Yesterday’s bombastic declaration comes from this passage from my work in progress, HEART OF ICE:
“Tell me, what is the weight of a plaintive lament,
Of a passionate passage of sighs?
When Sir Manfred like Achilles sulks in his tent,
Under lowering, thunderous skies?
Here he broods, dark Sir Manfred! The lord of Valkenburgh!
Cast miles from the bright fields of home!
By the gale of misfortune blown here to an island
Which no man of grace calls his own!
Far in the West on his own!
Always and ever, alooone!
“Poor Sir Manfred,” Trinadan said.
“You have felt his pain-of-the-world,” said Wegener. “My work now is done.”
He turned away, to repack the halberd securely.
“But he isn’t alone, is he?” Forge said. “He’s wi’ you. And now wi’ us.”
“In the ways that matter most to the innermost heart, he is alone,” Wegener declared solemnly.
“An’ as for no man o’ grace callin’ this island his home …” Forge began.
“Pardon me if you choose for interrupting you, Sir Forge, but song is not reality,” Wegener said. “At most, it describes what can be seen through a chip of ice, held at an angle to the eye. There are only so many words available in any tongue; what does not rhyme, nor scan, cannot be said at all, and there are many things which can only be said badly, or partially.”
“There’s them as would call a thing said badly or partially as a lie,” Forge said, careful even through his easy banter not to accuse Wegener directly. Much blood had been spilled thus, in both this world and the Other Side.
“Bah!” came the sudden plosive clap of sound from the darkness, whence Sir Manfred emerged. “Of what consequence is a trivial falsehood within the grand canvas upon which the saga of Valkenburgh is played?”