Open Chronicles Through the golden ages to a bright present and future

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» Then I hope you will follow through, any addition to the palace library only deepens its worth. «
He quietly mused in his place, resuming.
» And if nothing else, it is your deeds and work that remain as your legacy. «
 
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“Writing does outlive us all.” He added, pausing to reflect on the other mentioned aspect of legacy the White Swallow spoke of. He had lived a good life and done no misdeeds to others – but also he had lived a sheltered life, children aside, he had no noteworthy deeds to leave behind. Writing would outlive all however; perhaps now that he had time, he ought remain committed to it. He had wondered what to do once he was back in Maraan, and here he found an answer.

“And I’ve done nothing of renown; so maybe writing and contributing should be it.” He added in warm reflection.
 
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“If I had to wager, I'd guess the cat's departed. I suspect it’s interest in the book only lasted as long as it perceived ours to.” Harun replied with a soft laugh. To him, felines seemed to have a way of taking up far more space than their small size implied they should; largely, it seemed, by placing themselves where they could best get in the way. It had been a common enough reason for procrastination in his line of work.

“To make a bolder guess; the cat has currently strewn itself across the closest, busiest hallway.” Harun added with a chuckle.

“Shall we see, then?”
 
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»Let us go then, « he nodded standing up and passing by the owners of the establishment, who nodded in turn, but they had more guests to attend to now.

»We could perhaps pinpoint precisely, what would a cat do if it were not on its resting spot? «

»I assume it will be exactly there as we've left it, still asleep and content. «
 
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“Agreed; let us depart.” Harun replied before rising from his seat, giving the owners a friendly nod as he and the White Swallow made their departure from the establishment.

“Perhaps it has chosen to continue in idle nap; such a carefree life they live.” He remarked with a soft chuckle.

“Though I’ll hold in my prediction that it’s moved to interrupt another. Hopefully so; let us see for ourselves.” He concluded. Such inconveniences were justified price for feline companionship, though their antics seemed more amusing when they happened to another scribe.
 
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»Were you ever blessed with the companionship of a cat? « Mused the Swallow as they made their way across the military base again.

The soldiers seemingly departed, but the swallow knew that they merely took a break to wash their bodies and then left to engulf their minds in prayer.
He was never quite sure if he was more creative or mad after a hard day of gruelling exercise.
 
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“Many times; a staple member of any household of mine, and most any library I've known." Harun warmly responded. They were splendid for keeping away the vermin, and adored by their antics; which, however mischievous, never ceased to be endearing.

Such as bidding a pair of scribes to take an impromptu break solely by it's choice of napping grounds.

The soldiers present were notably lacking. Harun knew not where, though his companion had given him hint prior. Prayer, reading, writing; they certainly kept busier than the soldiers in his homeland. These warriors held loyalty, and their warriors would not ply their trade without coin. He reflected upon former writing he had read, that tough times forge a tough society; the Sahiyi seemed to embody the statement.
 
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»I've only ever had the companionship of village strays when I was still young, then none ever again. «
Quietly the White Swallow mused, looking over the sky before stepping onto the first step.
It was soon the moment of revelation, for the cat was...
 
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Which led Harun to muse over a thought, for it was rather often that those feline companions would wander out for the better part of a day or evening. During his up ringing he would often wonder what they were up to when he was not there to look. An imaginative youth, he had daydreamed all sort of unlikely adventures, though he hadn’t before considered the many others they likely visited. The White Swallow spoke of strays that kept him company, and perhaps Harun’s cats too had likewise blessed others with companionship. Such was a nice thought.

They had nearly returned, and he too could only wonder whether the cat had moved or remained in place. Quite the mundane event to remain so focused upon, but the napping cat had become a focal point of the conversation. Harun held an earnest amount of curiosity to see which of them would be victor of their informal and stake-less wager.
 
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...And the cat was...still there.

Ah, victory.
»I presume you give too much credit to our lazy companion. One thing more is eternal, the laziness of felines.«
 
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“Alas, I guessed incorrectly." He replied, a smirk on his face at the continued obstacle to a day's work.

“You are wiser of feline habit it seems. Even in a library as busy and grandiose, such traits still hold true." He added, a soft chuckle staining the continued words.

“So it appears schedule is at the mercy of our feline friend. Well, perhaps I could see what I can add to the archives while I'm here?" Harun wondered aloud. He had been able to spark his memory enough to recite one over their meal. And it did appear that the White Swallows work was met with continual delay due to the lazy library cat.
 
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» You could have been just as right, « jested the Swallow as he sat beside the feline and their books untouched.

» Worry not,« he nonchalantly waved his hand before pointing at another scribe. » The assistant there would be glad to offer you a stack of parchment if you ask him kindly, and the inkwell I have by me. «
 
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“Ah true; who can truly understand the chaos drives the feline mind.” He remarked back with a subtle laugh. A creature so given to whim; such as lazy napping as displayed by the cat still on the book before them.

At the given gesture, his attention turned next to the assistant he referred to. The assistant was already gathering the parchment in preparation, having been in earshot of the White Swallows guidance to Harun.

