Omnia Card : Le Pass Vatican & Rome
Are you going to Rome soon? Are you looking for a pass for the Vatican and Rome? If so, the pass you need is the Omnia Card, the only Rome + Vatican pass.
In this post dedicated to the Omnia map of Rome, we will discuss together the advantages offered by this pass for Rome and the Vatican. What visits are included in the Omnia Card? What is the price of the Omnia Card? Where to reserve Is this pass worth the Vatican? All these topics will be mentioned in this post dedicated to the Pass of Rome and the Vatican.
I'll also tell you where to buy the Omnia Card on the web and at the best price (if you're in a hurry, it's here).
And raising you has been the greatest satisfaction of my life.” Sirona began to weep. She felt as if her life was over. For as long she could remember, all her energies were focused on being a Drui. Now that could never be. Nesta embraced her, holding Sirona against her frail, bony body. After a time, Nesta gently drew away. “There’s something else I must tell you. Something that Tarbelinus requires in exchange for your escort. It’s a small thing, and one that—out of kindness—you should be willing to do.” Sirona gazed at her grandmother warily. “What does Tarbelinus want?” “He wants you to tell Bryn that you don’t return his affections.” Sirona gave a quick, bitter laugh.
“Why should that matter? I’m sure Tarbelinus has made it very clear to his son that he can have no future with me.” “That’s true. But Tarbelinus would prefer it if you told Bryn these things yourself. The chieftain has only recently discovered Bryn’s... fondness for you, and I think it reminds him of his own unreasoning passion for Banon all those years ago. He realizes Bryn won’t give up easily, and he thinks the best way to end his son’s hopes is for you to make it clear you don’t love him.” Nesta paused and her forehead furrowed. “That’s true, isn’t it? You don’t return Bryn’s feelings?” Sirona considered carefully. She’d grown up with Bryn, and until recently thought of him as a brother.
But now, facing the prospect of losing him, she could see how much she’d come to depend him... and care for him. Those feelings might have turned into love if given the chance. But that could never happen now. “Sirona?” Nesta prompted. She met her grandmother’s gaze, “What would it matter if I said I loved Bryn? Tarbelinus would never allow us to be together.” “That’s true,” Nesta agreed. “And given that fact, no matter what you feel, it would be kindest if you told Bryn that you don’t care for him the way he does you. There’s no point making him yearn for something that can never come to pass.” The aching sense of loss inside Sirona deepened. There was no chance she and Bryn could ever be together. It would be cruel to make him continue to hope for such a thing. She nodded slowly. “Very well. I will do as Tarbelinus asks.” Nesta looked relieved. “You must speak to him soon. Tarbelinus is much more likely to be generous in the supplies he sends with you if he knows you have fulfilled your part of the bargain. As a matter of fact, I’ll fetch Bryn now.” While she waited, Sirona felt the bitterness build inside her. She was sick of Tarbelinus and his belief that he could control the lives of those around him. He’d manipulated Bryn all his life, and now he sought to command even his son’s heart.
A moment later, Bryn pushed his way into the hut. “You wanted to see me.” Warm brown eyes met hers. Seeing the longing and despair in their depths, Sirona’s heart twisted. Poor Bryn, forced into a life he despised, and all because of Banon’s prediction. She cleared her throat. “As you know, I’m going north.” “You mean, my father’s sending you north.” His voice was edged with fury. She shrugged. “The fact is, I’ll be far away from here. It’s likely I’ll never return.” “I could go with you.” Hope sprang into Bryn’s eyes. “Your father would never allow it.” His fierce gaze met hers. “I could follow you. I’m a man now. My father doesn’t control me.” If only Bryn could come with her. It would make all the difference. Her other losses would be almost bearable. But then reason returned and she shook her head. “Your father would pursue us, and when he found us, he would have his warriors drag you back to Mordarach. As for me... it’s likely he would have me killed.” Bryn stared at her.
Then he nodded. “I could come and find you later.” Sirona remembered Nesta’s words. It wasn’t fair to allow Bryn to plan his whole life around her. She must force him to face the finality of the situation. “My grandmother... she implied that in order to be accepted into another tribe, I will have to handfast with one of their warriors.” “Why not handfast with me?” Bryn implored. Sirona winced, knowing the pain her words would cause. “Because you’re not a warrior, and except in your father’s tribe, you have no hearth to call your home.” Bryn looked as if he had been dealt a brutal blow. “It’s true,” he finally said in a ravaged voice. “But only because I haven’t been given a choice.” Sirona ached for him. There must be some way to ease his despair. All at once, it came to her.
“You were right, Bryn. I do have visions of the future. In fact, I’ve had one of you. In it, you were dressed in battle attire. You appeared to me as a warrior.” His face lit up. “A warrior? What do you think it means?” “Perhaps it’s time for you to leave Mordarach, find a place in another tribe and train as a warrior with them. I don’t think any chieftain would turn away an able-bodied young man who vowed to serve him.” “Perhaps a tribe in the north?” Bryn said hopefully. “Nay. If you travel the same direction as I do, Tarbelinus would surely find you and bring you back. You must set out east or west or south, so your father doesn’t realize where you’ve gone until you’re far away.” Bryn nodded. “It’s a good plan.” He smiled at her faintly. “And since it was given to me by a seeress, I know it’s what I must do. I’ll find another tribe to train with. When I’m a blooded warrior and have a place in a tribe, I’ll come and find you.” His brown eyes burned into Sirona’s. The love she saw there both warmed her heart and tore it to pieces. It seemed to her that few people in life ever realized their dreams.
If Bryn got his chance to be a warrior, he must be content with that. But what if her mother’s prediction for Bryn came true? What if by encouraging him to pursue his dream, she ended up sending Bryn to his death? She must tell him of her mother’s prophecy and let him decide for himself. “There’s one more thing, Bryn... the reason your father has refused to allow you to train as a fighting man. When you were a baby, it was predicted...” She could not bring herself to mention her mother, “if you became a warrior, you would die in the first battle you fought in.” She held her breath, waiting for Bryn’s reaction. He stared at her, eyes bright with emotion. “If I die, I die. But at least I will die knowing I have fulfilled my destiny. All the years training in the grove have taught me not to fear death. But I do fear not fully living my life while I remain in this realm.” Sirona nodded. She felt certain she was doing the right thing in freeing Bryn from the crippling control of his father. Only by leaving Mordarach could he ever have a chance for happiness. That happiness might be fleeting, but at least he would know it for a time. But what of her? She was losing everything, and all because she’d followed what she thought was the Goddess’s plan for her. That night at the mound and circle of stones had been magical, but not enough to make up for what she now faced. And even that experience was flawed. Because of her fear, she had rejected Cruthin and lost the opportunity to know sex magic.
Her failure gnawed at her, despite her anger at Cruthin for leaving her. Bryn interrupted her thoughts. “Sirona, in your vision, did you see any sign or symbol on my shield that might tell me what tribe I will fight for?” She frowned in concentration, trying to remember. “You were older... with the long mustache of a warrior. You wore a kind of leather garment on your chest. I didn’t really take note of the colors you wore. But there was...” Her gaze snapped up to meet his. “... there was the outline of a white horse on your shield.” “A white horse?” She nodded. “I’ve never heard of a tribe that used such a symbol,” he said, his eyes wide in wonder. “Then perhaps you’ll have to search for them.” “I wish you would have told me this when we were still at the gathering. I could have asked around to find out which tribe uses the white horse as a battle emblem.” Sirona touched his arm. “Don’t let what I have told you guide your life too completely. So far, none of the things I’ve seen have come to pass. Instead, follow what is in your heart, what you sense the gods are telling you to do.” Bryn smiled sadly. “It’s true that I have a long way to go before I’m worthy of handfasting with you. But someday, Sirona, I will be a warrior. Someday when you need protection, I’ll be there. I won’t fail you.”
As Bryn turned and left her—ducking awkwardly under the low porch of the hut as his father had before him—Sirona felt the tears begin to fall. She wasn’t certain what she wept most for: her own loss, or Bryn’s heartbreaking innocence of the cruelties of life. * * * Her circumstances were so luxurious as to be almost embarrassing, Sirona thought as they left Mordarach. Tarbelinus had provided a cart for her to ride in and two warriors to guard her. He’d also offered to send a bondswoman to wait upon her, but Sirona had refused. She didn’t see why some other young woman’s life should be disrupted along with hers. Sitting back in the cart, which was filled with sheepskins, blankets, cooking utensils and her new garments, she contemplated how different her “banishment” was from her mother’s. Her mother had left on foot, carrying few supplies, while Sirona was well provided for. Yet despite her comfortable circumstances, she felt a yawning emptiness. The idea of going to live with a northern tribe seemed like a tale told about someone else. She couldn’t imagine it, this new life among a people she’d never met. Although she tried to see some vision of her future, nothing came to her. As they traveled farther and farther away from Mordarach, her sense of despair deepened. She was leaving everything she’d ever known. Her grandmother, whom she’d never truly appreciated. The world of the grove, which had filled her days and shaped her thoughts. It seemed like she was dying, as surely as Banon had died. To the people of Mordarach, she would be dead. Like Cruthin, she would cease to exist to them. Cruthin. She wondered where he was.
Had he returned to the mound on the sacred isle? Gone back to the mainland? She tried to see him in her mind, to catch some glimpse and reassure herself that he yet lived. But she saw nothing. She cursed silently. What was the point of having visions if they wouldn’t come when she needed them most? Her anguish deepened, and tears blurred her eyes as she watched the scenery pass. She became aware of a change in the landscape and realized they were leaving the highlands. The hills weren’t as steep here and the contours of the land were a little softer. They were traveling into the territory of the Cornovii. With each step the oxen took, the pain built inside her. Finally, overcome, she called out to the two men. “Please, stop. I need to...” She searched her mind for some excuse to go off into the woods and spend her grief in private. “I need to relieve myself,” she finished.
They halted the oxen. Sirona grabbed her pack and climbed down from the cart. As she started off into the woods, the tears welled up in earnest. By the time she reached deep forest, she was sobbing. She staggered forward, half blinded. Gradually she realized that if she went too far, she might get lost, and her fear of being left alone in strange territory caused her to halt. She slid to the ground and rubbed at her swollen eyes. Gazing up bleakly at the sky, she wished it were night time, so that she could see the moon. Arianrhod’s silver light would comfort her.
Vatican Pass: A pass to visit Rome and the Vatican
Do you wonder if there is a Vatican pass for Rome? If it is financially interesting? If there are other countries to visit the Vatican and the rest of Rome?
The first thing to know, there is only one Vatican + Rome pass. This pass is called the Omnia Card. There is another Rome Pass, but it is limited to some visits to Rome and does not cover any visit to the Vatican.
Vatican & Vatican Pass Price review: A great price!
The price of the Omnia Card may seem high. However, when comparing the price of the different tickets of the unit, whether for the Vatican, for key tours of Rome or for public transport in the city, you quickly realize that the Omnia map of Rome is financially interesting. to calculate visit per visit to make your opinion about the Omnia Card.
Also, with the pass for Rome and the Vatican, you get access to the line, a real advantage.
Finally, with the Omnia card, you can take advantage of small additional benefits, such as the bus tour of Rome with the bus stop open, the Hop On Hop Off bus from Rome and the Vatican. Convenient to get around in some parts of the city and discover several neighborhoods without much walking.
We must see the price of the Vatican / Rome pass, but also the additional benefits that you can not have without going through the purchase of the Omnia Card.
In this post dedicated to the Omnia map of Rome, we will discuss together the advantages offered by this pass for Rome and the Vatican. What visits are included in the Omnia Card? What is the price of the Omnia Card? Where to reserve Is this pass worth the Vatican? All these topics will be mentioned in this post dedicated to the Pass of Rome and the Vatican.
I'll also tell you where to buy the Omnia Card on the web and at the best price (if you're in a hurry, it's here).
And raising you has been the greatest satisfaction of my life.” Sirona began to weep. She felt as if her life was over. For as long she could remember, all her energies were focused on being a Drui. Now that could never be. Nesta embraced her, holding Sirona against her frail, bony body. After a time, Nesta gently drew away. “There’s something else I must tell you. Something that Tarbelinus requires in exchange for your escort. It’s a small thing, and one that—out of kindness—you should be willing to do.” Sirona gazed at her grandmother warily. “What does Tarbelinus want?” “He wants you to tell Bryn that you don’t return his affections.” Sirona gave a quick, bitter laugh.
“Why should that matter? I’m sure Tarbelinus has made it very clear to his son that he can have no future with me.” “That’s true. But Tarbelinus would prefer it if you told Bryn these things yourself. The chieftain has only recently discovered Bryn’s... fondness for you, and I think it reminds him of his own unreasoning passion for Banon all those years ago. He realizes Bryn won’t give up easily, and he thinks the best way to end his son’s hopes is for you to make it clear you don’t love him.” Nesta paused and her forehead furrowed. “That’s true, isn’t it? You don’t return Bryn’s feelings?” Sirona considered carefully. She’d grown up with Bryn, and until recently thought of him as a brother.
