What did Yonderly inspire?
adjective; meaning "Mentally or emotionally distant;
Absent-minded,
Aloof, reserved
Morose or gloomy"
Absent-minded,
Aloof, reserved
Morose or gloomy"
He had been resigned in his fate in the damp goblin cave.
Stripped of all armaments and sealed away from all light, save the candle
outside his cell, the Elvish Prince knew that hope was lost. It had been so
long, no way to keep count, since he had seen the outside world, but he knew the
final threads of his sanity had begun to unwind. Within the day the last bits
of light would be stolen from his mind by his prison. The inky blackness. The
sounds of claws on stone somewhere just outside his vision. Madness and fear
surrounded him, waiting to take hold.
But from the darkness had come the sound of thunder. The primal cries and the
cracking of bone, and then… light, blinding in its brilliance, that shone upon his
broken form.
“Ar-teer. H’va.” growled the light.
The words vibrated within the stone of the cavern, but their meaning had been
lost to him. He had fumbled, trying to
rise, but within moments he was slung over the broad shoulders of the voice’s
owner and was carried back into the light of day.
It was all a blur. Faint recollections of his eyes squinting in the sun. The
sweet smell of the fresh air and earth and herbs. And the thunderous words
echoing through his mind, until at last, like a great puzzle solved, they found
their meaning.
“Elf. Run.”
It was no elf that had saved him. Nor a human for that matter. Those had been
the words of a dwarf, commanding him just as they would call the ore from deep
within the stone.
Through fevered dreams he had struggled with this knowledge. For an Elvish Prince
to owe fealty to a dwarf, it was disgrace unto him and his kin. But he felt no
such shame, only fond appreciation for the kindness and gentle manner the in
which the dwarf had tended to him.
That had been almost three weeks ago, and now he walked beside the dwarf, not only
as one who must repay their debt, but also as a friend and companion. The dwarf
was named Soren, and in their short time together, the two had formed a deep
bond.
“I look forward to seeing your village Soren. Perhaps I shall finally meet one
of your elusive dwarf women. Do they really have beards?”
“Perhaps some day I shall meet one of your elvish men. Do they really have
beards?” Soren retorted.
The two laughed, the elf’s windy laughter twining with the gruff dwarfish bellow.
“Point well taken my friend.”
They continued on in their journey and by mid-day they had reached Dva’thr, the
dwarven village Soren called home. Carved into the side of a mountain, it was a
fortress and stronghold against attack, but also linked the dwarves to the
valuable resources hidden beneath.
The prince was impressed with the many innovations and intricate carvings
within the stonework, but the earlier question still bothered him. Not a single
woman. At least not that he could discern. All the dwarves he encountered spoke
in the harsh dwarvish tone and all had worn thick beards carefully adorned with
beads and braids.
They had stopped into a tavern for the night and were just setting about their
meal when a message arrived for Soren. Unfolding the note his eyes scanned the
runic symbols, brows furrowed in deep contemplation.
“I must go.” He said slinging his hammer across his back.
“What has happened? I shall go with you.” The prince asked, hand wrapping
around his bow.
“No. You stay. This isn’t work for you.”
“I owe you my life. You will not stop me from repaying this to you.”
“You are absolved of your debt by staying here my friend.”
“But….”
Soren grasped the prince’s hand, not in a manner of friendship, but in a tender
fashion as one would hold a lover’s, and placed his other hand on top of it.
“I wish only for your safety my prince. Please wait for my return.”
A blush rose in the elf’s pale cheeks and an equal red seemed to rise behind
the dwarf’s beard. Soren pulled away, clearing his throat before muttering a
farewell and departing the table.
The prince was at a loss. Not since his time in the caves had logic and thought
abandoned him so quickly. He sat for a time in a daze, considering all that had
just happened and consumed by fear for the fate of his friend.
It was late into the evening when a small circle of dwarves sat around the
hearth. They were broader still than Soren, like small mountains in their own
right, with vast, adorned beards. What began as the tapping of boots and staffs
slowly evolved into the rhythm of a song and in the deepest of baritones, their
voices hummed..