“Might I ask you for a few sheets of parchment, please - Ah, thank you very kindly.” He had barely completed the request when the assistant happily offered the parchment already gathered. He took the stack with him and returned to his seat, dabbing the quill in ink before making pensive hesitation. His chin came to rest in his other hand during this pause of thought before his posture shifted anew. From still idleness to rapid writing, Harun and began to move the quill and jotted his poem down on the parchment before him:

On the endless dunes
Where we children fared
In play on the sand
Every afternoon.
Now none remain there.
Who knew we’d disband.

Time is youth’s disturbance
Fated to get older
Childhood came to end.
Some to be merchants
Or scribes and soldiers
Some not to be seen again.

Though those years
Were long ago
I must attest,
That time with peer,
I know to wist,
Those days were best.

Knowing them no longer
I dwell curiously
So I lie and ponder,
Do they too think of me?


With the poem complete, he sat up a bit straighter and reviewed what he just wrote. He had remembered the work verbatim, and there was small pride he took in that.

But to see the poem in written form before him and ready to be made submission had caused Harun sudden and unforeseen nervousness. What he had written, he had done so as hobby and pastime. More out of need to put his thoughts to writing, than to entertain another. This one he remembered writing decades ago, in awkward transition between stages of life.

But this was a distant land of far different custom; and his experiences and priorities may not be the same as theirs. Travels thus far already had shown cultures and ways of life far different than he had known; and he had roamed but one small patch of the great expanse that constituted Arethil.

With that gained wisdom, he could only wonder if his expression would be shared. Recounting the White Swallow's recent encouragement granted a sense of security; this was no place of judgment, he might be misunderstood at worst. His skittishness settled, he finally set down the quill and shifted back in his seat.

“I've recalled the poem. But one I wrote long ago, on dwelling upon life whilst in Maraan. I must admit I'm curious of your thoughts, friend.”
Harun remarked, carefully turning the parchment to afford a better view.
 
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He offered the inkwell, but later opted to share it with Harun as The White Swallow sneakily left to acquire more parchment- He too would write.
It was true that the cat was unmoved, so he might as well go astray with his task and do it his own way.
But it should still impress, correct? He intended to utilise the Jaleyaanan scribes to copy a poem page onto the scrapbook, but he will have to make do with what he has.

What a poor excuse to not do a task as instructed, to respect a cat's rest?
Only here is it such.


The White swallow recalled...The bleeding fruit of paradise, that's it.
He opened the page of the previous booklet they read where that poem lay in wait and began to carefully sketch a general shape onto a free parchment. Along it was verses and words, knotted into a shape reminiscent of a tree. He was no artist to be able to copy the beautiful miniatures, but he could cobble up a beautiful calligram in his spare time.

While he worked leisurely, he did peer over at what Harun was writing though, but could not quite read it as it was just being set down.
When venerable scribe offered him the page, he gently took it closer to read it carefully.

The motif was admirable, though not as much to him as he was barely in his twenties, yet still, he shed so many friends, lost his homeland and he too for just a moment felt nostalgic.
Did anyone ever think of him?
 
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He waited a moment as The White Swallow read the poem. Perhaps he did relate, or perhaps he did not; Harun never got the requested thoughts from his companion. Either way, his attention remained on the work and he did not seem off put by it. Still, Harun was hopeful that he could write one worthy as a contribution.

His own life had been lived entirely in Maraan, and as a well to do scribe at that. It was a lived experience entirely different from what he saw before them. But there are some things that are universal; some events that strike the soul of all, regardless of upbringing or belief. Harun, quite regretfully, had inspiration for just such a poem; one he hadn't shared before.

He hesitated to share it even now, but after a moment's internal debate, he realized here is where it truly belonged, were his hosts to find it worthy. To keep it to himself would be a shame. If these halls could house his sentiments written upon the parchment before him, there would be some fulfullment in that. He felt sure it would make her happy too.

The only one
To hold my heart
That I had ever known

Is now long gone
The path’s grown dark
And now I tread alone

I’ve been advised
To not forego
Light from another flame

But realize
That such a glow
Would never be the same

None could replace
None fit that space
No reason to search for

And I’d ever
Endlessly endeavour
To see her smile once more

It was a bit cathartic, really, to not only put the thoughts in writing but to share them with another as well. Though distraught when he had wrote the poem, putting it to parchment this time had been more soothing. There was additional comfort that one was here to share it, and by now he held more than enough trust and faith in The White Swallow to share it with ease.

He would be the first other to read it.
 
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The White Swallow eyed Harun as he gazed back at the soldier with some kind of longing in his eyes.
Does he want the Swallow's verdict?
The man in the golden years of his should know better than judge his own writing merit by the opinion of a ~20-year-old. The soldier smiled behind his covers, the telltale wrinkle by his eyes giving it away.
Reverence comes the other way around!
» I might write an opinion once it has been published, as all great works go, they will soon attract much attention,« his eyes slowly went from stanza to stanza, slowly reading the lines of this new poem to himself.
» I hope you do not stop writing, « he would have commented on how much better this poem was than the last, but would that not jinx it?
And of course, it was clear the poem tackled a touchy subject, it might be offputting to have any specific comments in regards to such a profound poem? »Somebody, you miss? «
 
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Though he received no opinion, his inquiry had been answered. Perhaps not through words, but through the look returned. The White Swallow, while remaining silent, appeared much more confident than the fretful Harun. Of reading and writing alone, He knew plenty; but of sharing his own writing to be read, he knew little of. He wrote with himself as principal audience, mainly.