But now, facing the prospect of losing him, she could see how much she’d come to depend him... and care for him. Those feelings might have turned into love if given the chance. But that could never happen now. “Sirona?” Nesta prompted. She met her grandmother’s gaze, “What would it matter if I said I loved Bryn? Tarbelinus would never allow us to be together.” “That’s true,” Nesta agreed. “And given that fact, no matter what you feel, it would be kindest if you told Bryn that you don’t care for him the way he does you. There’s no point making him yearn for something that can never come to pass.” The aching sense of loss inside Sirona deepened. There was no chance she and Bryn could ever be together. It would be cruel to make him continue to hope for such a thing. She nodded slowly. “Very well. I will do as Tarbelinus asks.” Nesta looked relieved. “You must speak to him soon. Tarbelinus is much more likely to be generous in the supplies he sends with you if he knows you have fulfilled your part of the bargain. As a matter of fact, I’ll fetch Bryn now.” While she waited, Sirona felt the bitterness build inside her. She was sick of Tarbelinus and his belief that he could control the lives of those around him. He’d manipulated Bryn all his life, and now he sought to command even his son’s heart.
A moment later, Bryn pushed his way into the hut. “You wanted to see me.” Warm brown eyes met hers. Seeing the longing and despair in their depths, Sirona’s heart twisted. Poor Bryn, forced into a life he despised, and all because of Banon’s prediction. She cleared her throat. “As you know, I’m going north.” “You mean, my father’s sending you north.” His voice was edged with fury. She shrugged. “The fact is, I’ll be far away from here. It’s likely I’ll never return.” “I could go with you.” Hope sprang into Bryn’s eyes. “Your father would never allow it.” His fierce gaze met hers. “I could follow you. I’m a man now. My father doesn’t control me.” If only Bryn could come with her. It would make all the difference. Her other losses would be almost bearable. But then reason returned and she shook her head. “Your father would pursue us, and when he found us, he would have his warriors drag you back to Mordarach. As for me... it’s likely he would have me killed.” Bryn stared at her.
Then he nodded. “I could come and find you later.” Sirona remembered Nesta’s words. It wasn’t fair to allow Bryn to plan his whole life around her. She must force him to face the finality of the situation. “My grandmother... she implied that in order to be accepted into another tribe, I will have to handfast with one of their warriors.” “Why not handfast with me?” Bryn implored. Sirona winced, knowing the pain her words would cause. “Because you’re not a warrior, and except in your father’s tribe, you have no hearth to call your home.” Bryn looked as if he had been dealt a brutal blow. “It’s true,” he finally said in a ravaged voice. “But only because I haven’t been given a choice.” Sirona ached for him. There must be some way to ease his despair. All at once, it came to her.
“You were right, Bryn. I do have visions of the future. In fact, I’ve had one of you. In it, you were dressed in battle attire. You appeared to me as a warrior.” His face lit up. “A warrior? What do you think it means?” “Perhaps it’s time for you to leave Mordarach, find a place in another tribe and train as a warrior with them. I don’t think any chieftain would turn away an able-bodied young man who vowed to serve him.” “Perhaps a tribe in the north?” Bryn said hopefully. “Nay. If you travel the same direction as I do, Tarbelinus would surely find you and bring you back. You must set out east or west or south, so your father doesn’t realize where you’ve gone until you’re far away.” Bryn nodded. “It’s a good plan.” He smiled at her faintly. “And since it was given to me by a seeress, I know it’s what I must do. I’ll find another tribe to train with. When I’m a blooded warrior and have a place in a tribe, I’ll come and find you.” His brown eyes burned into Sirona’s. The love she saw there both warmed her heart and tore it to pieces. It seemed to her that few people in life ever realized their dreams.
If Bryn got his chance to be a warrior, he must be content with that. But what if her mother’s prediction for Bryn came true? What if by encouraging him to pursue his dream, she ended up sending Bryn to his death? She must tell him of her mother’s prophecy and let him decide for himself. “There’s one more thing, Bryn... the reason your father has refused to allow you to train as a fighting man. When you were a baby, it was predicted...” She could not bring herself to mention her mother, “if you became a warrior, you would die in the first battle you fought in.” She held her breath, waiting for Bryn’s reaction. He stared at her, eyes bright with emotion. “If I die, I die. But at least I will die knowing I have fulfilled my destiny. All the years training in the grove have taught me not to fear death. But I do fear not fully living my life while I remain in this realm.” Sirona nodded. She felt certain she was doing the right thing in freeing Bryn from the crippling control of his father. Only by leaving Mordarach could he ever have a chance for happiness. That happiness might be fleeting, but at least he would know it for a time. But what of her? She was losing everything, and all because she’d followed what she thought was the Goddess’s plan for her. That night at the mound and circle of stones had been magical, but not enough to make up for what she now faced. And even that experience was flawed. Because of her fear, she had rejected Cruthin and lost the opportunity to know sex magic.
Her failure gnawed at her, despite her anger at Cruthin for leaving her. Bryn interrupted her thoughts. “Sirona, in your vision, did you see any sign or symbol on my shield that might tell me what tribe I will fight for?” She frowned in concentration, trying to remember. “You were older... with the long mustache of a warrior. You wore a kind of leather garment on your chest. I didn’t really take note of the colors you wore. But there was...” Her gaze snapped up to meet his. “... there was the outline of a white horse on your shield.” “A white horse?” She nodded. “I’ve never heard of a tribe that used such a symbol,” he said, his eyes wide in wonder. “Then perhaps you’ll have to search for them.” “I wish you would have told me this when we were still at the gathering. I could have asked around to find out which tribe uses the white horse as a battle emblem.” Sirona touched his arm. “Don’t let what I have told you guide your life too completely. So far, none of the things I’ve seen have come to pass. Instead, follow what is in your heart, what you sense the gods are telling you to do.” Bryn smiled sadly. “It’s true that I have a long way to go before I’m worthy of handfasting with you. But someday, Sirona, I will be a warrior. Someday when you need protection, I’ll be there. I won’t fail you.”
As Bryn turned and left her—ducking awkwardly under the low porch of the hut as his father had before him—Sirona felt the tears begin to fall. She wasn’t certain what she wept most for: her own loss, or Bryn’s heartbreaking innocence of the cruelties of life. * * * Her circumstances were so luxurious as to be almost embarrassing, Sirona thought as they left Mordarach. Tarbelinus had provided a cart for her to ride in and two warriors to guard her. He’d also offered to send a bondswoman to wait upon her, but Sirona had refused. She didn’t see why some other young woman’s life should be disrupted along with hers. Sitting back in the cart, which was filled with sheepskins, blankets, cooking utensils and her new garments, she contemplated how different her “banishment” was from her mother’s. Her mother had left on foot, carrying few supplies, while Sirona was well provided for. Yet despite her comfortable circumstances, she felt a yawning emptiness. The idea of going to live with a northern tribe seemed like a tale told about someone else. She couldn’t imagine it, this new life among a people she’d never met. Although she tried to see some vision of her future, nothing came to her. As they traveled farther and farther away from Mordarach, her sense of despair deepened. She was leaving everything she’d ever known. Her grandmother, whom she’d never truly appreciated. The world of the grove, which had filled her days and shaped her thoughts. It seemed like she was dying, as surely as Banon had died. To the people of Mordarach, she would be dead. Like Cruthin, she would cease to exist to them. Cruthin. She wondered where he was.
Had he returned to the mound on the sacred isle? Gone back to the mainland? She tried to see him in her mind, to catch some glimpse and reassure herself that he yet lived. But she saw nothing. She cursed silently. What was the point of having visions if they wouldn’t come when she needed them most? Her anguish deepened, and tears blurred her eyes as she watched the scenery pass. She became aware of a change in the landscape and realized they were leaving the highlands. The hills weren’t as steep here and the contours of the land were a little softer. They were traveling into the territory of the Cornovii. With each step the oxen took, the pain built inside her. Finally, overcome, she called out to the two men. “Please, stop. I need to...” She searched her mind for some excuse to go off into the woods and spend her grief in private. “I need to relieve myself,” she finished.
They halted the oxen. Sirona grabbed her pack and climbed down from the cart. As she started off into the woods, the tears welled up in earnest. By the time she reached deep forest, she was sobbing. She staggered forward, half blinded. Gradually she realized that if she went too far, she might get lost, and her fear of being left alone in strange territory caused her to halt. She slid to the ground and rubbed at her swollen eyes. Gazing up bleakly at the sky, she wished it were night time, so that she could see the moon. Arianrhod’s silver light would comfort her.
Vatican Pass: A pass to visit Rome and the Vatican
Do you wonder if there is a Vatican pass for Rome? If it is financially interesting? If there are other countries to visit the Vatican and the rest of Rome?
The first thing to know, there is only one Vatican + Rome pass. This pass is called the Omnia Card. There is another Rome Pass, but it is limited to some visits to Rome and does not cover any visit to the Vatican.
Vatican & Vatican Pass Price review: A great price!
The price of the Omnia Card may seem high. However, when comparing the price of the different tickets of the unit, whether for the Vatican, for key tours of Rome or for public transport in the city, you quickly realize that the Omnia map of Rome is financially interesting. to calculate visit per visit to make your opinion about the Omnia Card.
Also, with the pass for Rome and the Vatican, you get access to the line, a real advantage.
Finally, with the Omnia card, you can take advantage of small additional benefits, such as the bus tour of Rome with the bus stop open, the Hop On Hop Off bus from Rome and the Vatican. Convenient to get around in some parts of the city and discover several neighborhoods without much walking.
We must see the price of the Vatican / Rome pass, but also the additional benefits that you can not have without going through the purchase of the Omnia Card.
What To Do In Venice: Tips To Visit Venice
Visit Venice, something to do at least once in your life. The Serenissima is often considered too touristy, like a museum city. However, the visit of Venice remains a necessity to do in Italy. What to do in Venice What places of interest do you need to visit in Venice?
In this guide to the city dedicated to this famous city of Italy, we will evoke everything that is useful to know before visiting Venice. Of course we will see places to see, we will talk about things to do in Venice. But not only! A full part of this guide will cover the practical aspects of a stay: where to stay in Venice, how to get around, when to go, ... and many other topics will be mentioned in this publication.
After reading this post, if you still have questions about visiting Venice, things to do in Venice or purely practical aspects, do not hesitate to leave a comment at the end of this post. . Very often, I respond quickly to comments posted on the blog! In addition, exchanges of comments are often useful for other blog readers who are wondering what to do in Venice and who plan to visit the city soon ...
A sob welled up inside her. She pressed her fist into her mouth to stifle it. Please, Great Mother, help me! She recalled what she had experienced at the mound and the circle of stones—the light from the sky, the people who appeared out of nowhere, the image of Cruthin as Cernunnos. She’d known great magic. But was one night of dazzling wonder worth losing her life? Some time later, she heard Fiach’s voice outside the tent. She moved near the entrance, hoping to learn what their fate would be. A moment later, there was a strangled sound. “He’s gone,” Fiach cried. “Sirona!” Fiach thrust himself into her tent and dragged her out. “Where is he?” Fiach demanded, looming over her. “Where is he?” Sirona shook her head, too startled and stunned to answer. Bryn, who was standing nearby, seized Fiach’s cloak and tried to pull him away. “Leave her alone!” he shouted. “How dare you assault me!” Fiach cried, twisting from Bryn’s grasp. “Leave her alone,” Bryn repeated.
He wrenched his eating knife from his belt and brandished it. “Your father will hear of this,” Fiach muttered. “He won’t be pleased.” To Sirona, he said. “Get up. Get up and tell me what you know of Cruthin’s disappearance.” She stood. “I know nothing.” Fiach’s gaze swept over her and a cruel smile touched his lips. “How does it feel to know your lover has abandoned you? You are cursed, as your mother was.” His mouth twitched, then he turned back to the others. “Tell no one about this,” he said. “We’ll leave for Mordarach tonight, before anyone can discover our prisoner has escaped. We won’t speak of Cruthin ever again. It will be as if he never existed. If you should see him in this realm, I want you to fetch as many warriors as you can and order them to kill him.” Sirona didn’t know whether to be relieved or despairing. If they were going back to Mordarach, then it was unlikely she would be sacrificed. But she would still be punished. Perhaps banished as her mother had been.
