OF MALICE AND PRETENSIONS

[Radzig 546]

 

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OF MALICE AND PRETENSIONS

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༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

 

 

Jan Porcellis - Ships in a Storm on a Rocky Coast

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Downward, was such, a humbling strike upon that wrought and sapped boy, for if he were to sustain, such would continue for the Saint’s Day, at the least. With acrimony, a storm would halt for no man, no boat, surely. Alas, such sustained for another Three Saint’s Days, youth of city and spray making for return, for the sea was no place for a boy of his likeness. 

 

“Boy!” Came a voice

“Be ye one of sand, for black silk wrap that noggin?” 

 

Such was not the case, for silk wrapped one’s head for a variety of reasons, especially in the wake of such a terrible storm. Directed, he was, towards some stoops, partitioned about until it descended into that vessel. 

 

The boy perched.

 

 

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

 

“De Capua.”

 

Came he, the boy, an utterance. A pouch, vacant, was a great inheritance to that juvenile, for it had granted him passage, many ways through both brigand and pelagic duties.

 

“Of what?”

 

“Of that.”

 

“Of whom?”

 

“Of he.”

 

“Alas-” Sought the russet gaffer. “Why?”

 

“Father sends me.”

 

And thus, silence befell that shack, a crude thing tucked a good deal from any road. The man seldom ventured to stir out before night for fear of bailiffs. Strange it was to come upon one, stranger to come upon a face he knew, even more so. Besides, it was among the great misfortunes of he to bear a personal resemblance with the bronzed child. 

“Mm..” The man would rasp. “I will send you off at dawn.”

A great susurration began in that shack, although such was only the result of a repast in the making. 

 

The boy spoke.

 

“Silence! I am no dullard.” The black-haired gaffer returned. “I will bestow you a blade, of your kindred, and food to last you the next four eves.”

 

The boy spoke yet again.

 

“Yes.” He’d ponder. “If word carries true, you will make for Savoy at dawn.”

 

And thus, a meal was due.

 

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

 

“Every man, with his own merit, has a natural right to take from them all that he thinks due to himself; and every creature, finding its own wants more than those of others, has the same right to take everything its nature requires.  Brutes, much more modest in their pretensions this way than men, and mean men more than great ones. The higher one raises his pretensions this way, the more bustle he makes about them, and the more success he has, the greater hero.  Thus greater souls, in proportion to their superior merit, claim a greater right to take everything from meaner folks.”

 

The youth listened.

 

Upon that corner came a shudder as the wain was tossed about some, to the dismay of those situated at the rear, that bronzed child and the worn condottiere.

 

“This, the true foundation of grandeur and heroism, and of the distinction of degrees among men. War, therefore, is necessary to establish subordination, and to found cities, kingdoms, as also to purge bodies politic of gross humors.  Wise princes find it necessary to have wars abroad to keep peace at home.  War, famine, and pestilence, the usual cures for corruption in bodies politic. The greatest part of mankind loves war more than peace.”

 

The youth nodded. 

 

“Sedan, ahead.” Came a voice from the front of that cart, with a sound of agreeance made in return.

 

The youth did not speak. 

 

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Unknown Artist

 

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

 

“Mm…”

 

An eminent clash, hurried strides.

 

“Mm...” 

 

Flying shafts, perhaps nearby

 

“Mm...” 

 

That whimpering man, curled like an infant, was present, among the fields. There he was found by that bronzed youth, caught in a conflict for some false King, one that reeked of cowardice. Sincere, he had struck the man and was responsible for that outcome. 

 

The youth spoke. 

 

The youth was answered by those hurried strides, beckoning him down the incline to join their forces in some final push, both blade and intention in hand. 

 

The youth concurred. 

 

A battle, for what ensued is readily documented, was what the condottiere had spoken of. Fighting along that band who donned the likeness of an animal, a goat, the youth found no malice, only wise princes fighting wise wars. 

 

The youth scoured. 

 

 

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

 

Gutted came that creature, neck worn as that of a flayed hide, for knife would not ease the scorn. It was a pretty thing, sitting there along the edge, for silk of purple and green encapsulated it. Alas, stained it was, tainted with lost purity which would never be returned. 

 

The youth spoke.

There was no answer, for this creature spake not, for one had gouged its innards. Perhaps it was not of meaning, rather some inner malice, for the two, as often misinterpreted, are not two in the same. The malice drew an individual to slay the creature, to lacerate and tear, skewer and hack, gash and gouge.

 

 Regardless, there was a profound silence in that clearing, unbroken by bird nor man, for this creature was due to rest upon those delphinium til passing come.

 

The youth watched. 

 

It really was a pretty thing, that creature, its golden hair, purple garbs, warm complexion, purity beyond belief, refined beyond that of similar creatures from distant lands. That chord it wrung was like that of an ensemble, until such took on a shrill nature, moments before.

 

What was its name?

It was no malice that caused this incident. A conflict, agitating and quivering to cause a great tremble, was to blame. It was, truthfully, the creatures fault. No malice, for it was tucked gently, that creature’s belongings touched not, only a crimson pool to bathe in.

 

Why did it squall?

 

The youth ran.
 

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Unknown Artist

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A horseman, a boy. Three suns present for that individual, beat upon the russet-haired youth. A cave, a bridge, and alas two fields, a passage carved between the two with a great incline where he would meet that final sun.
 

“Greetings, traveller!” Spake he, the horseman. “Seen anything on the roads?”

The youth spoke. 

 

“What do you seek?”

The youth would point, cupping a hand along his brow.

“Ah, friend! Come, I will escort you to the city.” 

 

The youth complied.

“And, of your name?”

An utterance.

“De Capua.”

 

☽༓☾
 

Spoiler