ArHi FF:1: The BEASTS and the BLEEDING ROSES - Page 23

Saturday has arrived and your surprise awaits you…

THE TRUE STORY….BEHIND THIS STORY

Dedicated to all my dear friends, likers and commenters!

In Arhasia, I won't say which village, and I won't say which inn, and I won't say which room…..lives a lady named, I don't know her name; she has not told it to me yet. I met her once on my trip to Arhasia ( I occasionally do travel to that place) and she invited me over to have a cup of milk with her. Don't ask me why milk, she said she liked milk and she was having it and she would appreciate it if she had it with a company. So I said I would gladly offer that company and sat with her at a table and we drank our cups of warm milk silently. I still remember how warm the cup felt against my cold palm, I still remember how the sweet milk burned my tongue at the first eager sip. I still remember this because it was the first day of many days to come.

When I had emptied my cup, picked up my travelling satchel, shouldered it and stood up to leave, I didn't know my "thank you, ma'am, it was a pleasant milk but farewell for now" would only fade into the air, for I was to meet her again. Not once. But many times.

Yes, every week, thrice or twice, I go to Arhasia. There I go to this particular village, to this certain inn and to this certain room in the dark upstairs of that inn. There she sits on a huge armchair near the cold window and I sit on a rug upon the floor. She has a huge book upon her lap, and she opens it by the light of the fire crackling in the fireplace. The room is warm but I shiver. She does not read from the book. No, she shows the book to me, not letting me touch it but only letting me see it. The tiny writing of some unknown language. I wonder if it is her hand that wrote the story for she knows every word of it by heart. She shows me a page and I stare at the strange words, and in the shadow of the fire, it feels as if these letters are moving….moving as she speaks. She is speaking to me, in the language I know, of a story….a story of some innocent orphan girl, a story of a cruel young man and his sad sister….the story grips me and I listen enraptured. But she does not complete it. She tells me a chapter or two of this story and when she decides to stop, she shuts the book before me, the dust swirling in the air and she watches my disappointed face.

"Do you want to hear more?" she asks me every time, laying the closed book upon her lap, and sitting back in her armchair, watching me.

"Yes, I'd love to, ma'am," I would always reply.

"Then come back another day," she says and I stand up to leave, afraid to refute.

As soon as I reach the door, she tells me, "Before you leave, take that parchment lying on the table. Do as it says and then only return."

The first day I was new to this parchment. But now I know what it will say. Above the parchment is written the title:

Circle of the Arhasian Comrades, which I prefer to refer to as the CAC.

And underneath this title is a list of names. She wants me to send a message, using pigeons, to each person named in the parchment and they are to meet at an inn. No, not the inn where she stays. A different one. And when these people, on receiving the message have arrived, I gather around with them and tell them the story she said. Not all. Only what she told me at my last visit. And when I say it, I see how their faces lighten up or darken. They are eager to know more but I can tell them only what she has told me.

Yes, you. I speak to you, friend. You were there in the inn as we gathered as the Circle of the Arhasian Comrades and I narrated the tale. You told me how you liked it and did not, and I could only nod. You asked me questions, but I had no answers. For the story is not mine. It is hers. And as you wait for me to tell you what happens next, I wait for the next time I shall sit before her, staring at the letters moving on the dusty page of the old book, and listening to the wind speaking as though she were not there. Only when she snaps the book shut at the end of her chapter, will I look up and see her in her armchair. And then I will leave her, the parchment clutched in my hand. Sometimes a new name will be added to the list, sometimes an old name will be struck off. I don't know why but I will remember every face that I meet in the inn, as they gather around me to hear the story. A new face welcomed, a familiar face missing but many are the faces that are becoming dear to me. For you and I are both under the woman's mercy. She plays with our mind, a chapter a week, and leaves us wanting for more….I do not know why she loves this story so much. But I have seen the way she clutches the book close to her heart.

You ask me have I seen her face. Is she young? Is she old? I do not know. Her voice is strange. It sounds like a young woman's but she speaks slowly, picking each word as if they are too precious to be drift into the air. Does she smile? I have not seen her smile yet. And I don't know if I will.