The thought made her feel sick inside. Fiach turned back to Sirona. “Take down your tent and pack up your supplies. Quickly.” As soon as Fiach left, Bryn approached Sirona. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll help you get ready to leave.” * * * Sirona paused on one of the high peaks and surveyed the vast landscape around her. The mountain vistas that had seemed so exhilarating on the journey to the sacred isle now struck her as desolate and lonely. She watched an eagle circle, floating effortlessly on the wind currents. All she could think about was the bird’s ruthless search for prey, and that when it spied a hare or a vole or other small animal, it would swoop down and impale the helpless creature with its huge claws and sharp beak. The next moment, she thought of Cruthin, and her distress turned to anger. He had left her, and without a thought for what might happen to her after he was gone. She tried to tell herself he’d had no choice, that there was no way the two of them could have slipped away without notice. He had chosen to save himself, that’s all. But she knew she would never have abandoned him. “It’s a spectacular view, isn’t it?” Bryn came up behind her. “We’ve been very fortunate it’s been clear both times we’ve crossed the mountains. I’m certain it’s often stormy and blustery, or the sky is heavy with rain clouds. From here, doesn’t it seem you can see to the end of the world?” Sirona nodded, but without conviction.
Beautiful scenery did little to lift her mood. Before leaving for the sacred isle, she’d promised her grandmother she wouldn’t get into trouble on this journey. How miserably she had failed. “Don’t worry,” Bryn said softly. “Once we get back to Mordarach, Fiach will have to defer to my father’s wishes, and Tarbelinus won’t allow the punishment to be too severe.” Sirona looked at him. No matter how much Bryn wanted to protect her, her fate was beyond his control. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me,” she said. “You’ve been a loyal friend.” He moved nearer, his brown eyes hot and intent. “I would like to be more than your friend, Sirona.” She searched her mind for something to say, a means of discouraging him. But after all he’d done for her, every response she thought of seemed too harsh. “Please, I don’t want to speak of these things.” She walked away, retreating once again into the anguish of her thoughts. * * * When they arrived at Mordarach, everyone came out to welcome them.
As soon as she saw Nesta, Sirona stiffened. She could hardly bear to look at her grandmother. Nesta started to make her way over to Sirona. Before she reached her, someone asked, “Where’s Cruthin?” Fiach, who had been quietly talking to Tarbelinus, jerked around. His powerful voice rang out. “The young man called Cruthin has betrayed our tribe and offended the gods. We’ll speak of him no more. He is expelled from the grove, and from our tribe. If he’s ever seen near Mordarach, he’ll be put to death.” Everyone stared at Fiach in stunned silence. Then Tarbelinus said, “Come with me, Fiach.” To the rest of the tribe, the chieftain announced, “Later, when the travelers have washed and rested, we’ll celebrate their return.” Nesta finally reached Sirona. Her blue eyes were dark with concern.
“What happened, Sirona?” Sirona shook her head, fighting back tears. The sense of shame and failure overwhelmed her. Nesta grasped Sirona’s shoulder. “What is it, granddaughter? Why are you so distraught? Is it because Cruthin’s been banished?” “I’m sorry,” Sirona whispered. “I thought... I truly believed we were being guided by the gods.” She turned away. Nesta let out a cry. “Whatever Cruthin did, you were involved as well?” Sirona nodded. “Let’s walk back to the hut. We can speak of this there.” When they reached the dwelling, Sirona sank down on her bedplace. The familiar scents— herbs and cooking—both soothed and tormented her. She might be on the verge of losing everything she cared about. “Sirona,” Nesta said sharply. “Tell me what happened.” She shook her head. “Not now, grandmother, I’m... I’m too tired.” Nesta let out her breath in a long sigh. “Very well. I’ll make you some broth. You should eat something after your long journey.” * * * She was being pursued by wild beasts. When she looked back, their yellow eyes glowed in the mist. She could see the glint of their vicious fangs. Their huge, gaping mouths. A voice told her to surrender, to stop running and let them kill her. But she could not. She did not want to die like that, torn into bloody pieces. Alone in the darkness. “Sirona.” She woke to find Nesta gently shaking her. She clutched Nesta’s hand and sat up on the bedplace, trembling. “Sirona.” Nesta’s voice sounded strained.
A moment later, Sirona turned and saw Tarbelinus sitting near the hearth. The chieftain seemed much too large for the small space. With his masses of tawny gold hair and big, muscular body, he reminded Sirona of a cat waiting to pounce on its prey. It was as if the terrors of her dream had followed her into the waking world. Tarbelinus spoke in his deep voice. “Sirona, you must leave Mordarach. I’m sending you north. Your father is a warrior there, with one of the Brigante tribes. Perhaps you can find him.” She was being sent away. It was as bad as she feared. “I’ll send an escort with you,” Tarbelinus said. “You’ll be safe, guarded at all times.” His expression softened. “It will be better this way. There’s nothing for you here.” Nesta made a choked sound. Sirona looked at her, feeling empty. “The chieftain wants to make certain nothing happens to you,” Nesta said. “Is that not kind of him?” Her voice dripped sarcasm. Sirona looked from her grandmother to the chieftain and back again. “Before I go, I want to hear the truth about Banon.” Something changed in Tarbelinus’s eyes. Sirona could sense hostility... and a kind of fear. “Nay,” he said. “Aye,” said Nesta. “She has a right to know.” Tarbelinus took a deep breath. “I’m responsible for your mother’s death. She didn’t deserve to die... like that anyway.” He paused. “But that’s not to say I’m sorry.” He gestured angrily. “She made my life miserable. She threatened my family. Terrorized Rhyell. I had to send her away. I promised Banon an escort, but... we parted in anger. I should have sent someone after her. But I didn’t.
I must live with that.” He shifted his weight. Sirona could tell he longed to stand up and move about, but the hut was too small. He continued, “Before she left, Banon threatened us. Cursed us. Said the dun would be destroyed. That I would be led away in shackles. She said that Bryn...” He paused again, as if afraid to utter the words. “She said my son would be killed in the first battle he fought in. That’s why I’ve never allowed him to become a warrior.” So, that was the secret Nesta wouldn’t share with her. The reason Tarbelinus had made his son’s life miserable all these years—insisting he train to be a Learned One when he had no calling for it. Thinking about the unhappiness Bryn had experienced because of his father’s decision, Sirona grew angry. “You had no right to try to change Bryn’s destiny,” she said. “If the gods will it, then he will die in battle. His life until then should be of his choosing. Not yours!” “I have every right,” Tarbelinus said. “I’m not merely his father, but also his chieftain. I make use of the abilities of any man of the Tarisllwyth as I see fit.” “You will fail,” Sirona said. The memory came to her swiftly. “I’ve seen a vision of Bryn in battle attire. He’s meant to be a warrior.” Tarbelinus’s blue eyes flashed fire, and he struck her across the face. She fell back. Nesta knelt beside Sirona. “How dare you!” she cried. An image flashed into Sirona’s mind.
A lovely woman with dark gold hair and deep gray eyes stood before Tarbelinus, hands on hips, taunting the chieftain. Her sneering gaze was cold and empty, heartless. Sirona realized she couldn’t blame Tarbelinus. Her mother had been cruel and selfish. She hadn’t cared who she hurt. And her blood runs in your veins. You are cursed as well. As the thought filled Sirona’s mind, she felt cold and sick. Nesta released Sirona. Straightening, head held high, Nesta faced Tarbelinus. “Leave us. I must prepare my granddaughter for her journey.” As soon as Tarbelinus had gone, Sirona turned a pleading look to Nesta, “Grandmother, come with me.” Nesta shook her head. “I would never survive the hardships of the journey.” Sirona felt tears spill down her cheeks. Nesta came to soothe her. “You possess the same sort of power your mother did, although you can choose to use it for good rather than ill. I’m convinced the gods have a purpose for you, and they will protect you.”
“Are you very certain, Grandmother?” Nesta nodded. “Beyond my faith in the gods, I’ve insisted Tarbelinus give you a proper escort and furnish you with supplies and household goods. With that and the wealth you have from your mother—along with your fair face and youth—some northern warrior will be eager to handfast with you.” “But what about... being a Learned One?” “I’m afraid that path is closed to you now. It would have been difficult enough here, among your own people. But to go to another tribe and expect them to accept you as Drui....” Nesta smiled, although the expression looked forced. “Perhaps it’s better this way. You’ll be able to have the life of a normal woman, instead of enduring the rigid discipline of the grove. You’ll have children and enjoy the pleasures of a family.” “But I know nothing about running a household... nor being a wife!” Nesta placed a hand on her arm.
Visit Venice: prepare your stay in Venice
Last part of this guide about Venice. With the previous paragraphs of this post, you should know what to do in Venice and you should not get bored during your visit to the city.
Earlier in this post, we discussed some practical problems, such as plane tickets and accommodation in Venice. Other practical questions may arise before visiting Venice. This is the subject of this last part of the ticket. We are going to discuss, in bulk, several topics that should interest you if you plan to go to Venice for the first time ...
In this guide to the city dedicated to this famous city of Italy, we will evoke everything that is useful to know before visiting Venice. Of course we will see places to see, we will talk about things to do in Venice. But not only! A full part of this guide will cover the practical aspects of a stay: where to stay in Venice, how to get around, when to go, ... and many other topics will be mentioned in this publication.
After reading this post, if you still have questions about visiting Venice, things to do in Venice or purely practical aspects, do not hesitate to leave a comment at the end of this post. . Very often, I respond quickly to comments posted on the blog! In addition, exchanges of comments are often useful for other blog readers who are wondering what to do in Venice and who plan to visit the city soon ...
A sob welled up inside her. She pressed her fist into her mouth to stifle it. Please, Great Mother, help me! She recalled what she had experienced at the mound and the circle of stones—the light from the sky, the people who appeared out of nowhere, the image of Cruthin as Cernunnos. She’d known great magic. But was one night of dazzling wonder worth losing her life? Some time later, she heard Fiach’s voice outside the tent. She moved near the entrance, hoping to learn what their fate would be. A moment later, there was a strangled sound. “He’s gone,” Fiach cried. “Sirona!” Fiach thrust himself into her tent and dragged her out. “Where is he?” Fiach demanded, looming over her. “Where is he?” Sirona shook her head, too startled and stunned to answer. Bryn, who was standing nearby, seized Fiach’s cloak and tried to pull him away. “Leave her alone!” he shouted. “How dare you assault me!” Fiach cried, twisting from Bryn’s grasp. “Leave her alone,” Bryn repeated.
He wrenched his eating knife from his belt and brandished it. “Your father will hear of this,” Fiach muttered. “He won’t be pleased.” To Sirona, he said. “Get up. Get up and tell me what you know of Cruthin’s disappearance.” She stood. “I know nothing.” Fiach’s gaze swept over her and a cruel smile touched his lips. “How does it feel to know your lover has abandoned you? You are cursed, as your mother was.” His mouth twitched, then he turned back to the others. “Tell no one about this,” he said. “We’ll leave for Mordarach tonight, before anyone can discover our prisoner has escaped. We won’t speak of Cruthin ever again. It will be as if he never existed. If you should see him in this realm, I want you to fetch as many warriors as you can and order them to kill him.” Sirona didn’t know whether to be relieved or despairing. If they were going back to Mordarach, then it was unlikely she would be sacrificed. But she would still be punished. Perhaps banished as her mother had been.
The thought made her feel sick inside. Fiach turned back to Sirona. “Take down your tent and pack up your supplies. Quickly.” As soon as Fiach left, Bryn approached Sirona. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll help you get ready to leave.” * * * Sirona paused on one of the high peaks and surveyed the vast landscape around her. The mountain vistas that had seemed so exhilarating on the journey to the sacred isle now struck her as desolate and lonely. She watched an eagle circle, floating effortlessly on the wind currents. All she could think about was the bird’s ruthless search for prey, and that when it spied a hare or a vole or other small animal, it would swoop down and impale the helpless creature with its huge claws and sharp beak. The next moment, she thought of Cruthin, and her distress turned to anger. He had left her, and without a thought for what might happen to her after he was gone. She tried to tell herself he’d had no choice, that there was no way the two of them could have slipped away without notice. He had chosen to save himself, that’s all. But she knew she would never have abandoned him. “It’s a spectacular view, isn’t it?” Bryn came up behind her. “We’ve been very fortunate it’s been clear both times we’ve crossed the mountains. I’m certain it’s often stormy and blustery, or the sky is heavy with rain clouds. From here, doesn’t it seem you can see to the end of the world?” Sirona nodded, but without conviction.
Beautiful scenery did little to lift her mood. Before leaving for the sacred isle, she’d promised her grandmother she wouldn’t get into trouble on this journey. How miserably she had failed. “Don’t worry,” Bryn said softly. “Once we get back to Mordarach, Fiach will have to defer to my father’s wishes, and Tarbelinus won’t allow the punishment to be too severe.” Sirona looked at him. No matter how much Bryn wanted to protect her, her fate was beyond his control. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me,” she said. “You’ve been a loyal friend.” He moved nearer, his brown eyes hot and intent. “I would like to be more than your friend, Sirona.” She searched her mind for something to say, a means of discouraging him. But after all he’d done for her, every response she thought of seemed too harsh. “Please, I don’t want to speak of these things.” She walked away, retreating once again into the anguish of her thoughts. * * * When they arrived at Mordarach, everyone came out to welcome them.
