Love Lies Bleeding: An Old Ayleidoon Love Story, translated

># Love Lies Bleeding

>## A Tamrielic translation of a popular Ayleidoon love story

>### Preface by Sage Aurithelas of Skywatch, CE228, University of Gwylim

It was only last year that one of our own, Sage Tjurhane Fyrre, had made his predestined journey to the great unknown of Aetherius. He was, as all had known, an Ayleid – a Heartland High Elf – of the era prior. The work “Nature of Ayleidic Posey” had much acclaim when it was first published in CE12. His contributions were multifold and, as both Sage and Ayleid, he was peerless. It was one of his personal ambitions that the various works of Ayleidoon literature be translated and proliferated for consumption in greater Tamriel. Some of this very work was translated by the mer himself before his sudden passing. I and some of our most vested scholars in the language of the Ayleids have worked countless hours and sleepless nights to make sure this story in particular could see the light of day. Fyrre believed that, should the common peoples read this story, some of the ‘mysteries’ of Ayleid culture would be cast off and illuminated upon. It is my personal hope that, as a close friend and companion to the great mer, his belief would hold true. With great honor and humility, the University of Gwylim Press presents to you all “Love Lies Bleeding”.

Magnus kiss’d the glory fields of Sard where red handed vassals plucked granary amaranths to prepare for the chill winds of the Father-Woods that would cause calamitous storms in the coming months. It was in such times that the royal kings and queens of the Heart-Lands would squabble over pittances, be it alleged theft from the fields of Narlemae by Silorn or discord between Lindai and Nenalata which was far too frequent. Often the councils of Sard ameliorated twixt fair rulers with unfair hearts, a task which bored one such nobility: fairest Latanya-Who-Held-Light-In-Her-Teeth of Vindasel. She glided on the wings of Auri-El with each step, courted hair silver-threaded tied in northern knots ope’d to flow behind her figure as she strode without the under-halls into the fields yond the wheel-walls.

Hot was the pity of Magnus even when Green Shine turned to Dark Light, especially in the fields of toil within the jungled heart. Such pity filled the bodies of red-hand vassals with immeasurable heat (burden?), some giving way to exhaustion, collapse, mayhap e’en demise. On the bright days when Latanya strode through the amaranths of Sard, her gaze locked to one vassal, gods-clothed and nature-bare, as the strong, sinewed Nede bent to pluck the crop. Locks of ratted blonde, a star-blessed coif unfit for a vassal’s head, rustled with the weeds. Latanya-Who-Held-Light-In-Her-Teeth emanated stars from her mouth, ope’d in smile, eyes full on the strong woman. None were the company surrounding them in the stretch of bloodied (red?) weed as noble approached vassal.

“Approach, Nede, and proclaim yourself,” spake Latanya with command that would make even the most stalwart general envious. Thus did the towering specimen of mansblood follow the order, such being the lives of men that the nobility blessed them with.

“The masters named me Mallasille, for my hair is the fibers of Gold, blessed of Merid and Magnus, born and sold at the Golden Hill first, to the Shadow of the Fatherwood, to the Water-Light then, now here to work the Red-Handed fields of amaranth that nobles so love to mix with blood and honey.”

Latanya-Who-Held-Light-In-Her-Teeth had pity in her heart for the forlorn vassal, such tragedies torn from family yond Ald Cyrod, the Heart-Land of Old. Hand upon shoulder, strong, warm, sun-kiss’d, the noble made an assurance:

“Fair Mallasille of the Golden Hill, your story pangs my strings, heart beating against the Dark-Drum of the Wheel. I feel the Mortal Bones shift like the fair winds, fates being pulled. I see you work, I see you toil and sweat, your hands bleed and stain, your body bear-strong and hearty, and I feel an unknown tinge: No noble moves my soul like you. I must retreat and think. You shan’t be sold twixt now and then, for I shall return. Bless and blessed be.”

Latanya of Vindasel retreated to the depths of Sard where cold counsels made unity between the Fire-Blessed lands of Domination and the Star-Kissed lands of Life to avoid the imminence of war. Keeping away from the Temple of the Ancestors, where the Ruler-Kings of Sorcery would make punishments of the noble families, was high priority for all, all but Latanya. Her priority was the fair shimmer of Mallasille’s locks, the heft of her bosom, and the tone of her figure. Days passed into Dark, the north-stroms soon to roll and the lake waters to roil, her mind still fixed on the female Nede, need greater with each tick of the Dragon’s tail.

The noble walked the fields once again, days later, the promise of before kept as Mallasille worked and worked. This time, the silver-haired elf brought a gift of sweet-bread made from the grain-weeds her admiration toiled in. Confusion was wrought on the face of the vassal, for no one or no-thing showed her as much kindness as Latanya. Her smile was worn, yellowed as her hair, as she pushed the bread back.

“Sweet gifts mean well, fair master, but I like not the taste of noble bread, for oft the blood-drops of tortured men are mixed into the dough. I thank you all the same.”

“Foolish Nede,” answered the elf, “there is no man-blood in this bread! I made it of my own hand. My own blood, finger prick’d, was put in the dough. By my powers, this is a piece of me I give unto you willingly. Please deny this not. I seek your favor, fair vassal.”

Hand to her heart-cave (breast?), Mallasille was shocked. Hands grasped the bread as the Nede looked with longing at it, admiring the crust, sniffing the body, feeling the texture. Her first bite was that rare time in days that nourishment passed her lips. The body of the bread was just as the body of the elf, rich and sweet, she imagined. Mallasille’s heart followed course, beating against the Dark-Drum of the Wheel with the elf.

