Temptations

[Elessaria]

{26 August 16}


"Why is it that any time we speak of temptation we always speak of temptation as something that inclines us to wrong. We have more temptations to become good than we do to become bad."
--Fulton J. Sheen

[Elessaria]

{07 Sept 16}

"The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it... I can resist everything but temptation." --Oscar Wilde



The afternoon sunlight was beginning to wane as it filtered into the garden courtyard behind ~Heart Notes~ Parfumerie. King John, Elessaria's peacock, and Lyavain, her guardian wolf were doing their usual staring contest and stalking one another. The vain, yet gloriously beautiful bird had no idea how lucky he was that Lyavain was not a typical wolf. Cleo ignored them both while feasting on some fresh baby lettuce Eless had put out earlier. The petite elfess, gowned in pale blue silk, plucked the last ripe peach from the miniature peach trees decorating the courtyard. She smiled at the sweet memories of the shared fruit and placed it in the small wicker basket with the others. As she returned to the bench swing, she announced, "'Tis the last of the peaches." Then she placed the basket on the ground by the swing, curling up in one corner as most of the bench had an array of ancient scrolls, battered maps and fragile, old tomes strewn along the cushioned seat.

Her announcement called an immediate end to the game which John trumpeted as "his" victory since the enormous white furred wolf was the first to pad away. Eless could sense Lyavain's worry and he chuffed his concern as he gently placed his huge head in her small lap. She soothingly rubbed his soft fur along his muzzle and then moved to his ears. "I know thou dost nay like the idea, but I HAVE to go, my friend. I can nay stay here and simply wonder." The wolf whined once more, then ceased his complaint. He knew The Empath was set on doing this and there was naught he could do to dissuade her. "Thou wilt go with me, please?" He lifted his knowing, golden gaze and looked her directly in the eyes and nuzzled her cheek to reassure her. He would never abandon her.

"Thank thee," she murmured against the silky fur. She plucked a map of RhyDin from the stack of worn parchment and pointed. "Methinks this is the portal we should try first. It had the strongest remnants of his aura, dost thou nay agree?" Lyavain dipped his head in silent agreement that was laced with resignation. There was no way he was going to keep his mistress from her mission.

[Elessaria]

{06 Oct 16}
Over the years, I have come to realize that the greatest trap in our life is not success, popularity, or power, but self-rejection. Success, popularity, and power can indeed present a great temptation, but their seductive quality often comes from the way they are part of the much larger temptation to self-rejection. When we have come to believe in the voices that call us worthless and unlovable, then success, popularity, and power are easily perceived as attractive solutions. The real trap, however, is self-rejection. As soon as someone accuses me or criticizes me, as soon as I am rejected, left alone, or abandoned, I find myself thinking, "Well, that proves once again that I am a nobody." ... [My dark side says,] I am no good... I deserve to be pushed aside, forgotten, rejected, and abandoned. Self-rejection is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life because it contradicts the sacred voice that calls us the "Beloved." Being the Beloved constitutes the core truth of our existence.
Henri J.M. Nouwen




Lyavain had just returned to the garden courtyard behind Heart Notes where he was prepared for King John's favorite game of pretending to vanquish his oversized, lupine opponent. Instead of meeting an egotistical peacock strutting around, he was met with both of the peafowl squawking a panicked alarm. At the same moment, he overheard loud crashes and other strange noises spilling out of the windows from rooms above the parfumerie. All three were worried about their mistress. He was a streak of blurred white as his powerful limbs bunched up and then extended to launch him past the flurry of painted feathers fanning frantically in his path. He banged open the rear door, navigated the narrow turn and lunged up the staircase to the second floor where the chaos sounded like it was escalating with every padded step. He needed neither his nose nor his eyes to find his charge, her distress was a blaring beacon that guided him to her side.

Lyavain shouldered his way into one of the guest rooms which Elessaria had transformed into a nursery after she had come to accept her pregnancy. A quick duck of his head enabled him to dodge a flying, silver baby rattle, but he was not able to dodge the stuffed wolf toy that smacked him directly on his left flank. It was in the center of this maelstrom, with all of the furniture upended and the room's contents swirling about as if caught in the cyclic winds of a tornado, he found the fragile elfess kneeling with the baby blanket Collie had gifted her clutched desperately in her tiny fists.

Earlier that morning, The Empath had decided it was time to take apart the nursery. She had thought she was ready. She had believed she was strong enough to face her fears and her emotions; her baby was not coming back anytime soon and there were children in need who could use all of the accoutrements she had assembled while waiting for his birth--that special joy that was stolen from her yet again.

Elessaria was wrong. It did not matter how many times she and Connar had jested only one night prior that she was always right. She had miscalculated her strength and abilities. The unease and the persistent sense of foreboding were just enough to threaten her confidence and eat away at the tenuous grasp she had on her emotions. They threw off the already precarious balance she had tried to maintain. Eless plummeted straight into the darkest depths of despair, drowning in a sea of surging sentiments without any of her empathic shielding intact. She was lost in the abyss, swirling without any anchor as each emotion pummeled her both physically and mentally. Her heart-wrenching wails hurt not only his sensitive ears, but his heart as well.

This was why their god had sent Lyavain to protect the Lady Fire of Evandar. He was not only to help guard against those of the Dark, but also to keep her from harming herself. He lowered himself to crawl across the plush royal blue rug in order to avoid being hit by broken bits of what had once been a mobile for above the rosewood crib. It did not matter how many times the intense anguish assaulted him, nor how many stray shards of stained glass sun catchers littered his path. He would not fail his mistress. When he reached her side, battered and bruised, he gently nuzzled her cheek with his large muzzle and then mutely rested his massive furred head in her lap. He would loyally remain at her side, riding each and every painful wave with her.

He would be her anchor in this storm.