As soon as she saw Nesta, Sirona stiffened. She could hardly bear to look at her grandmother. Nesta started to make her way over to Sirona. Before she reached her, someone asked, “Where’s Cruthin?” Fiach, who had been quietly talking to Tarbelinus, jerked around. His powerful voice rang out. “The young man called Cruthin has betrayed our tribe and offended the gods. We’ll speak of him no more. He is expelled from the grove, and from our tribe. If he’s ever seen near Mordarach, he’ll be put to death.” Everyone stared at Fiach in stunned silence. Then Tarbelinus said, “Come with me, Fiach.” To the rest of the tribe, the chieftain announced, “Later, when the travelers have washed and rested, we’ll celebrate their return.” Nesta finally reached Sirona. Her blue eyes were dark with concern.
“What happened, Sirona?” Sirona shook her head, fighting back tears. The sense of shame and failure overwhelmed her. Nesta grasped Sirona’s shoulder. “What is it, granddaughter? Why are you so distraught? Is it because Cruthin’s been banished?” “I’m sorry,” Sirona whispered. “I thought... I truly believed we were being guided by the gods.” She turned away. Nesta let out a cry. “Whatever Cruthin did, you were involved as well?” Sirona nodded. “Let’s walk back to the hut. We can speak of this there.” When they reached the dwelling, Sirona sank down on her bedplace. The familiar scents— herbs and cooking—both soothed and tormented her. She might be on the verge of losing everything she cared about. “Sirona,” Nesta said sharply. “Tell me what happened.” She shook her head. “Not now, grandmother, I’m... I’m too tired.” Nesta let out her breath in a long sigh. “Very well. I’ll make you some broth. You should eat something after your long journey.” * * * She was being pursued by wild beasts. When she looked back, their yellow eyes glowed in the mist. She could see the glint of their vicious fangs. Their huge, gaping mouths. A voice told her to surrender, to stop running and let them kill her. But she could not. She did not want to die like that, torn into bloody pieces. Alone in the darkness. “Sirona.” She woke to find Nesta gently shaking her. She clutched Nesta’s hand and sat up on the bedplace, trembling. “Sirona.” Nesta’s voice sounded strained.
A moment later, Sirona turned and saw Tarbelinus sitting near the hearth. The chieftain seemed much too large for the small space. With his masses of tawny gold hair and big, muscular body, he reminded Sirona of a cat waiting to pounce on its prey. It was as if the terrors of her dream had followed her into the waking world. Tarbelinus spoke in his deep voice. “Sirona, you must leave Mordarach. I’m sending you north. Your father is a warrior there, with one of the Brigante tribes. Perhaps you can find him.” She was being sent away. It was as bad as she feared. “I’ll send an escort with you,” Tarbelinus said. “You’ll be safe, guarded at all times.” His expression softened. “It will be better this way. There’s nothing for you here.” Nesta made a choked sound. Sirona looked at her, feeling empty. “The chieftain wants to make certain nothing happens to you,” Nesta said. “Is that not kind of him?” Her voice dripped sarcasm. Sirona looked from her grandmother to the chieftain and back again. “Before I go, I want to hear the truth about Banon.” Something changed in Tarbelinus’s eyes. Sirona could sense hostility... and a kind of fear. “Nay,” he said. “Aye,” said Nesta. “She has a right to know.” Tarbelinus took a deep breath. “I’m responsible for your mother’s death. She didn’t deserve to die... like that anyway.” He paused. “But that’s not to say I’m sorry.” He gestured angrily. “She made my life miserable. She threatened my family. Terrorized Rhyell. I had to send her away. I promised Banon an escort, but... we parted in anger. I should have sent someone after her. But I didn’t.
I must live with that.” He shifted his weight. Sirona could tell he longed to stand up and move about, but the hut was too small. He continued, “Before she left, Banon threatened us. Cursed us. Said the dun would be destroyed. That I would be led away in shackles. She said that Bryn...” He paused again, as if afraid to utter the words. “She said my son would be killed in the first battle he fought in. That’s why I’ve never allowed him to become a warrior.” So, that was the secret Nesta wouldn’t share with her. The reason Tarbelinus had made his son’s life miserable all these years—insisting he train to be a Learned One when he had no calling for it. Thinking about the unhappiness Bryn had experienced because of his father’s decision, Sirona grew angry. “You had no right to try to change Bryn’s destiny,” she said. “If the gods will it, then he will die in battle. His life until then should be of his choosing. Not yours!” “I have every right,” Tarbelinus said. “I’m not merely his father, but also his chieftain. I make use of the abilities of any man of the Tarisllwyth as I see fit.” “You will fail,” Sirona said. The memory came to her swiftly. “I’ve seen a vision of Bryn in battle attire. He’s meant to be a warrior.” Tarbelinus’s blue eyes flashed fire, and he struck her across the face. She fell back. Nesta knelt beside Sirona. “How dare you!” she cried. An image flashed into Sirona’s mind.
A lovely woman with dark gold hair and deep gray eyes stood before Tarbelinus, hands on hips, taunting the chieftain. Her sneering gaze was cold and empty, heartless. Sirona realized she couldn’t blame Tarbelinus. Her mother had been cruel and selfish. She hadn’t cared who she hurt. And her blood runs in your veins. You are cursed as well. As the thought filled Sirona’s mind, she felt cold and sick. Nesta released Sirona. Straightening, head held high, Nesta faced Tarbelinus. “Leave us. I must prepare my granddaughter for her journey.” As soon as Tarbelinus had gone, Sirona turned a pleading look to Nesta, “Grandmother, come with me.” Nesta shook her head. “I would never survive the hardships of the journey.” Sirona felt tears spill down her cheeks. Nesta came to soothe her. “You possess the same sort of power your mother did, although you can choose to use it for good rather than ill. I’m convinced the gods have a purpose for you, and they will protect you.”
“Are you very certain, Grandmother?” Nesta nodded. “Beyond my faith in the gods, I’ve insisted Tarbelinus give you a proper escort and furnish you with supplies and household goods. With that and the wealth you have from your mother—along with your fair face and youth—some northern warrior will be eager to handfast with you.” “But what about... being a Learned One?” “I’m afraid that path is closed to you now. It would have been difficult enough here, among your own people. But to go to another tribe and expect them to accept you as Drui....” Nesta smiled, although the expression looked forced. “Perhaps it’s better this way. You’ll be able to have the life of a normal woman, instead of enduring the rigid discipline of the grove. You’ll have children and enjoy the pleasures of a family.” “But I know nothing about running a household... nor being a wife!” Nesta placed a hand on her arm.
Visit Venice: prepare your stay in Venice
Last part of this guide about Venice. With the previous paragraphs of this post, you should know what to do in Venice and you should not get bored during your visit to the city.
Earlier in this post, we discussed some practical problems, such as plane tickets and accommodation in Venice. Other practical questions may arise before visiting Venice. This is the subject of this last part of the ticket. We are going to discuss, in bulk, several topics that should interest you if you plan to go to Venice for the first time ...
Tour Of Pisa: Times, Rates And Tips For The Tour Of The Pisa Tour
The tower of Pisa, one of the symbols of Italy. This tower that could be banal is one of the mythical monuments of the country, like the Colosseum or Pompeii ... The tower attracts hundreds of visitors every day and, often, they only make a quick pass in the city. , just for the visit of the pisa tower ...
It must be said that the leaning tower of Pisa is particularly impressive. It is difficult to imagine how much this tower is tilted. You really have to go to see the tower of Pisa in the place to really do it.
Logically, the tower attracts crowds and the experience in the place can be ruined: many people, waiting endless, ... In this post dedicated to the symbol of the city of Pisa, I give you all the useful information to visit the Pisa tower in Italy , I share my comments to help you prepare for your visit to the Tower of Pisa. For example, I tell you how to book your ticket online to avoid waiting in the place!
His mind settled on the protracted and more complex exchanges he’d shared with three women, exchanges where love had superseded lust in the actions of shared touch, where the stimulation of certain nerve endings was routed through the convoluted and ill-understood circuitry of trust, commitment, and responsibility. How could something as seemingly simple as contiguous flesh evolve into something as complex, as rewarding and risky, as love? What transformation happened there between touch and love’s tangle? Could someone, anyone document the instant of transition—as the millisecond when the sperm cell’s persistent bumping of the egg cell’s resistant membrane finally and ultimately results in the breach of that membrane and the consequent conception of a totally new entity. Was touch transformed to love like that— an instant’s change? Josh could smile at the apt metaphor. He wondered if it were original or if he’d encountered it in some long forgotten poem or story.
But his mind quickly drifted past such idle speculation and settled on the hands and faces and hearts of the three sexual partners he’d truly loved—Laura, Vicki, and his partner in adultery, Joan. And as much as he would’ve wished to focus on the nearby Laura (and the product of their love, the nearby Devon) or the wronged and dearly departed Vicki (and the living product of their love, the long absent and longed for Angie), Josh could at that moment only picture Joan. She had, for him at least, an effervescence that was simply intoxicating—place her in a room with him, and all his senses became instantly more acute: the light grew brighter, sounds clearer, taste and smell heightened, and touch, oh, touch! If she were sitting across from him at a desk, his fingertips on the wood of the desktop knew every twist of grain, every finish-filled pore. Set her next to him at a dining table, and his fingers knew every swirl of filigree on the stainless, every drop of condensation on the water glass, every weave of linen on the tablecloth. His life in her presence became a new life—or, perhaps more accurately, became again the old life of his earliest childhood memories, when every sensation was unprecedented, every moment and action sparklingly intense. Poor Joan—caught up in a vortex not of her own making (but of his?), swirled around and around and around, dazzling dance, dancing dervish, then dropped. She didn’t deserve any of it. She’d loved Angie first, completely and without reservation, gladly becoming the big sister Angie’d longed for. Then she’d loved Vicki—half daughter, half confidant: she’d given Vicki something she’d needed and lacked for years. And finally, almost as an afterthought, she’d loved him.
As was her way, she’d led with her heart and let her body follow with no apparent thought to cost or consequences. He’d seen that vulnerability, knew its risks, was too weak to resist. It seemed a well-worn tragic tale, all unfolding as prescribed down through the ages. All that was left was to place blame, and its place of residence had been clear and irrefutable since the moment of discovery—an instant of the undoing of love at least as explosive and irreversible as the doing of love in its transformation from simple touch: the withdrawal of sperm cell from egg, repair of the breach in the membrane, total rejection now of the sperm cell’s hapless tamping, the cell’s gradual slowing, shriveling, dying.
So why, in the wake of that life-changing loss, could Josh taste Joan’s breath in his mouth just now, feel the textured brush of her tongue against his slick gums, sense the trickle of her saliva trickling down his throat? Where was the loss in the face of such powerful life? Where was the tragedy in the face of such persistent love? Those questions faded fast as they’d surfaced. It was enough to taste Joan in his mouth, smell her in his nostrils, feel the pulse of her life through his core. It was answer enough. Devon sat beside her unconscious—again—father. Both Sherri and Doctor Joe thought this episode more or less normal resting unconscious and not something more ominous, though they both acknowledged that they (and, more to the point, Josh’s body) were dealing with a lot of unknowns—unknown synergies and side-effects of powerful medications, unknown imbalances within Josh’s body (the bloodwork they’d sent out yesterday still hadn’t come back), and, most dangerous, the possibility of an unknown infection within one or more major organ systems.
So while hardly reassuring, Devon thanked them for their honesty and attempt at full disclosure and chose to trust their combined best intuition and assumed that Josh was sleeping peacefully and comfortably behind his closed eyelids. After a beautiful spring morning, the sky had steadily clouded over and now in the late afternoon storm clouds threatened beyond the broad bedroom window. The room grew suddenly dim, unnaturally dark for the hour of the day, and gusts of wind pushed clouds of pine pollen in a yellow haze past the window as thunder rumbled in the distance.
The weather conditions quickly eroded Devon’s thin confidence in the doctor’s guarded assessment of Josh’s condition and a small but persistent sense of foreboding took root in the pit of her stomach. She stood and leaned over Josh, putting the side of her face less than an inch above his mouth and nose. She felt his breath brush her cheek and heard his slow but easy inhalation and exhalation. While conscious, Josh had asked Sherri to remove the monitor’s sensors and leads—they were annoying and making him feel like he was in a hospital. But now Devon wished they’d left them connected—there was a certain comfort to be found in the steady patterned scroll of those colored lines on the monitor, a reassurance that he was alive despite his unresponsive body. Instead, the monitor’s screen was a blank gray, dark as the day. Reassurance would have to be found elsewhere, if it were to be found.
Devon sat back in the chair, opened her laptop, and began a long e-mail to Jocelyn: Bunkie, why aren’t you here? Sorry, Dearest, I just had to say the words. I know why you’re not here and that you’d be here on the next flight if I asked. It’s just that I’m feeling lonely and blue sitting here beside Josh’s bed while he’s asleep— at least we hope he’s asleep and not something worse. The doctor and nurse seem to think it’s normal resting, but who knows? Not me, that’s for sure. Josh woke up earlier today—YAY! I actually got to meet and talk with my birth father! Funny thing is, it was like we’d known each other forever. It wasn’t awkward or emotional or confusing—just two people talking, more like old friends than father and daughter.