All I know is I fear her. But I always wait eagerly for the day I must travel to Arhaisa, to that village, to that inn, to that room…..to sit before her armchair and hear the fire crackling while her voice soothes my mind with the string of the story. Will you ever meet her? I do not know. She only tells me a part of the story and expects me to tell it to you before I meet her again. But its better you don't meet her….she haunts you even in your sleep. I see the pages of her book, and hear her eerie voice and smell the warm milk even when I am asleep and sometimes even when I sit down to do my studies. Yes, she haunts me. And you better not meet her, my Arhasian Comrades, or the Lady with the Hood will haunt you too.

Okay, I know, (back to normal mode) I know what I wrote above is utter idiocy. I mean, *chuckle* yes, I've told some of you how the FF is detached from me and I don't know what the next chapter is going to be like until I write it and then when I have finished writing a chapter and edit it, I'm like, Whoa!! What is this?! And then I give it to you, and you're like,eh? Oh! And ah…..So, anyway, I decided to name us. Yes, we are the….let's say, theCircle of the Arhasian Comrades. New comrades are always welcome, present unwavering ones are dear to my heart, and many have already gone and you will notice that if you turn back to a few pages and see for yourself how some people at the beginning are not there now. Some have even been kind enough to PM me that they are dropping and I appreciate their efforts to warn before vanishing. Why this FF is not striking a chord in the Forum, you ask. I shrug. Is it because Gothic FFs don't have a market here? Maybe. Is it because the narrator, Aquiline, is not that active on Forum? Maybe. Or maybe its because I said this story runs parallel with the plot of the original show.

Why do I keep saying that? Because I joined the Forum and began making analysis on daily episodes after "ArHi marriage" had happened (around February last). So if I need to travel back to the beginning of the show and understand its depths, this FF is the only way I see. Also, the entire FF is not going to be parallel. Only its plot and connections are parallel. The story is my own and my creation will greatly entail in the past of Kushi, Arnav-Anjali and Shyam-Anjali. Also, since I am trying to nurture the psychological growth of the characters, I am letting Shyam "become" a villain, if that is what you want to call him. And with psychological backing, I am showing how Arnav in the real story can be healed. No, Kushi as his wife is not enough to heal Arnav. There is more to it……

Regarding why the size of my chapters vary. I don't know. Its the way my mind is led to work. Told you: the FF is detached from me. And most often, a chapter is something that has some key value that must be remembered or noticed. Hence, even in a small chapter, there is something you must focus on before I can take you to explore and understand another chapter.

I've said this once, many times, that when I write, it is as if I write with my own blood. Whether you read it or not, this FF is the only thing I can give the Forum to show my love for ArHi and my gratitude to the Forum for accepting me. As long as this FF lasts, Aquiline will be on this Forum. But when the last chapter is updated, I will bid my final farewell to this beloved Forum. And that might be a long way off...

I say all this now because I want to show how special you are to my story because you have become a part of it. And I wanted to make things clear for you regarding why I do this...

I'm glad I have this special Circle of Arhasian Comrades to keep me going. We meet in this Forum, but we actually are in an inn, gathered near a fireplace. No, the innkeeper is busy with his work, and no one minds us. They know it is unwise to trespass into our Circle uninvited. Though the woman gives a new parchment every time I meet her, I would still love to write down our names on a parchment for record…..So when you comment to this update, please end the comment with this address:

I, (your username/you can give yourself any fantastical name-male or female), present myself as one among the Circle of Arhasian Comrades and gather at this inn, awaiting the unraveling of Aquiline's narration of the tale of the Beasts and the Bleeding Roses.

Once again, thank you my comrades and without much delay….here's chapter twenty three.

Chapter Twenty Three: Accused

Lord Arnav walked into the dinning hall next morning and saw that his sister was seated before the massive table, alone and with an empty plate before her.

"Di, where's Brother-in-law?" asked her brother, his eyes scanning the room for a face other than the two waiting servants.