Harun took a note of the reaction, as the White Swallow had carried himself with deliberate intent. If he made no remark, it was surely that he meant to, and such was not truly the process of sharing written works like they were. As old as he was, this process was by far the domain of the young soldier. Harun merely copied, but didn't curate. What many literary works he possesses were his alone, and not shared.

An act of his he regarded now as perhaps selfish from within the grandiose library built explicitly to share and make available it’s collection. Musings would cease and attention return to the White Swallow once he made his remark. Not appraisal, but it implied explanation of why it was withheld; understandable enough to the older scribe.

It was shortly followed by encouragement.

“I surely shall continue.” He replied, happiness sparked in his eyes as he did so. Further notable to him that it was encouragement at the act of writing itself, and not appraisal of written work. His companion inquired about the subject, and after a quiet moment of reflection, Harun made his reply.

“Yes, one most dear.” He spoke his solemn response.

“An ode to my late wife; she passed nearly four years ago this day. The only poem to her she has not read.” He added with a nod. Unlike the last, he made no request for opinion with this poem; both out of respect for the White Swallow's interpreted viewpoint, and the sanctity of she whom had inspired the work.

Writing it had helped bring closure to grief. Sharing it brought catharsis.
 
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A bit earlier in the day, Liberty had taken a break from the books to take care of worldly desires. But even such a short separation from these new and foreign books felt like months.

Upon her return, she directed herself again to the poetry section again. Browsing the covers of books, taking out some thinner ones, and reading them through. What a pleasant time. She noticed two men reading poems nearby. Or wait, rather than reading they seem to be writing them down?

Liberty decided to discreetly step closer and listen to their talk.
 
» I am sorry to hear, I hope you find solace whenever you think of her. I know people close to one's heart never cease to be missed.«

The white swallow slowly nodded down his head before perking it up again. He planned to continue his calligram, but instead noticed something else, someone else.

A wide eyed...four eyed woman crept close, interest was seemingly beaming from her, or at least that's the impression he got. »You're welcome to join us, « he calmly leaned back.
 
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“I do, and you speak strong truth. I remind myself that I miss her because I knew and cherished her so; a blessing that I could. We have but the time we are given.” Harun remarked in solemn reflection, looking once more over the poem he’d written in honour of her.

Another took his notice soon after. Harun sat a bit upright as she drew closer, his formerly sombre expression shifting to one more cordial.

“By all means – you must be another visitor, too.” He remarked warmly in greeting. Perhaps she found the place as interesting a curiosity as Harun did himself – likely so, considering she appeared to hail from a fair distance away.

Thus far he’d seen that a love of literature was shared by those here, and he’d happily welcome the company of another who travelled under the same sentiment.
 
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Liberty smiled at the two men, taking a seat among them.

"Are you two writing poems together?" She asked with a smile and took a peek at their written notes,

"Oh, you have such lovely writing," she said to the older man. Her hand going to the cat that was sleeping nearby, giving it a good scratch behind the ears.

Harun Ahidjar White Swallow
 
The White Swallow nodded his head as Harun explained further, but his head shifted aside once more as the young lady sat among them and began petting the cat. »I am transcribing for My Lord, « he spoke gently. »My companion, Harun here, is writing poems however.«
»They call me The White Swallow of Narra. «
 
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Liberty sat next to them, introducing herself to their feline companion next. Her guess was half-correct, He was writing poetry himself; The White Swallow was not, but explained that in response which Harun would add to.

“I am – though from memory of poems I wrote long ago. And sitting in a room far away, I wish I had brought them.” Harun answered. While still a bit nervous about sharing his work, The White Swallow’s encouragement helped usher that away and he turned the parchment towards Liberty for ease of reading.

“Thank you.” He replied with a warm smile, touched by the compliment. Another with a love of literature, and Harun was curious where it came from. He himself was a scribe, perhaps Libby was a writer by profession or hobby.

“And I am Harun, a pleasure to meet you. Are you a writer, then?” He asked Libby, following up with his inquiry.
 
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Liberty nodded at the two men as they introduced themselves. "I must say, even if it's just from memory, it is a lovely piece."
"My name is Liberty Theophile Sarah Hope, but you may just call me Liberty, or Ms. Hope. Whichever one you find politer," she smiled a bit, "and actually! I am a writer, yes!"

She moved her bag to her lap to rummage a bit in it, "but I must say, I am no poet. I write fictional adventures and romances," Libby is thinking hard, about what is an appropriate book to show to fellow writers that are also complete strangers, while she flips between some of her books that she brought along.

White Swallow Harun Ahidjar