That was a good thing, since I don’t think I could’ve handled the father-daughter dynamic. I mean, I already have a father, right? How can someone have two fathers? I mean, I know lots of people have a father and a step-father and manage just fine, but I’m not ready for two fathers. So we just talked and I told him a little about myself and I told him all about you and our life in Austin and how we want to have a baby. He didn’t flinch a bit when I told him about you, just took it in stride (well, in bed flat on his back) and smiled and nodded. He seemed especially interested in our plans to have a baby and told me to take all the blood I needed for DNA testing. So he was glad to meet me, and I was glad to meet him. But now he’s unconscious and there’s a storm brewing outside and it makes me fear the worst. Just nerves, I guess. We always want more, don’t we? I wanted to meet my birth mom. Once I met her, I wanted to get to know her better. Once I got to know her better, I wanted to see my birth father.
Once I got to see him, I wanted to talk to him. Once I got to talk to him, now I want to talk to him some more. I want him to live. I want him to get out of the bed and walk with me through his woods or in a park. I want him to bounce his grandson on his knee, see that he has his eyes, that funny lopsided grin. Odd how a quest to begin a life should put me beside a bed where a life is ending. It makes me all the more certain that I want to have a child, and that the baby should be from my egg, with my DNA. Josh may never know the baby but I’ll know him and see Josh in him every day. Why should I care so much about this, Bunkie? But I do. Two days ago, I didn’t know Josh existed; now I’d move heaven and earth to perpetuate his legacy. If Josh’s doctor could take me down the hall and plant that fertilized embryo with Josh’s DNA in my uterus right this minute, I’d do it. I’d do it.
You’re O.K. with that, aren’t you? I know it was always you pushing to have a kid and me dragging my feet and dreaming up all sorts of excuses. But now I want it, Bunkie, want it for all sorts of reasons I didn’t know existed before but now that I know them they seem all that matters. I know that these feelings may pass or certainly fade some. I know that Marty-shrink will have plenty to say about it and lots of questions and advice. I’m O.K. with that. We need that input. But I’m going to have this baby. Is that O.K., Dearest? You’ll still love me, right? With a new mother and a new father and a new need to have a baby with their DNA that is my DNA —you’re O.K. with that, right? It’s all O.K., right? I need you to tell me these new developments won’t make you stop loving me. It’s all still me. Just more. Dev Devon paused just a fraction of a second, then hit send, then looked up at the sleeping Josh. The tears she’d shed a few minutes earlier had dried on the back of her hands. She felt a surprising new resolve, the resolve of guardianship. It was strength enough to endure the violent storm that broke outside the window, and the shafts of tentative late sunlight that extended themselves like golden fingers in the storm’s sudden wind-whipped aftermath. For Josh it was like falling through a cloud of white feathers—that soft and slow and blinding.
One minute he was tasting Joan in his mouth, feeling her clutch of his revived penis; the next minute he was descending through this infinitely gentle, intimately proximate world of white, a white so bright with diffuse homogenized brilliant light that it should’ve been blinding but wasn’t, a light so powerful in its diffusion that Josh wondered if its source would be bearable, should he ever find it. But neither searching nor intention was available to him now. Gravity still worked, as he was falling downward, but gravity scaled back, like maybe the gravity on the moon (vividly recalled through the film of the Apollo astronauts bounding like slowmotion fluffy sheep across the lunarscape)—muted, more humane gravity.
And breathing seemed to work also—his released exhalations and slow inhalations the only sound, no hint of panic from the falling, no sign of fear at the close press of brilliant white. Then Josh knew that this was a script written by someone else, something else, a script in which he was both willing participant and coerced conscript, where he went along willingly in a proceeding that would’ve claimed him, volunteer or not. Josh saw it too as an age-old, eons-old proceeding in a place and a process that knew no time—no ages, or eons, or epochs; no future, no past: just one permanent blur of blinding white.
Torre di Pisa and the rest of the religious complex are listed as World Heritage by UNESCO.
Beyond its popularity due to the fact that the tower leans, it is also one of the most beautiful works of Tuscan Romanesque art. The tower was built with marble.
Before talking about the visit to the Tower of Pisa and sharing my advice to make the most of your visit, let's quickly talk about the history and the figures ...
It must be said that the leaning tower of Pisa is particularly impressive. It is difficult to imagine how much this tower is tilted. You really have to go to see the tower of Pisa in the place to really do it.
Logically, the tower attracts crowds and the experience in the place can be ruined: many people, waiting endless, ... In this post dedicated to the symbol of the city of Pisa, I give you all the useful information to visit the Pisa tower in Italy , I share my comments to help you prepare for your visit to the Tower of Pisa. For example, I tell you how to book your ticket online to avoid waiting in the place!
His mind settled on the protracted and more complex exchanges he’d shared with three women, exchanges where love had superseded lust in the actions of shared touch, where the stimulation of certain nerve endings was routed through the convoluted and ill-understood circuitry of trust, commitment, and responsibility. How could something as seemingly simple as contiguous flesh evolve into something as complex, as rewarding and risky, as love? What transformation happened there between touch and love’s tangle? Could someone, anyone document the instant of transition—as the millisecond when the sperm cell’s persistent bumping of the egg cell’s resistant membrane finally and ultimately results in the breach of that membrane and the consequent conception of a totally new entity. Was touch transformed to love like that— an instant’s change? Josh could smile at the apt metaphor. He wondered if it were original or if he’d encountered it in some long forgotten poem or story.
But his mind quickly drifted past such idle speculation and settled on the hands and faces and hearts of the three sexual partners he’d truly loved—Laura, Vicki, and his partner in adultery, Joan. And as much as he would’ve wished to focus on the nearby Laura (and the product of their love, the nearby Devon) or the wronged and dearly departed Vicki (and the living product of their love, the long absent and longed for Angie), Josh could at that moment only picture Joan. She had, for him at least, an effervescence that was simply intoxicating—place her in a room with him, and all his senses became instantly more acute: the light grew brighter, sounds clearer, taste and smell heightened, and touch, oh, touch! If she were sitting across from him at a desk, his fingertips on the wood of the desktop knew every twist of grain, every finish-filled pore. Set her next to him at a dining table, and his fingers knew every swirl of filigree on the stainless, every drop of condensation on the water glass, every weave of linen on the tablecloth. His life in her presence became a new life—or, perhaps more accurately, became again the old life of his earliest childhood memories, when every sensation was unprecedented, every moment and action sparklingly intense. Poor Joan—caught up in a vortex not of her own making (but of his?), swirled around and around and around, dazzling dance, dancing dervish, then dropped. She didn’t deserve any of it. She’d loved Angie first, completely and without reservation, gladly becoming the big sister Angie’d longed for. Then she’d loved Vicki—half daughter, half confidant: she’d given Vicki something she’d needed and lacked for years. And finally, almost as an afterthought, she’d loved him.
As was her way, she’d led with her heart and let her body follow with no apparent thought to cost or consequences. He’d seen that vulnerability, knew its risks, was too weak to resist. It seemed a well-worn tragic tale, all unfolding as prescribed down through the ages. All that was left was to place blame, and its place of residence had been clear and irrefutable since the moment of discovery—an instant of the undoing of love at least as explosive and irreversible as the doing of love in its transformation from simple touch: the withdrawal of sperm cell from egg, repair of the breach in the membrane, total rejection now of the sperm cell’s hapless tamping, the cell’s gradual slowing, shriveling, dying.
So why, in the wake of that life-changing loss, could Josh taste Joan’s breath in his mouth just now, feel the textured brush of her tongue against his slick gums, sense the trickle of her saliva trickling down his throat? Where was the loss in the face of such powerful life? Where was the tragedy in the face of such persistent love? Those questions faded fast as they’d surfaced. It was enough to taste Joan in his mouth, smell her in his nostrils, feel the pulse of her life through his core. It was answer enough. Devon sat beside her unconscious—again—father. Both Sherri and Doctor Joe thought this episode more or less normal resting unconscious and not something more ominous, though they both acknowledged that they (and, more to the point, Josh’s body) were dealing with a lot of unknowns—unknown synergies and side-effects of powerful medications, unknown imbalances within Josh’s body (the bloodwork they’d sent out yesterday still hadn’t come back), and, most dangerous, the possibility of an unknown infection within one or more major organ systems.
So while hardly reassuring, Devon thanked them for their honesty and attempt at full disclosure and chose to trust their combined best intuition and assumed that Josh was sleeping peacefully and comfortably behind his closed eyelids. After a beautiful spring morning, the sky had steadily clouded over and now in the late afternoon storm clouds threatened beyond the broad bedroom window. The room grew suddenly dim, unnaturally dark for the hour of the day, and gusts of wind pushed clouds of pine pollen in a yellow haze past the window as thunder rumbled in the distance.
The weather conditions quickly eroded Devon’s thin confidence in the doctor’s guarded assessment of Josh’s condition and a small but persistent sense of foreboding took root in the pit of her stomach. She stood and leaned over Josh, putting the side of her face less than an inch above his mouth and nose. She felt his breath brush her cheek and heard his slow but easy inhalation and exhalation. While conscious, Josh had asked Sherri to remove the monitor’s sensors and leads—they were annoying and making him feel like he was in a hospital. But now Devon wished they’d left them connected—there was a certain comfort to be found in the steady patterned scroll of those colored lines on the monitor, a reassurance that he was alive despite his unresponsive body. Instead, the monitor’s screen was a blank gray, dark as the day. Reassurance would have to be found elsewhere, if it were to be found.
Devon sat back in the chair, opened her laptop, and began a long e-mail to Jocelyn: Bunkie, why aren’t you here? Sorry, Dearest, I just had to say the words. I know why you’re not here and that you’d be here on the next flight if I asked. It’s just that I’m feeling lonely and blue sitting here beside Josh’s bed while he’s asleep— at least we hope he’s asleep and not something worse. The doctor and nurse seem to think it’s normal resting, but who knows? Not me, that’s for sure. Josh woke up earlier today—YAY! I actually got to meet and talk with my birth father! Funny thing is, it was like we’d known each other forever. It wasn’t awkward or emotional or confusing—just two people talking, more like old friends than father and daughter.
That was a good thing, since I don’t think I could’ve handled the father-daughter dynamic. I mean, I already have a father, right? How can someone have two fathers? I mean, I know lots of people have a father and a step-father and manage just fine, but I’m not ready for two fathers. So we just talked and I told him a little about myself and I told him all about you and our life in Austin and how we want to have a baby. He didn’t flinch a bit when I told him about you, just took it in stride (well, in bed flat on his back) and smiled and nodded. He seemed especially interested in our plans to have a baby and told me to take all the blood I needed for DNA testing. So he was glad to meet me, and I was glad to meet him. But now he’s unconscious and there’s a storm brewing outside and it makes me fear the worst. Just nerves, I guess. We always want more, don’t we? I wanted to meet my birth mom. Once I met her, I wanted to get to know her better. Once I got to know her better, I wanted to see my birth father.
Once I got to see him, I wanted to talk to him. Once I got to talk to him, now I want to talk to him some more. I want him to live. I want him to get out of the bed and walk with me through his woods or in a park. I want him to bounce his grandson on his knee, see that he has his eyes, that funny lopsided grin. Odd how a quest to begin a life should put me beside a bed where a life is ending. It makes me all the more certain that I want to have a child, and that the baby should be from my egg, with my DNA. Josh may never know the baby but I’ll know him and see Josh in him every day. Why should I care so much about this, Bunkie? But I do. Two days ago, I didn’t know Josh existed; now I’d move heaven and earth to perpetuate his legacy. If Josh’s doctor could take me down the hall and plant that fertilized embryo with Josh’s DNA in my uterus right this minute, I’d do it. I’d do it.
You’re O.K. with that, aren’t you? I know it was always you pushing to have a kid and me dragging my feet and dreaming up all sorts of excuses. But now I want it, Bunkie, want it for all sorts of reasons I didn’t know existed before but now that I know them they seem all that matters. I know that these feelings may pass or certainly fade some. I know that Marty-shrink will have plenty to say about it and lots of questions and advice. I’m O.K. with that. We need that input. But I’m going to have this baby. Is that O.K., Dearest? You’ll still love me, right? With a new mother and a new father and a new need to have a baby with their DNA that is my DNA —you’re O.K. with that, right? It’s all O.K., right? I need you to tell me these new developments won’t make you stop loving me. It’s all still me. Just more. Dev Devon paused just a fraction of a second, then hit send, then looked up at the sleeping Josh. The tears she’d shed a few minutes earlier had dried on the back of her hands. She felt a surprising new resolve, the resolve of guardianship. It was strength enough to endure the violent storm that broke outside the window, and the shafts of tentative late sunlight that extended themselves like golden fingers in the storm’s sudden wind-whipped aftermath. For Josh it was like falling through a cloud of white feathers—that soft and slow and blinding.
