Hi Freewriting Friends! It's been a while.
I've been wanting to jump back into this community for a while, and this contest seemed like a good excuse. 😄
I've partnered with @ntowl, which is always fun. She's been very patient with me over the last couple weeks since I've been pretty sick. But today I was finally able to do a freewrite for her picture prompt.
Without further ado, here's my story:
I used to love the river’s edge. As children, Louisa and I would steal away from Martha, our governess, just to play by the shore. The water lapped and lazed along with our games. We were convinced some mythical creature would emerge from the waters one day. But, inevitably, an exasperated Martha would find us and drag us back to the house. Once she caught on to our schemes, it was harder to get away. She warned that we’d be washed downriver and drowned. Secretly, it made me imagine being carried somewhere far away by the cold waters, and what magical places the river might lead to.
Instead, my isolated view is upriver, the water dark and tumultuous beneath a graying sky. I’ve come to tell time by this view. The light rises and falls, filtering through thin-paned glass. If broken, the shards would have quite a fall ahead of them. I’ve come to think about that sometimes, too.
Initially it was quite nice here. An elevated view and all the comfort someone of my position could afford. I’d decorated this window with thick curtains to block out the chill of winters, and satin pillows for the wooden ledge before it. I had been pleased with the rest of the chamber as well, right down to the inkwell Mother gave me long ago. Its crystalline refractions were quite pretty when the afternoon sun shone in. The tiny rainbows were cast upon the smooth stone walls and the various objects one needs to live.
But that’s all gone now. It seems a king’s patience equals his temper. His guards began with the rugs, then the dresser in exchange for a confession. Like taking toys from a petulant child, only I had done no wrong. They chipped away the comforts and necessities and the memories until I was alone. No amount of letters fueled by the inkwell could make a difference. I begged when they pried it from my hands, falsehoods nearly leaving my lips to keep it closer. But even an admittance of guilt would have meant our separation.
Lately I’ve been thinking the river’s secrets are deeper than I thought, each wave and shade of color a message of prophecy. I’m sure no one else can see them. I, myself, was ignorant of its nature for so long. I remember one day the water parted, a small boat emerging into view. My dear Louisa sat tall, her hands bound in chains. She was always so brave. It had only been the previous day that I had received her letter, her plan to flee eastward. My heart cracked as men directed the worn watercraft towards the towers. Towards me.
Two days later I heard her final scream. My Louisa was too far from the river, I couldn’t see. But I knew. The guards mocked my pain in their final pilfering of my life’s cares. For years I languished in the uncertainty of it all. Surely Louisa had stayed true to her innocence as I had. She must have, but something else went wrong. That must have been it.
And then I understood in the shimmers of the tides that I had been forgotten. For my honesty I was given the greatest gift of time. Time to gaze at the whole world, condensed within this pane. I am blessed with the vision of nature, the confidence of the river. Even the keepers rarely visit. They know I am beyond all guilt or fear. Perhaps if they were to gaze to the river as I have, they would understand. There are no mythical creatures waiting to walk upon the shore. Why would there be, when the river can tell its own secrets?
I was with @ntowl when she took the original picture at the Tower of London, so I tapped into the history and feeling of the place for this. I've seen so many documentaries on the tower that, even feeling sick, it felt like familiar territory. 😅
I really did try to fit the prompt in word for word, but I'm too exhausted to figure out a way that doesn't mess with the flow. Though I was heavily inspired by "10 years of darkness", and imagined our narrator had spent ten years in her prison. It may not have been literal darkness, but rather the darkness of her situation and weakening grip on her sanity.
Many thanks to @ntowl for a great picture, and @freewritehouse for this contest!
@ntowl and I also flipped roles, where I made a picture for her. To read her magical story, click here!