Innocent Bystander

As luck would have it, I had not found my Master Brave Warrior the past few days. I have yet to figure out how to ask Him of the stream in beads and bites of cheese, nor do I really want to do it that way. I want to see His face, His eyes, His expressions, and hear His voice. I want to hear and learn, and this is the only way I know how. With all of my senses, and anything extra that might come to me at the time as well. Dee still laughs at me and then gives me a hug because she understands. Nya is waiting for me to fall, hard, on my face. Oh but this journey is so worth it.

I had a few spare moments after preparing dinner to gather up all the washed verr wool that I had set out to dry. The basket was full of soft downy fluff ready to be dyed, combed, carded, and eventually woven into something that had no resemblance to the fuzzy curls that the verr wore. It amazed me how one thing could be turned into another, and I was anxious to begin. I heard voices as I headed toward the fire of Master Fonce, but there are always voices filtering through the air, especially at night. When I came around the wagon end, however, and saw that the voices were standing right there, everything changed.

He is a warm bright light in my darkness and I simply can not help being utterly happy to see Him. Wrapping myself up in His good feelings sated my immediate urges, and at the same time allowed me a more defined grasp of the conversation the voices were having. It was an awkward position to be in, and I wondered how best to handle it. The talk was of feelings, and the Mistress was trying to convey something to Master. And He was trying to dissect it and examine it in detail. Thankfully I had a meal to keep tabs on, and I floated between the voices and the food with all the silence my bells could afford. It was impossible not to hear what was being said, and more than once I found myself studying the questioner, or answerer with a curious thoughtfulness.

At first I thought Master simply refused to understand, making the Mistress dig through the barrage of emotions she was trying to express to make them clear and concise. I couldn't understand how this couldn't be...understood. The Mistress clearly liked Him, and I was looking almost as expectantly into His eyes for His reaction as I think she was. This was, after all, the Mistress that had this like idea of love that matched mine. As I was a silent observer, slipping among the shadows that spilled around them both, I couldn't help the racing thoughts of my own mind. Did I, in fact, still hold a free woman's grip on life, love and the pursuit of happiness?

There was another sense that was developing as well, one that came with the conversation that was not spoken. The words that whispered beneath what was actually given voice. I caught a glimpse of the need for Master to be understood, a yearning so powerful and strong that it made me reassess my reactions to His answers. I could feel the doubt and the mistrust of dreams He had tossed aside, and the very real hurt that pulsed in His heart and colored every thing He took in and observed. I heard His boundaries, His morals and principals that were His own self developed code. One that was held with rigid determination. I saw His compassion, and genuine care and concern. And I felt His turmoil. I had no answers for them, no reasons, no guidebooks, but I knew they existed.

And then He won my heart. For He remembered the innocent.