My love goes out so yonderly,
So wonderly,
In search for me,
Oh bring my lover back to me,
And bring my lover home.
In mountains deep the stories told,
Hidden gold,
From times of old,
Love be brave, and love be bold,
And bring my lover home.
The prince’s mind drifted in and out of the flowing words. “And bring my lover
home.” he spoke softly under his breath as he sipped from his tankard of ale.
A small child wound their way through the crowd and over to one of the dwarves
gathered by the hearth. Their eyes danced with the firelight, and as the song
came to a close and a dark haired dwarf lifted the child onto their lap.
“Father, where is mother?” the child asked, playing with the larger dwarf’s
braids.
“She battles alongside the others daughter.”
“And I shall too some day?”
“Aye. The bravest of warriors shall you be, like all the women. Let us sing for
their happy return.”
And suddenly, the prince understood. The tenor voice, the slighter form… he
rose and sat among the group of dwarvish men. They stared out at him from
behind their beards but as he tapped the rhythm onto the cobbles they joined
him, and again the room was filled with the chants of song.
“Oh bring my lover back to me, Oh bring my lover home.”
“Yonderly,” he thought. “Hiding from the words others might choose, and lost to the world.”
Matthew
Stone was fifteen. He was fifteen and hiding in the janitor’s closet. He hadn’t
bothered turning on the lights, knowing it would only manage to draw attention
to his new hiding spot.
His
first spot had been in the library. You would have to take the main stairway to
Basement level, leave the staircase hallway and turn right, walk until the 3rd
last shelf, and follow it to the end. There was an old desk, graffitied beyond
recognition and missing a screw. The small “desktop” was only large enough to
hold his cell phone and pencil case, and it squeaked loud enough to disturb the
books.
The
second spot was in the boy’s bathroom, second floor. The stall always marked “out of order.” At
first glance, it seemed perfect. No one bothered to even try the stall and you
could sneak in easily if you left your last class 5 minutes early. He’d
learned, after one very rushed morning, the stall was actually broken. That was the end of that spot.
He wasn’t
exactly sure which number the closet was. It might have been around spot 5,
depending on if you counted the grove of trees behind the gym. That was only
once, since the cops had come to inform him that it was “off school grounds”
and “trespassing.” There weren’t even houses in the vicinity; it had to be school property, there was no
other property for two miles. He hadn’t bothered to argue. Just grabbed his tablet
and walked away.
The
truth of it was Matthew Stone loved hiding.
He
wanted to spend his days curled beneath homemade forts. His peers would gather
and gossip in the world outside, forging friendships at every opportunity. He
was happy in the world all to his own. The outsiders would boast of parties
they’d attended, and others of follower counts on tumblr or twitter. They saw
such great differences between the two. Really, they were the same. They longed
for others, for companions to reach out to in some way, whether with their
presence or their words.
The
teachers tried to force Matthew into these groups. When he refused, they
attacked him with questions and theories and meetings. Were you bullied? Who
did it? You can tell us their name. Are you sad? His parents wondered if
something was wrong with him. An inability to form connections? Did he see
people with affections?
There
were trips to the school counselor. Mandatory group meetings and joining a new
club each week to “find his place.” There were even three visits to the
psychiatrist before they tried another, and then another, and then the man who
told him to play his feelings out with the tambourine before Matthew got fed up
and walked home 15 minutes into the session.
There were
labels and judgments.
Names
of conditions that adults seemed pleased to throw around and slap onto him,
even if the label never sat quite as well as they’d wish. But all that was from
the adults.
His
peers never really bothered with such things. They were kind when it mattered
and reached out with quiet words when he wanted them. His peers understood.
They left him to his hiding, and waited for him to be ready to come out. There
was nothing wrong with Matthew, not in the way that teachers and parents kept
searching for.
“I’m
just yonderly.” Matthew turned on his tablet. The light reflecting off his
glasses, as he tried to focus on the words and not… everything inside. The
closet was dark. The world he found in the stories, in the thousands of books
and worlds beneath his fingertips, was anything but.
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