There wasn’t much time for writing this week once again. As such I worried that the story this week is another one of the very short ones that perhaps don’t always manage to say everything that I want them to. But my heart assures me that, as long as I share what is on my mind, and enjoy doing it, every story is worth the …
Seasons change as time passes: Spring gives way to Summer, then Fall and the snows of Winter. Eventually, the winter snows bring the world to pause, to rest, to a time where life gathers itself in anticipation of Spring’s return.
But, before the Spring can be, all must wait.
For a certain red-tail of the Realm, waiting is a difficult thing to manage. Her mind constructs lists upon lists; thoughts bind themselves to thoughts. By the time the middle of winter has come and gone, Tera has written out several notebooks, using them to fill the time between the moments that were and the moments to be.
But before those moments can be, even a queen must wait.
Those notebooks—with red covers, of course—tell of many things. Some hold fragments of stories to be told, when the time is right, when the moment allows and the words begin to place themselves into the open. In those fragments are worlds unseen by other eyes: places of adventure, places in intrigue, places of romance, places of mystery all waiting their turn to be shared.
But before those tales can be, they must wait.
In other books bound in red, her handwriting—as difficult to read as she thinks it is—tells of the pleasures of seduction, the moments of love she has seen, the entwining of souls, the delights in the moment of wonder found. Every loop and curl, every crossed “t” and dotted “i” carries the potential for amazing arousal and flawless fulfillment.
But before that bliss can be, the moments must wait.
More pages held with red offer glimpses of memories: the love of her mother barely known, then lost, of another mother cherished and missed now more dearly than she can explain. Each recollection connects her to her family, to her tailself, to those absent from the Realm whom she wished would return.
But before the tears and laughter can flow, her emotions must hold and wait.
As she looks out upon the snows for the first few bits of green to begin to show from beneath the white that has been there for so long, there is still another notebook with her. A page is open, her pen resting there.
The moment holds, for both must wait.
She looks at the stack of books, the words written over the deepest time of the year, the words calling out from where they await, anxious for her to see them once more, to take those words, the moments, the tears, the love and laughter, and share them with the world. They would linger as long as required, always silent, but never entirely patient.
How much longer would they have to wait?
The snows will not be there much longer. The Winter has begun, grudgingly, to give in to the Spring. The snows are going away once more, the warmth of the new spring is just around the corner, calling to all. The time of waiting is coming to a close again, offering the beginning of life made anew.
She need not, should not, but she still waits.
A thought comes to her. The page takes her thoughts as they flow from the tip of the pen once more: thoughts of the time spent waiting, the moments waiting, the life waiting. There is a melancholy in her smile, her words upon the page. She pauses in the midst of a thought, her hand stilled.
She finds herself once more, once again, pausing to wait.
Setting the pen down on the table beside her, she closes the notebook, winding a red ribbon around the words written, cradling the precious thing in her hands. This book is done, the words within must wait for their moment as do so many of her words, thoughts, tears, loves, and seductions.
The words whisper that she shouldn’t wait.
The Queen of the Realm looks across the room to see her heart waiting patiently for his Dear One to come to her choice. In his hands he holds a cup of tea, and she suddenly realizes that he’s placed a cup for her by the stack of red notebooks.
She knows that she shouldn’t make him wait.
He, of course, has all the time in the world for her. The indecision is something he knows well: so few have seen her moments of hesitancy, but he knows them well. He has seen her wait for the words to be right, even though she can’t let herself believe they will never be so. Since he never notices time pass when he’s with her, he has no idea how long he spends waiting for the inspiration to come and make the words be what she wants them to be.
But the tea really shouldn’t wait . . . not much longer.
Hesitantly, she offers the book in her hands to her heart. He is always, but always, the first to hold her words, where she believes he sees her flaws, her mistakes, and how awful her words really are—though he has only ever found wondrous stories. And so he accepts her gift in the same way he has always done.
He’s waited for her gift shared, always willing to wait.
The ribbon unwound, the book opened, she now waits for his thoughts about all for which she had made him wait. In this time, in the moments that come, however, there is a truth she knows most of all.
She is willing to wait.