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   Chapter 14 No.14

The WeatherMaker Hearts Desire By Lady Lilium Characters: 4977

Updated: 2018-07-10 12:04

The enemy had been vanquished, and as Farrell broke away from the fight, he was met by the king. Farrell dismounted, bowing low to the king, showing his utter respect and loyalty.

Back in the woods near the town of Ketts, so far away from the bloodshed and violence, Arlen walked. It was a lonely world. The trees were so thick, that no wind could penetrate here, and everything was utterly still. Save for the birds that could not be seen, but whose calls could be heard as far as one could walk and still remain in the forest.

His footsteps were light on the forest floor as he made his way slowly forwards, heading in no particular direction.

Arlen stopped for a moment, noticing something.

It was raining all around him, not water, but seeds. He cast his hand out, catching one of the seeds in his open palm. It was a sycamore seed. Everywhere they were falling to the ground, their descent slowed by the fan that sprouted out from the centre, causing them to spin continually, until they landed gently on the forest floor.

And then, he was struck with an idea.

Farrell and Brice returned home with the other soldiers some days later, very few of which had been lost. Farrell had washed the blood from him before he began his journey, now clean he walked Alastor slowly through the town. He was heading to his home when he saw Arlen at a distance, sitting outside the Duke's manor. Farrell was about to confront him, and demand why he had not been present where he was expected to join in the battle, but something held him back. It was some strange feeling inside that he could not explain. Farrell pulled the reins back lightly, and Alastor obediently slowed to a stop. Farrell stayed for a moment, watching Arlen sitting on that same rock he had been for days, and staring towards the Duke's manor, seemingly oblivious that he was being watched.

'Let's leave him to it' Brice suggested, coming to stand beside Farrell on his own horse.

Briefly, Farrell remembered the words that Alice had spoken days before.

Don't you see? It's so blatantly obvious. Arlen is in love.

Farrell shook his head.

'I will never understand him' he sighed to Brice. 'He is our brother, yet he is so different from us.'

'That he is' Brice nodded. 'That he is.'

The two of them moved away, leaving Arlen alone.

Arlen waited until his brothers were far away, before pulling from his coat the thing he had created, the thing he had been hiding. It had taken a few ho

urs to make, but a few days to perfect.

Like the sycamore seed, it had a large fan protruding from its centre, and like the sycamore seed, would fall the same way. The entire thing was made of paper, and was very light in weight, so would fall slowly.

Inside the middle piece, was a ring made of flowers. The flowers, once picked, would last only hours. Like all beauty, it was fleeting.

Arlen rose from the rock; taking several steps back he threw the thing as hard as he could, finally succeeding to get it over the wall only after several attempts. It was so light; it didn't travel far when thrown, but indeed fell slowly, as he had designed it to. Quickly he slipped away, returning to his home, to think of the next thing he could create to send over the wall, and convince the beautiful maiden inside to emerge from her fortress. He became very excited.

What wonderful thing could I do next? He thought happily.

Days later

Arlen glanced up from where he sat upon the hill. From here he could see the field belonging to Farrell in which the stallion Alastor now shared with the mares. He would interact with them constantly in a quiet affiliation. Restless and alert, the stallion would wander about the heard, nudging them frequently and raising his head, his upper lip curled back.

Arlen recognised this courting behaviour, and thought to himself with a smile, you will sire many strong and handsome foals, black and beautiful like yourself.

Nearby, his brothers Farrell and Brice practiced sword fighting together, swinging their blunted weapons and dancing back and forth in perfect motion.

Arlen returned his attention back to his own, sitting with the large sketchbook open on his lap. He lifted the coloured pencil, adding the details to the picture he saw before him. He was interrupted moments later when a shadow fell across his page.

'Hey!' Arlen protested. 'You're getting in the way of the light.'

Farrell frowned down at him, stepping to the side out of Arlen's way. Arlen shot him a glare of annoyance quickly before returned to his drawing.

'Since when do you draw silly pictures?' Farrell asked him.

Arlen pursed his lips, gritting his teeth; his brow furrowed impatiently.

'It may be silly to you, but some people appreciate the beauty of art.'

'I'm sorry brother' Farrell said hastily. 'I didn't mean any offence by it.'

Arlen shot him a dark look, turning the other way and sitting now with his back to Farrell.

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