One minute he was tasting Joan in his mouth, feeling her clutch of his revived penis; the next minute he was descending through this infinitely gentle, intimately proximate world of white, a white so bright with diffuse homogenized brilliant light that it should’ve been blinding but wasn’t, a light so powerful in its diffusion that Josh wondered if its source would be bearable, should he ever find it. But neither searching nor intention was available to him now. Gravity still worked, as he was falling downward, but gravity scaled back, like maybe the gravity on the moon (vividly recalled through the film of the Apollo astronauts bounding like slowmotion fluffy sheep across the lunarscape)—muted, more humane gravity.
And breathing seemed to work also—his released exhalations and slow inhalations the only sound, no hint of panic from the falling, no sign of fear at the close press of brilliant white. Then Josh knew that this was a script written by someone else, something else, a script in which he was both willing participant and coerced conscript, where he went along willingly in a proceeding that would’ve claimed him, volunteer or not. Josh saw it too as an age-old, eons-old proceeding in a place and a process that knew no time—no ages, or eons, or epochs; no future, no past: just one permanent blur of blinding white.
Tour of Pisa: the famous leaning tower of Italy
The tower of Pisa, called Torre di Pisa in Italian, is actually the bell tower of the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption of Pisa. This cathedral is more commonly known as the Duomo of Pisa.Torre di Pisa and the rest of the religious complex are listed as World Heritage by UNESCO.
Beyond its popularity due to the fact that the tower leans, it is also one of the most beautiful works of Tuscan Romanesque art. The tower was built with marble.
Before talking about the visit to the Tower of Pisa and sharing my advice to make the most of your visit, let's quickly talk about the history and the figures ...
Cathedral Of Milan: Infos For The Visit Of The Duomo Of Milan
The Duomo of Milan is, without a doubt, the most beautiful building in the city of Milan. The Milan dome is, in fact, the cathedral of Milan, which bears the full name of Cathedral of the Nativity of the Virgin Mary of Milan. It will be called Duomo or Milan Cathedral to make it simpler!
If you plan to visit Milan soon, it is for me the essential visit! In fact, I was not really in love with Milan. The city is quite nice, but other Italian cities are setting the bar high ...
However, in Milan, there is one exception, the Milan Dome! In fact, I was very impressed by the Milan Cathedral, which is also the third largest Christian building in the world!
Between the visit to the cathedral of Milan and the possibility of going to the terraces of the Duomo, this is clearly the most important visit to Milan.
In this post dedicated entirely to the Duomo of Milan, I share my advice for a successful visit to the Milan Cathedral and its terraces. What is the best time to visit the Milan Dome, how to avoid the queue with a fast-track ticket and many more tips to prepare your visit to the Duomo of Milan.
Then Sirona thought of Bryn. Her mother had also said he would die in the first battle he fought in. Had that prophecy also come true? The thought deepened her turmoil. Had she made a mistake when she encouraged him to go off and become a warrior? “What about Tarbelinus’s son?” she asked Kellach breathlessly. “Have you heard anything of him?” “As I understand it, he left the settlement many years ago, soon after you did. No one knows where he is.” Sirona’s mind raced. Bryn might still be alive... but his father was dead. She could scarce believe it. Tarbelinus had always seemed as strong and enduring as the timber walls of Mordarach itself. She raised her gaze to Kellach’s, dreading his response. “When the Romans attacked Mordarach and took Tarbelinus prisoner, what happened to the rest of the tribe?” “The Romans didn’t kill them, but made them a subject people. That way they can continue to produce wealth for the Romans to steal.” “What of the Tarisllwyth Learned Ones?” she asked. Kellach shrugged. “Fiach and the others were allowed to remain with the tribe.
But it’s not the same. The tribe’s connection to the gods has clearly been disrupted.” Kellach turned to Ruadan and began to detail more of the abuses of the enemy. Gradually, through her own grief and shock, Sirona started to understand. This man had come here to convince the Cunogwerin chieftain to join in the fight against the Romans. He was using the tale of what had happened to her people as a warning of what might happen to the northern tribes if they didn’t take action. Sirona felt a touch on her hand and turned to look into Dysri’s sympathetic gaze. Sirona nodded, feeling very glum. When her mother predicted Tarbelinus’s fate, she’d said the Tarisllwyth would be destroyed. At least that part of the prophecy hadn’t come true... yet. She turned her attention back to what Kellach was saying. “I’m traveling the whole width and breadth of Albion, warning our people that the time to stop the Romans is now. If we all band together, we can defeat them and drive them out of our territories.
An uprising is being planned by Boudica, queen of the Iceni. She intends to attack the Roman settlements in the eastern territories. She’s asking all the Pretani tribes to send warriors to aid her.” Kellach’s voice grew imploring. “What say you, Ruadan? Will you send men to fight the Romans? Will you consider joining this uprising?” “Life is difficult here in the north,” Ruadan said. “I can’t commit warriors to fighting an enemy we haven’t even seen.” “But you will see them, I vow it! The highland peoples thought the same as you, that there was safety in their isolation. But they were wrong, and now they are paying for their blindness.” Kellach shot a fierce glance at Sirona, as if asking her to confirm his words. After a moment, she nodded, and Kellach continued, his voice taut with conviction. “We must fight the Romans, all of us, everyone who bears a drop of Pretani blood. If we don’t, there will be no future for our people.” Ruadan still appeared dubious. “I can’t believe the Romans would ever come this far north. If they did, what would they steal from us? Our cattle? By the time they drove the animals into their territories, the beasts would be naught but skin and bones, worthless except for their hides.” He shook his head. “There’s nothing for the Romans here. They won’t trouble us.” Kellach made a sound of disgust. Then he seemed to realize such an attitude wouldn’t help sway Ruadan. He turned to Sirona. “What of you? Your home has been destroyed by the Romans.
Your people killed or subjugated. Doesn’t that distress you? Have you no desire to seek vengeance against the enemy?” Sirona had to admit she hated the Romans. She would never forget what they had done to Einion and Culhwch. But what did Kellach expect her to do? She wasn’t a warrior. How could she fight the enemy? Kellach rose abruptly. “I hope you will think on these things, Ruadan. Perhaps talk to your warriors about what I’ve said.” He motioned to Sirona. “Come, Sirona, walk with me.” She got to her feet. As they left the chieftain’s hut and moved through the settlement, she felt as if she were in a daze, her mind struggling to take in all that Kellach had told her. “Ruadan’s stubborn.” Kellach’s voice was bitter. “Like so many chieftains. They won’t listen until it’s too late.” He turned to Sirona. “Will you help me? Will you try to convince him to send warriors to fight the Romans?” “I have no influence with Ruadan.” “But these people respect you. No one questioned that you should be included in the discussion.” “The Learned Ones here don’t perform the same functions as the Drui of the southern tribes.
When there is a ceremony to mark one of the important events in the wheel of the seasons, it’s led by Ruadan, not Dysri or myself. Life for these people is harsh and demanding, and their religious rites have become simpler and more straight-forward. And yet, they are very devout,” she added, hoping she hadn’t given Kellach the wrong idea. “For every aspect of their lives, they give thanks to the gods, offering a sacrifice each time they slaughter one of the herd or kill a wild animal. They will not pass a spring or pool without whispering a blessing to the spirit that dwells there. In the ceremonies, they mostly honor Cernunnos, and Bran, a war god.” Kellach grunted. “If I were you, I would be angry not to be accorded more authority.” “I may not have much authority, but I’ve been treated very well. I’m not charged with the responsibilities most Brigante women have. I’m not required to spin or weave, to grind grain or work in the fields in the summer.” “And no man has asked to handfast with you, has he?” Kellach asked, his blue eyes shrewd. “Nay. But there’s no man here I desire.” They walked in silence for a time, then Kellach said, “Then there’s nothing keeping you here.
No reason you couldn’t leave.” He stopped and turned to look at her. “Do you still have visions, Sirona?” She hesitated, uneasy. How did he know this? Had Fiach told him? His gaze continued to pierce her. “Aye, I’ve heard the tale of what you did on the sacred isle. It doesn’t trouble me, but makes me think that my first impression of you was right—you’re very gifted.” Kellach drew nearer, his eyes seeming to burn with blue light. “Tell me. What do you see for our people? Will we defeat the Romans?” “I don’t know,” she said. “Things come to me only in glimpses.” Kellach started walking again. Sirona followed. His questions haunted her, reminding her how little she knew about her abilities and what she was meant to do with them. They reached the edge of the Brigante camp. Ahead of them stretched hills covered with the reddish glow of blooming bell heather and edged with dark forests. “Come with me,” Kellach said. Sirona looked at him in surprise. “When you travel north?” He shook his head. “I’ve decided to turn back. There’s no point going deeper into the midnight lands. If I can’t convince Ruadan of the Roman threat, I’ll fare no better with the other Brigante chieftains. I’ll go west instead. The people of your homeland are not so stupid and stubborn.
They will realize we must join together against this common threat.” “But why do you want me to go with you?” she asked. “If you think the Silure and Ordovice chieftains will heed you, why do you need me to come with you?” “Because you’re trained as a Learned One.” “But my training is incomplete,” she pointed out. “Yet it’s better than nothing.” Kellach gestured. “Why shouldn’t you leave here? This isn’t your tribe, your people. They accept you, but you’re not really one of them. You spoke of Bryn, Tarbelinus’s son. Perhaps if you came with me, you might find him. Or, the young man with whom you got into trouble on the sacred isle.” Kellach was clever. Astute enough to realize she might be convinced to go with him in order to search for the companions of her youth. Reluctantly, she thought of Cruthin and the magic they had shared at the mound on the sacred isle. Then she pushed the memory away. “Tell me about this Iceni queen,” she said. Kellach’s mouth quirked, as if he were amused she’d changed the subject. “Her name is Boudica. She and her family suffered terribly at the hands of the Romans, and she’s vowed revenge. She plans to lead a large army—as many men as I can bring to her cause—and attack the enemy’s eastern settlements.” Sirona thought of the red-haired, regal woman in one of her first visions.
The look of cruel satisfaction on the woman’s face was burned into her mind. “Have you met this woman, Boudica? Can you describe her?” Kellach’s expression grew intent. “Why do you ask? Have you seen a vision involving her?” “Perhaps.” “Tell me, in your vision, does it appear that Boudica and her forces are victorious?” Kellach’s voice was tense and breathless. His blue eyes bored into her as if he could will the Seeing from her mind to his own. “In my vision, I saw a tall, strong-looking red-haired woman. There was smoke and fire behind her, and I could hear the screams of the dying.” Kellach smiled. “So, it’s truly going to happen. This time we will prevail over the Romans.” Remembering her recent dream, Sirona wasn’t so certain. A destiny of death and destruction awaited someone, but she didn’t know if it was the Romans or the Pretani. Kellach seemed to sense her unease. “Consider this, Sirona. Even if the Tarisllwyth banished you, you still have a duty to your tribe. Now that Tarbelinus is dead, his son, Bryn, is needed at Mordarach. You also have responsibilities as a Learned One.
The Romans are a threat to all we stand for. Surely you must see that now.” “I’m no longer a Learned One,” she repeated. “And yet, you continue to look at the world as a Learned One would. That’s something that’s sorely needed.” Kellach was giving her another chance. He knew what had happened on the sacred isle, yet didn’t reject her because of it. She thought about the sense of isolation and loneliness that had gnawed at her since coming north. At one time she’d believed this was where she would find the answers she sought, but it hadn’t happened. Kellach continued his coaxing. “You could be a great help to me, Sirona. The number of Learned Ones has dwindled greatly. Your knowledge and insight are desperately needed. And then there is the fact that you’re a seer. I believe you’ve been sent these visions because you’re meant to use them to alter the future. Our future. The destiny of our people.” Kellach’s words tantalized her. To imagine there was a purpose behind the awful images. To believe that she might use her Seeings to help those she cared about. And yet she remembered Itzurra saying that involvement in the realm of men was what had destroyed her mother.
How could she prevent the same thing from happening to her? “I’ll have to think on it,” she told Kellach. “When are you leaving?” “Tomorrow. Now that I know Ruadan won’t listen, I’m impatient to leave.” Five turns of the seasons she had dwelled in the north, and nothing much happened. Now, in the span of a day, everything in her life seemed to have changed. “We should return to the settlement,” she told Kellach. “Ruadan may not listen to your pleas to join in fighting the Romans, but he will still hold a feast in your honor. The traditions of hospitality are strong here.” Kellach smiled at her. “I must admit I grow weary of traveling food. That’s one of the difficulties of the life I’ve chosen. But there are many rewards. I’ve met many different people on my journeys, and learned a great deal, more than I would have if I had stayed in the grove. I sense you are also searching for knowledge, Sirona. Which is another reason you should come with me.”
