Words...

Within the cold walls of a decorated room, a lady rests in a solid chair of rich, dark oak seated near a tall window. A low howl and frequent taps whistle from the winds outside as they blow leaves, grass, and feathers, making contact with the panes. She sits among her possessions quietly as dust continues to collect on the articles about her. A low fire slowly burns, the flames licking the confines of its space, coating the stones in thick soot. She stares into the crackling flames that wane with each passing day, leaving circles of ash and embers circling the warm flames. The seasons have changed many times and the fire still burns, though not as strong as it once did. She recalls when it burned brightly before. The flames once danced in the whole of the stone fireplace. She would lay her hand before it and let the leaping flames flicker about her fingers as she stood in amazement facing the bright storm. The flames of this hearth have kept her safe from the cold seasons and given her the comfort of its light in the warm ones. The fire has burned low now, the kindling almost gone.

She looks out among the buildings below, at the busy people and the bustling of their daily lives before her. Her gaze follows the road through the gates and farther into the nearby wood. She once ran through those wood as a young girl, when freedom was all she knew. The trails were once worn by her footfalls and marked on trees within the moving shadows. Her heart would soar with the large birds in the branches above and flit through the protective bushes with the small. The animals would watch her as she passed through their domain many times, for they knew she wished no harm to come to them. She was one with life in those woods, not afraid of anything. As the seasons passed, the trails have overgrown and the brambles have barred the freedoms she once knew.

Her contemplation lifts to the horizon and what lies beyond. The orange sun sinks in the sky before her, casting a crown of gold upon the woods of her youth. The majesty this view once held has waned. The washing of the golden light held once the promises of all her hopes and dreams. Those promises vanish as quickly as the reddening globe beneath the expanse of the earth. She somberly recalls the pain of anticipation, and loss.

Hopes once were sent upon the wings of a carrier bird from the east. Words scrolled upon a parchment professed that she was thought of daily, and life with her was all that was wished. She anticipated the author, hearing words every day that he soon would arrive. She would climb the trees in her forest of freedom, watching the eastern sky with the cool breeze in her face, until the sable cloak of night was draped across the sky, and the stars danced in the darkness. A final carrier came from the east bringing words she didn't want to read. The road was too much and, though the caravan came as far as it could to meet her, it had chosen a city closer than her own to reside. She would no longer climb the trees in the east or dance beneath the shadows of its leaves. As she returned to her chambers, she dropped the parchment on her desk with the others and laid upon her bed. The fire's warmth attempted to touch her skin, but the chill of despair held her in an icy grip.

Hope again was set upon the wings of a carrier, this time with words from the south. The author spoke of fantastic things and promised to take her to meet the horizons. Words promised that he would arrive shortly. When days passed, she would send out a bird only to receive more words that he would arrive before long. The boundaries to the south had grown thick with bramble, making the view difficult. She was forced to stand in the open field and endure the elements to await the arrival of the second author. The carriers continued to fly, bringing more words. Days would sometimes pass before another was received. The sun became unbearable to withstand without the shade of the trees after weeks of waiting. She chose to take her watch at the wall of the southern gate. A carrier came one day bringing words that the caravan was delayed. The author had created allies on the road and would choose to visit their cities before her own. She remained hopeful, receiving a parchment of words every few days, until a message from the author penned that he had chosen to stay within another lady's walls. Her tears mixed with the ink of this page before it found its place on her desk with all the other words. The fire in her room had not been kindled in those last few weeks and the ash grew as the flames receded.

Carriers came frequently after this. She refused to open them, not wanting to feel the hope build within her again only to watch that foundation crumble from empty words. She cloaked herself in heavy robes, bringing herself to enter the wood again. She no longer danced, but sat quietly, allowing her soul to connect to the trees and the animals about her. The wind would sweep about her and her soul would dance within its dark night as the leaves danced across the forest floor. Carriers still came, some bearing the seal of one author, others bearing the mark of others. She answered some, not expecting return. She held the cloak about her, covering her head and hiding beneath its shelter as she walked the roads of her city. An author of great words began to send her messages from the North. His words were kind and he promised her nothing but himself.

Some days she waited cloaked in the northern wood, hopeful, but expecting only to see more carriers and more words. That is all she has known, words from authors who could write them and teach a pigeon to fly. One day, a figure emerged on the northern horizon. She was elated. Removing her cloak, she rode out to meet him feeling the warmth of the sun on her skin again. When she arrived by his side, they exchanged a smile and spoke of many things as they rode to the gate of her city. Before entering the northern gate, he stopped his horse and looked back from where he had come, his face filled with great sadness from within his heart. She bowed her head, knowing the sadness within her would grow, choosing to tell him to turn and ride back to the north, to where he had left his heart. He raced back to the horizon leaving her cloaked figure to watch his form disappear into the darkness.

As her thoughts continue, she watches the fire sputter, causing embers to jump away from the heart of the flame. The chill of despair reaches deeper into the core of her heart and the fire cannot erase the cold from her skin. She has lost hope in words. She will not answer the parchments of other authors. Words do not mean anything to her anymore. As they are spoken, the authors of those words are brave and sure, but once the words have passed from their minds, to lips, and finally to the pen, they forget the meaning of those words. To not be able to see or hear only words would be grand. To not know only words, but to know the actions of those words would finally heal her heart. She has retreated to the tower, to her cold room. If an author wants to write words, he can. She may answer with only words of her own. The love within her heart is powerful, but it wanes as the fire in her hearth slowly diminishes. She wants the kindling from the trees just beyond the gate. She wants to feel the fire lick her fingers again, but the pain of entering the woods again is too great. So, she will wait.

She tosses the parchments into the flames from time to time. They strengthen the fire briefly, but burn quickly away to float into oblivion up the chimney. That is all those many words from previous authors is worth. They burn away quickly and extinguish without long lasting life. She longs for a day when words are not just written or spoken, but shown to her. She longs for the day one brings the wood from the trees within the forest. The wood that would tend the flames that will finally take the chill from her skin and warm her frozen heart. Until then, she will remain in the tower by the dying flames and wrapped in her cloak. She will only stare out of the window to the west as the debris clicks and the winds howl at her window.