"He's gone to the stable to prepare his horse," said his sister stiffly, fixedly staring at her empty plate.

Lord Arnav sat at the head of the table and as he was being served, he said, "Oh yes, we are going riding today morning."

His sister gave no reply and he looked up. He saw that she was not looking in his direction purposefully which meant she was in a foul mood.

"Di?"

His sister sat still as a rock.

He rolled his eyes and took his cup of tea, "What is it, now? Did Brother-in-law interrupt your pampering with an excuse?"

His sister shot him a look and he knew her husband was not the reason for her silence.

"Di?"

His sister shook her head, "Of all the things you have done so far to show your upper hand in matters, this is the filthiest, Chotey!"

Lord Arnav placed his cup down, and looked confused, "What are you talking about?"

"I am talking about last night."

"What about last night?" he had a slight inclination what this was all about though.

"You tell me." His sister crossed her arms before her chest and eyed him, accusingly, "What did you tell that Play Master to do?"

Precisely what he had expected. "Oh that." He looked away and his jaws tightened.

He really didn't want to get angry with his sister early in the morning but if she pursued this topic, he would have no choice, "It is nothing you need to be concerned over, Di. It was a tiny payback I had to confer upon a certain somebody who deserved it."

"And did you think, for even a moment, how that 'certain somebody' being a young girl could be affected by your heartless payback and how her family might find it hard to face people all because of your thoughtless reaction to her wanting to thank me?"

"I did not do this because she came here, though that reason could have fueled it." He looked at his sister, "I did this because she dared to answer me back and question my powers when I met her at the Festival."

"So?" his sister rose from the chair, "You must have told or done something to instigate her to question you. Besides," she raised her hand seeing that her brother was about to interfere and he silenced on seeing her halted hand, "she sounds like a wise girl to question you on matters that I myself never get answers from you."

"Are you siding with that beggar?" Lord Arnav rose too and frowned.

"I am siding with what is right," said his sister, "What you did was wrong. You will not understand how wrong, for you are cold within and you think not of anyone else but yourself."

"And you," he added, "I live for you Di."

"Then, pray, warm your heart a little and see your follies," said his sister gently, seeing that she had found a hook to hang onto.

"What do you expect me to do?" he eyed her.

"Apologize to her and her family," his sister finalized in a low voice.

Lord Arnav smashed his fist on the table and the tea jumped in the cup, "Over my dead body."

"No, Chotey," his sister said, hurt, "Even after you die, you may never learn to be sorry…."

And with that she left the room, her eyes about to fill but she could not bear to let her brother see her tears, not even if it meant he would mend his ways. She would never wish her Little One to mend his life at the price of not being able to see her pain. Then it would be a reformation born out of a compromise and not out of true repentance…..and mostly, not out of love, which was what she wanted for him and what he strived to not attain.

You do know that pray also meant please in classical English, right? Reminding you once again: when you comment to this update (or you can PM me), please end the comment with this address:

I, (your username/you can give yourself any fantastical name-male or female), present myself as one among the Circle of Arhasian Comrades and gather at this inn, awaiting the unraveling of Aquiline's narration of the tale of the Beasts and the Bleeding Roses.

To return back to the Index, visit:

https://www.indiaforums.com/forum/fan-fictions/2901910/arhi-ff-1-the-beasts-and-the-bleeding-roses

In Arhasia, I won't say which village, and I won't say which inn, and I won't say which room…..lives a lady named, I don't know her name; she has not told it to me yet. I met her once on my trip to Arhasia ( I occasionally do travel to that place) and she invited me over to have a cup of milk with her. Don't ask me why milk, she said she liked milk and she was having it and she would appreciate it if she had it with a company. So I said I would gladly offer that company and sat with her at a table and we drank our cups of warm milk silently. I still remember how warm the cup felt against my cold palm, I still remember how the sweet milk burned my tongue at the first eager sip. I still remember this because it was the first day of many days to come.