It is the second largest cathedral in the world after that of Seville.
and it is also the third largest place of Christian worship after the Basilica of San Pedro and the Cathedral of Seville.
To understand the impressive dimensions of the Milan dome, here are some figures:
Length: 158 meters
width: 93 meters
Height of the facade: 56.50 meters.
Maximum height: 108.50 meters.
The beginning of the construction of the Milan dome began towards the end of the 14th century, exactly in 1386. The construction of the cathedral spanned many decades. And even over several centuries ... Later in this post, I will return to some historical facts about the Milan Cathedral.
If you plan to visit Milan soon, it is for me the essential visit! In fact, I was not really in love with Milan. The city is quite nice, but other Italian cities are setting the bar high ...
However, in Milan, there is one exception, the Milan Dome! In fact, I was very impressed by the Milan Cathedral, which is also the third largest Christian building in the world!
Between the visit to the cathedral of Milan and the possibility of going to the terraces of the Duomo, this is clearly the most important visit to Milan.
In this post dedicated entirely to the Duomo of Milan, I share my advice for a successful visit to the Milan Cathedral and its terraces. What is the best time to visit the Milan Dome, how to avoid the queue with a fast-track ticket and many more tips to prepare your visit to the Duomo of Milan.
Then Sirona thought of Bryn. Her mother had also said he would die in the first battle he fought in. Had that prophecy also come true? The thought deepened her turmoil. Had she made a mistake when she encouraged him to go off and become a warrior? “What about Tarbelinus’s son?” she asked Kellach breathlessly. “Have you heard anything of him?” “As I understand it, he left the settlement many years ago, soon after you did. No one knows where he is.” Sirona’s mind raced. Bryn might still be alive... but his father was dead. She could scarce believe it. Tarbelinus had always seemed as strong and enduring as the timber walls of Mordarach itself. She raised her gaze to Kellach’s, dreading his response. “When the Romans attacked Mordarach and took Tarbelinus prisoner, what happened to the rest of the tribe?” “The Romans didn’t kill them, but made them a subject people. That way they can continue to produce wealth for the Romans to steal.” “What of the Tarisllwyth Learned Ones?” she asked. Kellach shrugged. “Fiach and the others were allowed to remain with the tribe.
But it’s not the same. The tribe’s connection to the gods has clearly been disrupted.” Kellach turned to Ruadan and began to detail more of the abuses of the enemy. Gradually, through her own grief and shock, Sirona started to understand. This man had come here to convince the Cunogwerin chieftain to join in the fight against the Romans. He was using the tale of what had happened to her people as a warning of what might happen to the northern tribes if they didn’t take action. Sirona felt a touch on her hand and turned to look into Dysri’s sympathetic gaze. Sirona nodded, feeling very glum. When her mother predicted Tarbelinus’s fate, she’d said the Tarisllwyth would be destroyed. At least that part of the prophecy hadn’t come true... yet. She turned her attention back to what Kellach was saying. “I’m traveling the whole width and breadth of Albion, warning our people that the time to stop the Romans is now. If we all band together, we can defeat them and drive them out of our territories.
An uprising is being planned by Boudica, queen of the Iceni. She intends to attack the Roman settlements in the eastern territories. She’s asking all the Pretani tribes to send warriors to aid her.” Kellach’s voice grew imploring. “What say you, Ruadan? Will you send men to fight the Romans? Will you consider joining this uprising?” “Life is difficult here in the north,” Ruadan said. “I can’t commit warriors to fighting an enemy we haven’t even seen.” “But you will see them, I vow it! The highland peoples thought the same as you, that there was safety in their isolation. But they were wrong, and now they are paying for their blindness.” Kellach shot a fierce glance at Sirona, as if asking her to confirm his words. After a moment, she nodded, and Kellach continued, his voice taut with conviction. “We must fight the Romans, all of us, everyone who bears a drop of Pretani blood. If we don’t, there will be no future for our people.” Ruadan still appeared dubious. “I can’t believe the Romans would ever come this far north. If they did, what would they steal from us? Our cattle? By the time they drove the animals into their territories, the beasts would be naught but skin and bones, worthless except for their hides.” He shook his head. “There’s nothing for the Romans here. They won’t trouble us.” Kellach made a sound of disgust. Then he seemed to realize such an attitude wouldn’t help sway Ruadan. He turned to Sirona. “What of you? Your home has been destroyed by the Romans.
Your people killed or subjugated. Doesn’t that distress you? Have you no desire to seek vengeance against the enemy?” Sirona had to admit she hated the Romans. She would never forget what they had done to Einion and Culhwch. But what did Kellach expect her to do? She wasn’t a warrior. How could she fight the enemy? Kellach rose abruptly. “I hope you will think on these things, Ruadan. Perhaps talk to your warriors about what I’ve said.” He motioned to Sirona. “Come, Sirona, walk with me.” She got to her feet. As they left the chieftain’s hut and moved through the settlement, she felt as if she were in a daze, her mind struggling to take in all that Kellach had told her. “Ruadan’s stubborn.” Kellach’s voice was bitter. “Like so many chieftains. They won’t listen until it’s too late.” He turned to Sirona. “Will you help me? Will you try to convince him to send warriors to fight the Romans?” “I have no influence with Ruadan.” “But these people respect you. No one questioned that you should be included in the discussion.” “The Learned Ones here don’t perform the same functions as the Drui of the southern tribes.
When there is a ceremony to mark one of the important events in the wheel of the seasons, it’s led by Ruadan, not Dysri or myself. Life for these people is harsh and demanding, and their religious rites have become simpler and more straight-forward. And yet, they are very devout,” she added, hoping she hadn’t given Kellach the wrong idea. “For every aspect of their lives, they give thanks to the gods, offering a sacrifice each time they slaughter one of the herd or kill a wild animal. They will not pass a spring or pool without whispering a blessing to the spirit that dwells there. In the ceremonies, they mostly honor Cernunnos, and Bran, a war god.” Kellach grunted. “If I were you, I would be angry not to be accorded more authority.” “I may not have much authority, but I’ve been treated very well. I’m not charged with the responsibilities most Brigante women have. I’m not required to spin or weave, to grind grain or work in the fields in the summer.” “And no man has asked to handfast with you, has he?” Kellach asked, his blue eyes shrewd. “Nay. But there’s no man here I desire.” They walked in silence for a time, then Kellach said, “Then there’s nothing keeping you here.
No reason you couldn’t leave.” He stopped and turned to look at her. “Do you still have visions, Sirona?” She hesitated, uneasy. How did he know this? Had Fiach told him? His gaze continued to pierce her. “Aye, I’ve heard the tale of what you did on the sacred isle. It doesn’t trouble me, but makes me think that my first impression of you was right—you’re very gifted.” Kellach drew nearer, his eyes seeming to burn with blue light. “Tell me. What do you see for our people? Will we defeat the Romans?” “I don’t know,” she said. “Things come to me only in glimpses.” Kellach started walking again. Sirona followed. His questions haunted her, reminding her how little she knew about her abilities and what she was meant to do with them. They reached the edge of the Brigante camp. Ahead of them stretched hills covered with the reddish glow of blooming bell heather and edged with dark forests. “Come with me,” Kellach said. Sirona looked at him in surprise. “When you travel north?” He shook his head. “I’ve decided to turn back. There’s no point going deeper into the midnight lands. If I can’t convince Ruadan of the Roman threat, I’ll fare no better with the other Brigante chieftains. I’ll go west instead. The people of your homeland are not so stupid and stubborn.
They will realize we must join together against this common threat.” “But why do you want me to go with you?” she asked. “If you think the Silure and Ordovice chieftains will heed you, why do you need me to come with you?” “Because you’re trained as a Learned One.” “But my training is incomplete,” she pointed out. “Yet it’s better than nothing.” Kellach gestured. “Why shouldn’t you leave here? This isn’t your tribe, your people. They accept you, but you’re not really one of them. You spoke of Bryn, Tarbelinus’s son. Perhaps if you came with me, you might find him. Or, the young man with whom you got into trouble on the sacred isle.” Kellach was clever. Astute enough to realize she might be convinced to go with him in order to search for the companions of her youth. Reluctantly, she thought of Cruthin and the magic they had shared at the mound on the sacred isle. Then she pushed the memory away. “Tell me about this Iceni queen,” she said. Kellach’s mouth quirked, as if he were amused she’d changed the subject. “Her name is Boudica. She and her family suffered terribly at the hands of the Romans, and she’s vowed revenge. She plans to lead a large army—as many men as I can bring to her cause—and attack the enemy’s eastern settlements.” Sirona thought of the red-haired, regal woman in one of her first visions.
The look of cruel satisfaction on the woman’s face was burned into her mind. “Have you met this woman, Boudica? Can you describe her?” Kellach’s expression grew intent. “Why do you ask? Have you seen a vision involving her?” “Perhaps.” “Tell me, in your vision, does it appear that Boudica and her forces are victorious?” Kellach’s voice was tense and breathless. His blue eyes bored into her as if he could will the Seeing from her mind to his own. “In my vision, I saw a tall, strong-looking red-haired woman. There was smoke and fire behind her, and I could hear the screams of the dying.” Kellach smiled. “So, it’s truly going to happen. This time we will prevail over the Romans.” Remembering her recent dream, Sirona wasn’t so certain. A destiny of death and destruction awaited someone, but she didn’t know if it was the Romans or the Pretani. Kellach seemed to sense her unease. “Consider this, Sirona. Even if the Tarisllwyth banished you, you still have a duty to your tribe. Now that Tarbelinus is dead, his son, Bryn, is needed at Mordarach. You also have responsibilities as a Learned One.
The Romans are a threat to all we stand for. Surely you must see that now.” “I’m no longer a Learned One,” she repeated. “And yet, you continue to look at the world as a Learned One would. That’s something that’s sorely needed.” Kellach was giving her another chance. He knew what had happened on the sacred isle, yet didn’t reject her because of it. She thought about the sense of isolation and loneliness that had gnawed at her since coming north. At one time she’d believed this was where she would find the answers she sought, but it hadn’t happened. Kellach continued his coaxing. “You could be a great help to me, Sirona. The number of Learned Ones has dwindled greatly. Your knowledge and insight are desperately needed. And then there is the fact that you’re a seer. I believe you’ve been sent these visions because you’re meant to use them to alter the future. Our future. The destiny of our people.” Kellach’s words tantalized her. To imagine there was a purpose behind the awful images. To believe that she might use her Seeings to help those she cared about. And yet she remembered Itzurra saying that involvement in the realm of men was what had destroyed her mother.
How could she prevent the same thing from happening to her? “I’ll have to think on it,” she told Kellach. “When are you leaving?” “Tomorrow. Now that I know Ruadan won’t listen, I’m impatient to leave.” Five turns of the seasons she had dwelled in the north, and nothing much happened. Now, in the span of a day, everything in her life seemed to have changed. “We should return to the settlement,” she told Kellach. “Ruadan may not listen to your pleas to join in fighting the Romans, but he will still hold a feast in your honor. The traditions of hospitality are strong here.” Kellach smiled at her. “I must admit I grow weary of traveling food. That’s one of the difficulties of the life I’ve chosen. But there are many rewards. I’ve met many different people on my journeys, and learned a great deal, more than I would have if I had stayed in the grove. I sense you are also searching for knowledge, Sirona. Which is another reason you should come with me.”
The Duomo or the Cathedral of Milan, the main building of the city!
The Duomo of Milan is the main building of the city, but it is also one of the largest Christian buildings in the world:It is the second largest cathedral in the world after that of Seville.
and it is also the third largest place of Christian worship after the Basilica of San Pedro and the Cathedral of Seville.
To understand the impressive dimensions of the Milan dome, here are some figures:
Length: 158 meters
width: 93 meters
Height of the facade: 56.50 meters.
Maximum height: 108.50 meters.
The beginning of the construction of the Milan dome began towards the end of the 14th century, exactly in 1386. The construction of the cathedral spanned many decades. And even over several centuries ... Later in this post, I will return to some historical facts about the Milan Cathedral.
Pass Rome: Roma Pass Or Omnia Card, Which Choose?
What happens for Rome to choose? Pass Rome or Omnia card? In Rome, the budget visit goes up quickly. Between the visits to the Coliseum, the Vatican and Villa Borghese, the prices of visits are quite high. Another concern in Rome are the queues to enter museums or monuments. But do not be scared, there are tickets to Rome to visit the city. Pass Rome or Omnia card, what tourist pass should I choose to visit Rome?
Rome Pass or Omnia Card, the question of the passage of the city to Rome inevitably arises. And especially when you realize that there are 2 visits to Rome ... And this is the reason for this comparative pass to visit Rome! This ticket will help you choose the sightseeing tour of Rome that will be best suited to your desire for discoveries ...
