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Bedridden and weak, but heart-wrenchingly precious, a sickly boy of nine lies on a bed of straw. An elderly woman looks fondly upon him and combs his red hair. He sweats, feverish, his head twisting. She pats his forehead with a damp cloth. | |||
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Revision as of 03:33, 3 January 2017
kingsley relish iii
his childhood in blandenburg.
Bedridden and weak, but heart-wrenchingly precious, a sickly boy of nine lies on a bed of straw. An elderly woman looks fondly upon him and combs his red hair. He sweats, feverish, his head twisting. She pats his forehead with a damp cloth.
grandmother
“There, there. Don’t strain yourself, dearest. Would you like another story?”
child
(straining nonetheless)
“Yes, meemaw. Please...”
(The woman thinks for a moment. Some have accused her of doting on this feeble child, but he was her only grandson. She loved to tell tales and the boy had been confined to bed for years now.)
grandmother
“You’ve heard them all so many times you know them better than I, child. Knights and dragons, tournaments and weddings, alliances and betrayals. I’m afraid I have nothing new to tell you.”
child
“How about … our story, meemaw.”