She slipped away from me last night. One moment she was there on the table getting her stomach pumped and the next…nothing. I prayed last night. The strange thing was, I wasn’t even really sure whom I was praying to. Everyone…no one, it’s all the same really. I wouldn’t say that I am one who has lost their faith. I suppose one must have faith first to lose it. I had confirmation last night of something that has lingered in my mind for some time though.
I was praying to the nebulous someone or someones out there when I felt her spirit away. And rather then become saddened or more fearful, I felt a calm wash over me for a moment. With my eyes closed I felt the pain of a part of my soul being ripped from my heart and suddenly I knew what I should do. I stopped praying and I opened my heart and soul. I took the blinding light that I carry within me and I poured it into her still and quiet body mercilessly. I pushed the essence of my being into her as I have never pushed before, with purpose and determination.

I felt the doctors working on her, bustling around like so many busy ants. None of it seemed real though. It all seemed somehow to be so far from reality that it was like a haze, a fog settling in and only one thing remained clear. The girl that lay on the table before me was a drastic contrast to the activity around her. She lay there so absently, still as death itself. For that is what had settled over her briefly, this shroud of death which clung to her like a sticky film that one can’t wash off.

I stood at the end of the bed, next to her head, watching everything with a certain detached feeling. I marveled at the fact that none of the good doctors and nurses could see me. They perhaps could sense me if they were of the sort that could pick up on such things but I had no reason to think any of them were in fact a possible sensitive, privy to the sensations of astral bodies nearby. Frantically they continued their efforts and I smiled sadly at them, knowing they were doing their best and also knowing that it wasn’t working.

I placed my hand on her head, petting her hair the way she always liked. The movements of the doctors were becoming fewer and slower as time itself seemed to slow to a crawl. A nurse held a pen in her hand and had an eye on the clock, waiting to be told when to write down the time. I looked back down at the girl on the table and leaned forward, softly laying my lips upon her cool forehead and I breathed myself into her. With every breath I poured that which is me into her. She was the vessel and I became the liquid light that filled it. I felt myself reach out and pull everything I could from every other person in the room, a collective sigh escaping their lips. My eyes unfocused and still I filled her.

A hand touched my back and I knew it was He. He then reached for her hand and lifted it to his lips, doing the same as I. Together we let our power loose on her. Shadowy figures began stepping forward, family coming forth to lend a hand. And still I pressed my breath into her with a whisper, “It is not your time, little one. You must come back. I am sorry but you cannot yet leave. Hate me if you will but you must return. We need your light.” I felt her struggling, just out of reach. Not wanting to return.

“No! It hurts too much!! I want to go! Let me go!!!”, She says to me.

My heart feels another wrenching tear and I can no longer hold myself back. I feel that part of me take over, the part I hide the most, telling few about it. The Goddess steps forth from my inner core and I feel the large red wings spread out behind me. I lift my lips from her forehead and nothing but a piercing light can be seen where once my eyes were for they have gone blind in power, but I no longer need to see to accomplish what I must.

I place a hand upon her chest, over her heart and the other hand I stretch to the heavens. With a thought and the flip of a mental switch I am touching the Source of all and I become the conduit for it’s power. The sensation is overwhelming and a roar tears from my throat as I withstand the extreme discomfort. He comes to my side again, wrapping his arms around me and holding me up as my knees become weak. And still we do not stop.

A slow but steady beep, beep, beep can be heard and is followed by a startled gasp. I am slumped against Him now in exhaustion but I find the strength to lift my head and open my once more dimmed eyes. The nurse with the pen is no longer staring at the clock. Her eyes dart between the girl on the table and the machine next to her that continues to give it repetitive series of beeps.

“Doctor…”, her eyes are wide and she simply stares with no more words.

The girl on the table lays there in slumber, her heart beating slowly, softly but steadily. The shadows that had approached to lend a hand step back and out of sight. He and I each caress a cheek lovingly, and then we too step back from the table and quietly fade from the room, once more finding our physical bodies as they lay in a state of deep meditation.

My eyes flutter open and my thumb absentmindedly runs back and forth over the face of the cell phone in my hand. Shortly I will receive a call bearing news. They will tell me that she is in critical but stable condition. I lay there in the darkened room for a while, alone with my thoughts.

Will she hate me? I wonder to myself. Will she even remember? Or will she awake as anyone else, with no knowledge of what came to pass in that hospital room while she tried to slip away. A soft, tired smile touches my lips and silent tears of relief trail from my eyes as I think to myself, perhaps tomorrow I can ask her. I roll from my back to my side and curl up, still deep in thought. I had always suspected that there was real power beneath the surface of what everyone sees when they look at He and I. Pity that confirmation of such things must come in such frightening packages.

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Patchwork Merchant Mercenaries had its humble beginnings as an idea of a few artisans and craftsmen who enjoy performing with live steel fighting. As well as a patchwork quilt tent canvas. Most had prior military experience hence the name.

 

Patchwork Merchant Mercenaries.

 

Vendertainers that brought many things to a show and are know for helping out where ever they can.

As well as being a place where the older hand made items could be found made by them and enjoyed by all.

We expanded over the years to become well known at what we do. Now we represent over 100 artisans and craftsman that are well known in their venues and some just starting out. Some of their works have been premiered in TV, stage and movies on a regular basis.

Specializing in Medieval, Goth , Stage Film, BDFSM and Practitioner.

Patchwork Merchant Mercenaries a Dept of, Ask For IT was started by artists and former military veterans, and sword fighters, representing over 100 artisans, one who made his living traveling from fair to festival vending medieval wares. The majority of his customers are re-enactors, SCAdians and the like, looking to build their kit with period clothing, feast gear, adornments, etc.

Likewise, it is typical for these history-lovers to peruse the tent (aka mobile store front) and, upon finding something that pleases the eye, ask "Is this period?"

A deceitful query!! This is not a yes or no question. One must have a damn good understanding of European history (at least) from the fall of Rome to the mid-1600's to properly answer. Taking into account, also, the culture in which the querent is dressed is vitally important. You see, though it may be well within medieval period, it would be strange to see a Viking wearing a Caftan...or is it?

After a festival's time of answering weighty questions such as these, I'd sleep like a log! Only a mad man could possibly remember the place and time for each piece of kitchen ware, weaponry, cloth, and chain within a span of 1,000 years!! Surely there must be an easier way, a place where he could post all this knowledge...

Traveling Within The World is meant to be such a place. A place for all of these artists to keep in touch and directly interact with their fellow geeks and re-enactment hobbyists, their clientele.

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