No pleasure does this one take in song or cool or curling shadow, for tonight the full moon rises.
The world waits with bated breath, eyes raised for the rising of the full, round queen. Yet the traveler tears on, his beast’s eyes rolling and hide laid with foam—the terror of his master his own.
An inn stands by the way, though the path be narrow; the haunt of farmers and woodsmen and travelers alike. Its windows shine bright. The sound of merriment swings wide over the open road. To this shelter the traveler rides. Pays he the boy full half crown for the keeping of his horse and retreats to this haunt of revelry and light.
Many a patron shares this den tonight, for ‘tis the season of the traveler. It is a well tread path, despite its humble presence, and the inn well known for ale. Many a spirited tale rings from the beams, loud and laughing, flushed with meat and drink. Late the crowd lingers, and later does the traveler retire, light and warm with merriment.
The old stairs do creak, but no terror does it hold as the traveler retreats to his room. Like the falling of coins and far off glories, the ring of ale is in his ears. Fear has no place in this yellowed haze, only a fool's joy and a sluggards rest. He takes his chambers raucously, throwing his boots to the side, and down he stumbles, into the clasp of his bed, sinking low to realms of sleep.
In some far room chimes the strike of midnight.
Hardly does the solemn note disturb his heavy slumber, but another sound does ring soon after, rending veils of sleep. Softly the traveler stirs, knowing not why he wakes. Then steals the sound again, a fleeting call: his name.
Up the traveler rises, slow, eyes blurred with waning sleep. Deep are the shadows of the room, and not a soul he sees.
“Who calls?”
“I,” comes the voice again, high and sweet as summers eve.
Curiosity claims his fluttering heart and forth goes he to the shadowed halls.
Not all dark lies the passage beyond his chamber door. Many a candle marks the path, dripping forth their yellow light. Between the gold do shadows lie in churning pools of ink. Light to dark, light to dark, light to dark he treads. The shadows follow close behind, clinging as the morning mist. Not a soul he sees nor voice he hears in the dark and lapping hall. The silence breathes like waiting things, and slowly does the tardy fear overtake his steps.
Back toward his chamber he turns his trembling tread, but a figure there does wait.
A form fair and royal is the one his path does block, with brow high and noble, and skin as bright as ice. Hair of midnight hue frames the cobalt eyes, flowing free, light as air and smooth as satin silk. Around the queenly figure a stately cloak does drape. Thick are its folds, misty with softest silver. No fringe has this shining garment but deeper grow the shades, until softly does it fade to waiting shadow around her porcelain feet.
Back the traveler starts. His face does match her pallor. The holy cross he marks across his heaving chest. Laughs does she, high and sweet like many silver bells.
“The mark of my master fears me not. Come, man, I would have a word with thee.” Soft is the voice, sweet as violet's breath. Rippling, the note does waver with angel like divinity.
“What would you have of me?” says he, though he dare approach no further.
“To know what I have done to earn your sharp disdain.”
“No grief have I with thee, fair maid,” is the traveler’s reply. His form does shake all anew with thought of such offence.
“Yet you have fled me and often.”
“I swear I know thee not.”
Slowly does her smile bloom, “You do know me, traveler, and many times have ye fled before my face. It is for this I seek you out: to know of my offence.”
Silent stands the man; no word has he to answer. Softly comes the woman near with slow and gentle steps.
“Have ye not, this very night, flown with terror before the coming dusk? Yet fear ye not the darkness, that is silly child's fear, but better and wiser is that than the terror that you hold.
“My hand is the blanket that bid the birds of morrow sleep. At the coming of my steps the children of night do sing for joy. The cool, the mist, the morning dew are all my goodly gifts. By my light I draw the fishes to fill your waiting nets.
“I am helpmate to the sun, his ever humble bride. He bows his great head so I may rule the night; my title and my radiance his gift to a faithful wife. The stars, our dear ones, fill the sky with joy. You love them and their merry dances, but you love me not.
“How have I wronged ye, man? What is my offense? For which crimes do you fear me, and what malicious acts do you dread? Never have I struck ye, nor have I ever caused thee harm. The terrors of the night love not my face, both man and beast alike. My light lays bare their wicked deeds; away they hide on my shining nights of glory, filled with terror that the light may take them. Art thou a wicked man that you join in their numbers?”
The traveler answers not, his face white as ash. A reply he tries to make, but none come forth. For now does he know her, the one he hath disgraced. Falls he to the floor, no strength has he to stand. At her feet he lies, to afeared to plead. Down on him the queen does look with smile proud and soft and pitying. Raises she her silver mantel, and away the vision fades.
Up the traveler starts.
In his bed he lies, breath fast, face asheen with sweat. Night lies thickly still across the tavern chamber. Long since has his candle faded, drowned in dripping wax.
Away has fled the vision, but the memory grips him still. Fear and wonder mix in portions equal, overturning his poorly addled mind. From the window a breeze does blow, chill and sweet with summers breath. Wide are thrown the shutters just as they were left. Through the aged panes does the moon frame her face. Low her silver light does drip across the mottled floor, then up again the beam does arch to shine across his pillow.
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