Tonight we tend our equipment by the fire, mending torn surcoats, sharpening notched steel, re-linking rent chain. The air is alive with exchanges of encouragement between friends and the chatting of companions, the camaraderie of veterans. We camp outside the armory waiting to don plate and mail.
Before the armoring comes the barber. Some might envision Samson within the temple or mindless shearings at Birkenau. I see the Maid of Orleans defiantly slashing her hair, preparing to lead an eager, angry army to free her oppressed people. Copper tears of her tresses curl and drip onto the black apron as her locks bead and roll down its front before pooling on her lap. Her hair becomes an amber-orange halo woven with threads of fire and gold, little left for an enemy to grasp.
Over a borrowed mail shirt, she armors herself in breastplate and greaves polished to gleam in the early morning light, a beacon of the dawn. Serving as her squire, I strap a stout shield to her right arm, emblazoned with the bold colors of her crest. Her sword arm wounded in the last encounter, she chooses a banner for her left, a pennant slotted in her stirrup that shall neither dip nor waiver.
Once again mercenaries ride with us tomorrow, their captain-general accepting the bulk of anticipated swordplay. We her companions are to form a knot of housecarls, a tightly packed escort securing our hero's safety. We ride uncertain whether this raid will disperse our assembled enemy or merely reconnoiter their gathering strength. Either way, we intend to wound and unbalance the grendel before we retreat behind our fortress walls, its army closing around us. Ours is a final freedom of action before the interminable siege begins.
During the night we smuggled in an alchemist. The young, clean-cut mage has begun to bubble his warlock's brew of potions tailored to exploit his catalogue of grendel weaknesses, experience born of many campaigns against its kind. He relates how they can be aggressive, fierce and sneaky. Mines and trenches, raids and diversions along with the relentless siege engines we have sighted lie within their tactical repertoire. He advises deploying the potions first, Greek fire to be sown through their advancing ranks. Magical beams of radiation will act as our reserve, mopping up any remaining resistance once they break and run.
There begins the next battle. Tonight we focus on the morning. Gathering our horses before Matins, we will ride as a whispered prayer before dawn, our swords speeding the sun's blinding rays toward victory.
© 2007 Edward P. Morgan III
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This one was written before Karen’s axillary lymph node dissection surgery. By then, Karen had met with the medical oncologist and knew she was very likely going to lose her hair during chemo.
You have to understand how important Karen’s hair is to her. From the time she was five, she’d tried to convince her mother to let her grow her hair long. Once she succeeded, she’d kept it that way, ranging from just below her shoulders to all the way down her back. Her hair was a part of her identity.
So it impresses me even more that she cut it preemptively. The decision was driven by Karen’s desire that someone else benefit from her situation. Twice before she’d donated her hair to Locks of Love. She was familiar with the organization and their mission. She wanted cut her hair short before chemo got it so that it could help someone else, no matter how much she hated losing it even for those few days and weeks it might have stayed around. That’s just the type of person she is.
Picture notes: A picture of Karen’s sword against my chain mail shirt (that she sometimes wore) from the medieval recreation society we were both members of in college. The chain makes an interesting texture as a backdrop.
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