“Finish quick!” whispered the noble, “The harsh masters will burn fire-lashes upon your strong back which I admire. I want not your body to be profaned with malcontent. I shall see you again, fair one. Be well, and may the Stars look favorably upon you.” Latanya flew with her feet just as the eagle would with its wings; swift and silent.

The Mage-Lord of Vindasel, in conference with the Lord of Sard, the Kings of Lindai and Nenalata, the Queen of Vilverin and her Lord of Belda, accompanied the Priests of Mal-Ada and the Great King of Miscarcand adjourned from their meeting-hall.

“Fair daughter,” spake the father-mage with his cohorts, “from whence you come, your body sweat-borne and red-faced?” His head tilted, his feather-crown bounced as he looked down on his kin.

“I come from the amaranth fields,” she quipped, “looking upon the vassals, marking their deeds, making note of which ones slack and dither. The Gods smile upon the blessed workers that are diligent; I merely wish their will be done.” Her mind was buzzed as honey bees that lust for flowers, her heart having told a horrible lie to her honored father, a powerful elf.

She left to her temporary chamber, father awash with suspicion. He knew her heart beats were not at the tempo they should have been. She was lying to him. It was at the time of starlight that he met in his own chamber with one of the Mal-Ada priests, his vestment garb pure as the walls of the temples.

“You, honored priest of Magnus and Merid, know when truth is spoken and lies are dealt?” he asked to the priest.

“Indeed, it is the will of Magnus that all truth and insight come to light regardless of consequence or means.” The gilded hand of the Mage-Lord, adorned with ring-jewels, clutched the priest’s hand.

“By all the gods, you lordly mer, as the stones of the sky children bask this room in effulgence, so shall you be vigilant. Gaze upon this glory eternal and know that its foundation is truth. You are a priest of the God’s Truth, are you not? Go forth, observe my daughter as she strides the grain weeds, mark her intentions. Her ill will shall make such foundations crumble, I am sure of it.”

“So it shall be,” replied the supplicant priest. He could not refute the wise counsel of his betters, as it has been and shall be forevermore.

Thus went as the Dragon turned the Wheel, that Latanya-Who-Held-Light-In-Her-Teeth continued her cavorts with the Nede, and thus the Priest of Mal-Ada observed them through all their adventure. The sight of their first lip-meeting sowed a seed of pity in his core, for he was a Priest of the God’s Truth and knew well that their devotion through the days and weeks was truth. Great was the priest's pity that he turned his back to the Mage-Lord and gave the couple counsel, even going so far as to bind their wills to the light of Merid as loving-vassals, such was their devotion to each other, noble and Nede.

The magic agents of Miscarcand, ever present, ever powerful, reported these misdeeds with the assistance of Star-Magick to the Mage-Lord. As he strode in anger to confront his child, the fields wilted in his presence, and the clouds ope’d forth with typhoon-rage.

“You incite my ire so that the fiber of Domination quakes at my being!” bellowed the Mage-Lord as he found his daughter in the weeds entwined with the Nede such in the way a vine embraces trees. The agents of Miscarcand separated the two, the drip of sweat and honeyed salt splashed between their vessels. “Your lives and wills must be made to ruin, your misconduct punished! It is no crime to love or even lust after kindred (female?) bodies, but to love a vassal? There is no greater crime. Take them away to meet their wilted fates!”

Never again did Latanya or Mallasille gaze upon their bosoms again so long as they lived, but it would not be their last meeting. The punishment for the vassals to lay with nobles was a final demise, slow and painful. Even as her broken body turned on the stone wheels of Vindasel, the glass spikes of eight protruding from her flesh, she cried out the name of her paramour. Mallasille’s last memory was the honeyed taste of her bread (body?) as she slipped off the mortal coil.

As for Latanya, the nobility were allowed to live but not without toil. She shrieked louder than the Throat-Winds of the Father-Wood once she stood before the mass on the eight-spoked wheel in the grain-weed fields:

It was the blood and organs of her love, blended, mashed, and molded with amaranth seeds and honey; the most perfect flesh sculpture in the visage of Mother Merid-Nunda-Who-Held-The-Void-In-Her-Cowl, complete with eagle wings on her back.

“You shall gaze upon the glory of Merid and repent!” proclaimed the High Priest of Mal-Ada. “The Love of vassals is not protected by Her blessing! They cast their lot with the Breaths of Kyne and the Bindings of Mara the False-Bride! Only the Star-Blessed Elves are shown the true Love of Merid-Nunda!”

Indignant, enraged, and overcome with grief, Latanya-Who-Held-Light-In-Her-Teeth shouted a curse upon her father and rushed toward the sculpture, grasped at a bloodied piece of it that she could reach, and forced it to her lips.

“Look all with eyes to see!” she proclaimed in mourning, “This is the body of my love, blessed of Merid, and I shall consume her! All of her! She is the light of the morning and the stars of the night! I shall eat her and keep her in my heart from this day to the end of my days! Such is the love that Merid consecrated! She blesses ALL love, not just the love you permit! Witness me and my deeds and despair!”

So, by her words, Latanya snuffed the light of her teeth and ate the entirety of the statue, shouting curses to Vindasel which was destined to fall in the wars with Silorn and Narlemae only to rise under a new lordship under the great Queendom of Singers. Latanya held true to her word: she kept her Gold-Shine paramour in her heart til the end of her days, hands forever stain’d red from consuming the flesh sculpture. As the blood drip’d from her lips that honor’d her love, so did the amaranths in the field weep with her.

So did all the amaranths weep that day, and so they shall weep any day that love lies bleeding.