When I had emptied my cup, picked up my travelling satchel, shouldered it and stood up to leave, I didn't know my "thank you, ma'am, it was a pleasant milk but farewell for now" would only fade into the air, for I was to meet her again. Not once. But many times.

Yes, every week, thrice or twice, I go to Arhasia. There I go to this particular village, to this certain inn and to this certain room in the dark upstairs of that inn. There she sits on a huge armchair near the cold window and I sit on a rug upon the floor. She has a huge book upon her lap, and she opens it by the light of the fire crackling in the fireplace. The room is warm but I shiver. She does not read from the book. No, she shows the book to me, not letting me touch it but only letting me see it. The tiny writing of some unknown language. I wonder if it is her hand that wrote the story for she knows every word of it by heart. She shows me a page and I stare at the strange words, and in the shadow of the fire, it feels as if these letters are moving….moving as she speaks. She is speaking to me, in the language I know, of a story….a story of some innocent orphan girl, a story of a cruel young man and his sad sister….the story grips me and I listen enraptured. But she does not complete it. She tells me a chapter or two of this story and when she decides to stop, she shuts the book before me, the dust swirling in the air and she watches my disappointed face.

"Do you want to hear more?" she asks me every time, laying the closed book upon her lap, and sitting back in her armchair, watching me.

"Yes, I'd love to, ma'am," I would always reply.

"Then come back another day," she says and I stand up to leave, afraid to refute.

As soon as I reach the door, she tells me, "Before you leave, take that parchment lying on the table. Do as it says and then only return."

The first day I was new to this parchment. But now I know what it will say. Above the parchment is written the title:

Circle of the Arhasian Comrades, which I prefer to refer to as the CAC.

And underneath this title is a list of names. She wants me to send a message, using pigeons, to each person named in the parchment and they are to meet at an inn. No, not the inn where she stays. A different one. And when these people, on receiving the message have arrived, I gather around with them and tell them the story she said. Not all. Only what she told me at my last visit. And when I say it, I see how their faces lighten up or darken. They are eager to know more but I can tell them only what she has told me.

Yes, you. I speak to you, friend. You were there in the inn as we gathered as the Circle of the Arhasian Comrades and I narrated the tale. You told me how you liked it and did not, and I could only nod. You asked me questions, but I had no answers. For the story is not mine. It is hers. And as you wait for me to tell you what happens next, I wait for the next time I shall sit before her, staring at the letters moving on the dusty page of the old book, and listening to the wind speaking as though she were not there. Only when she snaps the book shut at the end of her chapter, will I look up and see her in her armchair. And then I will leave her, the parchment clutched in my hand. Sometimes a new name will be added to the list, sometimes an old name will be struck off. I don't know why but I will remember every face that I meet in the inn, as they gather around me to hear the story. A new face welcomed, a familiar face missing but many are the faces that are becoming dear to me. For you and I are both under the woman's mercy. She plays with our mind, a chapter a week, and leaves us wanting for more….I do not know why she loves this story so much. But I have seen the way she clutches the book close to her heart.

You ask me have I seen her face. Is she young? Is she old? I do not know. Her voice is strange. It sounds like a young woman's but she speaks slowly, picking each word as if they are too precious to be drift into the air. Does she smile? I have not seen her smile yet. And I don't know if I will.

All I know is I fear her. But I always wait eagerly for the day I must travel to Arhaisa, to that village, to that inn, to that room…..to sit before her armchair and hear the fire crackling while her voice soothes my mind with the string of the story. Will you ever meet her? I do not know. She only tells me a part of the story and expects me to tell it to you before I meet her again. But its better you don't meet her….she haunts you even in your sleep. I see the pages of her book, and hear her eerie voice and smell the warm milk even when I am asleep and sometimes even when I sit down to do my studies. Yes, she haunts me. And you better not meet her, my Arhasian Comrades, or the Lady with the Hood will haunt you too.

woderful writing my dear

i was really smiling when i read this more interesting than the story

sorry no offense

:P

thanks for the pm as for the story's chapter i have not read it yet