In fact, in this post, I compare the 2 tourist passes of Rome to help you choose the Omnia Card (buy on the web here) or the Roma Pass (to book online here) depending on what you expect to visit in Rome. I would tell you where to buy your pass for Rome with confidence on the Internet to avoid wasting time in the place. In summary, after reading this post, you must be unbeatable in the pass cards for Rome!
In this comparison about the past of Rome, I do not stop buying unit tickets because it is not the solution to adopt in my opinion. In fact, when buying individual tickets for each visit, you will pay more and you will have to queue at the most famous monuments of Rome (Vatican Museum, St. Peter's Basilica, Colosseum, Roman Forum in particular).
Buying a pass card for Rome is, therefore, in my opinion an obligation and not a simple option to consider. However, a real question arises: what Rome should choose?
“This is Angela Earl. I’ll be returning stateside soon as possible, whenever they can find me a spot on a transport. Hang in there. Thank you.” Devon saved the message, flipped the phone shut, and breathed a sigh of relief on Josh’s behalf. But no sooner had she breathed that sigh than a knot of anxiety began to form in her stomach at the prospect of meeting her half-sister, one more family member she’d not known she possessed. She took the last few steps into the kitchen. Laura looked round from gazing out the window. “Two cardinals have a nest in that camellia bush.” Devon walked over to look. “Just there.” Laura pointed to a bush not five feet beyond the glass.
As if on cue, a bright red cardinal appeared out of the leaves and flew off into the tree line at the edge of the lawn. “I think they’ve hatched. Either that, or he’s bringing food to the female while she sets.” Devon laughed. “Who says chivalry is dead?” “Probably food for the chicks.” “Probably.” “Speaking of food, the muffins will be ready in”—she checked the timer—“three minutes.” “Good. I’m suddenly starving.” “And Josh?” “He seemed fine. Sherri’s with him now.” “How’d it go?” “Oh, just your average everyday meet your gravely ill father for the first time at the age of thirty-six kind of encounter.” “That bad, huh?” Devon laughed. “No, that good. It went fine. He seems a kind and gentle man. In a different life, it would’ve been nice to know him sooner.” “He would’ve cherished you.” “I want to believe that,” Devon said. “But how do you know?” The oven timer dinged at just that moment. Both women jumped at the sound. Laura turned to the oven and used two potholders to remove the pan full of golden brown, perfectly shaped muffins. She set the pan on a cooling rack on the counter beside the oven then put the potholders back in their drawer. Devon watched her mother, waiting for her to finish her task. When Laura finally turned, Devon said, “The muffins look beautiful and smell great. I wouldn’t have guessed you were a baker.” “I’m not, anymore. This is a throw-back to a long, long time ago.”
Devon nodded toward the muffins. “Looks like you haven’t lost your touch.” “We’ll give them a few minutes to cool.” “I can wait.” “And for an answer to your previous question?” Laura asked. “Preferably not another thirty-six years.” “Don’t worry about that. I doubt I’ll last that long.” “Then how about now?” Laura nodded. “Please sit, dear.” She pulled out a chair from the table. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” “Coffee’d be great. It’s the fuel I run on at work.” Laura poured her a cup and brought it on a mismatched saucer. She brought milk in a small pottery pitcher, sugar in a shallow bowl, and a teaspoon for stirring. She then carefully pried three muffins out of the pan and set them on a bread plate and placed the plate in front of Devon. “Be careful. They’re still hot.” Devon said, “You must think I have the appetite of a field hand.” “Don’t you—after the night and the morning you’ve had?” Devon thought about that. “I just might.” She stirred a little milk into her coffee then slowly sipped it. “Ahh, awake at last.” “From this long dream.”
“Which the dream, which the reality?” Laura shrugged. “All a blur to me.” “You think it’ll ever come in focus again?” “If an infant has one weak eye, they cover the good one.” “And the blurry one learns to focus,” Devon finished. Laura shrugged. “We can hope.” She sat opposite Devon. She twirled her empty cup slowly on the table and stared at it as if it might hold the answers to all her questions, or at least sort out the current pain and uncertainty. “Josh was the ultimate romantic. If he’d got one look at you, newborn and helpless and cute as a button, he would have grabbed hold of you and never let go, defending you against all dangers, known and unknown.” “But the world would’ve won, worn him down?” “No, I don’t think so. Josh’s supply of romantic delusion was bottomless back then, at least far as I could tell.
The world might’ve tried to wear him down, but the world had met few rivals as determined as Josh.” “Then why didn’t you let him have me?” “Early on, I thought it might be spite—that if I wasn’t strong enough to raise you, I didn’t want him to have the chance. He certainly would’ve accused me of that, had he known. But once I was fully clear of his deeply rooted influence, I realized that I didn’t want to put you—or, for that matter, Josh—through what he and I had paid such a high price to learn.” Devon looked confused. “The world doesn’t break Josh, never has. It’s the object of his obsession that gets worn down and ultimately rebels. Sooner or later, that would’ve happened to you. It would’ve been hard on you; it might’ve killed Josh.” “So you spared us both?” “That’s what I came to think, when I thought about it at all—which wasn’t often, for obvious reasons.” “Then I suppose I should thank you.” “Not for that, Devon.” “Then for these incredible muffins!” She had just finished her second and was taking the paper wrapper off the third. “Those thanks I’ll accept with joy.” “Good.” She nibbled on the still warm muffin. “Oh, Angie’s coming, left a message this morning.” “You talked to her?” “Late last night, then she left a follow-up message when I was in with Josh and had my phone off.” “When will she arrive?” “She doesn’t know—something about waiting for space on a transport plane. But she’s coming.” “Good.” “You think we should tell Josh?” “Why not?” “What if she changes her mind? I just don’t want him hurt.” Laura smiled. “I hope I’m lucky enough to have you guarding me when I’m old.” “Don’t worry. I will.” “Promise?” Devon raised her eyes from finishing off the final muffin and gazed straight at her new-found mother. “Of course.” The two women sat in the spreading light and growing warmth of the inexorable spring morning.
Angie pulled out a paperback she kept handy for just such slow spells—Madame Bovary this time, her third reading of the novel. She sat beside an unconscious soldier on a gurney waiting for an evac chopper. He’d slipped while disembarking from a personnel carrier during a raid and his ankle got crushed as the ramp started to close. They’d immobilized his lower leg, pumped him full of morphine and antibiotics, and prepped him for transfer to Germany for possible reconstruction or amputation. Now all he needed was a chopper to carry him to the airport for the flight to Ramstein, but the choppers were all dispatched to a bombing site north of Baghdad. So Angie waited with the injured soldier in the quiet hospital tent, reading Madame Bovary. “She was doomed from the start,” he said. Angie jumped at the words.
The soldier was staring at her, clear-eyed and clearly awake. “Who was doomed?” “Emma Bovary. She expected too much.” “Of whom? Charles? Rodolphe?” “Of life. It’s a dangerous thing.” Angie was now more confused than startled. “What’s dangerous—life?” “Expectations.” “Better to have none?” “Yes.” “But what of hopes? What of dreams?” “‘Smoke before wind’ at best, a terminal cancer at worst. Emma had the worst kind.” Angie lowered her book and studied her calm patient. She was amazed he was conscious, let alone coherent. She quickly checked his IV drips—they were all open and flowing. “Are you all right?” “My ankle’s been better.” “I mean pain. Are you in pain?” “Been through worse.” “Can I get you anything?” “I’m fine for now. Just don’t leave.” “We’re waiting for evac. I’m not going anywhere till they arrive.” “Good.” The soldier closed his eyes. Angie studied his face. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen or twenty—he still had an adolescent softness to his cheeks and chin. He might one day grow into handsomeness, if his face could negotiate the transition to adulthood. She took a towel from the gurney and gently wiped a drop of sweat from his left temple. He opened his eyes at the touch of the towel and nodded thanks. “This morning I still expected to be an Olympic skier.” He spoke the words with a clinical detachment. “Still could be.” He offered her a beautiful smile, the brightest thing in the room at that moment. “Thanks for saying so, but you and I know that Olympic skiing is not in my future anymore.
Thing is, I now realize it was never a realistic expectation. But it took God to put the hammer down on that expectation this morning.” “God?” “How else do you explain this?” He nodded toward his leg elevated on pillows under the sheet. “An accident.” “Not this time. God needed to shake me free of futile expectation.” “To what end?” “Well, I guess that’s the fun part—now I need to figure that out.” “And just how do you do that?” “Pick up the pieces you’re given, put them together best you can.” “When’d you get so smart?” “This morning around 11:20 Baghdad time.” “Steep price to pay.” “Cheap, compared to years or decades chasing phantom dreams.” Angie gazed at his face that’d seemed to age under her watch. “Then again,” he added, “might just be these high-dollar drugs you’re pumping into me.” He again flashed that incredible smile. “Never worked like this on anyone else.” “First time for everything.” He closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillow. “Please don’t leave.” Angie said, “I won’t.” He slid his left hand out from under the sheet and to the edge of the gurney, just beneath the lowest side rail. She reached out and accepted his grasp, a mutual gift. “Don’t talk about the first thing that pops up,” Josh joked as Sherri began his sponge bath by focusing on his groin region. She’d finally removed that uncomfortable catheter and was taking full advantage of this renewed access to his penis and scrotum. She scrubbed gently but firmly with her sponge dipped in warm, soapy water.
Drops of water leaked out of the sponge and trickled down over his inner thighs and testicles and anus to the thick towel she’d doubled up under his butt. “I’ll give it a workout, if you wish,” Sherri countered. “Probably could use the exercise.” “No ‘if you wish’ about it,” Josh said. “That soldier marches to the beat of his own drummer.” Sherri nodded. “So I’ve observed.” As if on cue, Josh’s half-tumescent penis flexed once and rolled to one side, then didn’t move again. Sherri sponged the spot it had vacated then continued her bathing gently down over his thighs and hips, every few seconds pausing to dip the sponge in the basin and squeezing out the excess water before continuing her scrubbing.
Josh closed his eyes and seamlessly set his mind to drift on the prevailing breezes of semi-consciousness. Not surprisingly, those breezes carried his mind to the hands of all the women that had massaged his nakedness—whether in love or lust or a desperate need only they knew—over the course of his life. It wasn’t a particularly long list, at least for a man of his generation and socio-cultural background—perhaps twenty or so women in all, though he’d never tried to establish an exact tally. Some of the massages had been of the one-night-stand variety—little more (or less) than furious gropes and probes and releases in bar-room toilet stalls, house-party guestrooms, motel beds.
The Roma Pass, an interesting pass from Rome but does not include the Vatican (book here at the rate of 39 euros for the Rome Pass 72 hours)
The Omnia card, the most complete pass in Rome that includes the Roma Pass pass + full access to all Vatican sites (to reserve here)
In the next part of this post, I talk to you in detail about these 2 passes in Rome to guide you in the best choice of your pass to visit Rome. Also, I tell you where to buy your tourist pass for Rome at the best price.
Rome Pass or Omnia Card, the question of the passage of the city to Rome inevitably arises. And especially when you realize that there are 2 visits to Rome ... And this is the reason for this comparative pass to visit Rome! This ticket will help you choose the sightseeing tour of Rome that will be best suited to your desire for discoveries ...
In fact, in this post, I compare the 2 tourist passes of Rome to help you choose the Omnia Card (buy on the web here) or the Roma Pass (to book online here) depending on what you expect to visit in Rome. I would tell you where to buy your pass for Rome with confidence on the Internet to avoid wasting time in the place. In summary, after reading this post, you must be unbeatable in the pass cards for Rome!
Rome Pass: 2 different passes of the city to visit Rome
For your cultural visits to Rome, it is possible to opt for the purchase of individual tickets for each visit / monument or acquire a pass from the city to Rome.In this comparison about the past of Rome, I do not stop buying unit tickets because it is not the solution to adopt in my opinion. In fact, when buying individual tickets for each visit, you will pay more and you will have to queue at the most famous monuments of Rome (Vatican Museum, St. Peter's Basilica, Colosseum, Roman Forum in particular).
Buying a pass card for Rome is, therefore, in my opinion an obligation and not a simple option to consider. However, a real question arises: what Rome should choose?
“This is Angela Earl. I’ll be returning stateside soon as possible, whenever they can find me a spot on a transport. Hang in there. Thank you.” Devon saved the message, flipped the phone shut, and breathed a sigh of relief on Josh’s behalf. But no sooner had she breathed that sigh than a knot of anxiety began to form in her stomach at the prospect of meeting her half-sister, one more family member she’d not known she possessed. She took the last few steps into the kitchen. Laura looked round from gazing out the window. “Two cardinals have a nest in that camellia bush.” Devon walked over to look. “Just there.” Laura pointed to a bush not five feet beyond the glass.
As if on cue, a bright red cardinal appeared out of the leaves and flew off into the tree line at the edge of the lawn. “I think they’ve hatched. Either that, or he’s bringing food to the female while she sets.” Devon laughed. “Who says chivalry is dead?” “Probably food for the chicks.” “Probably.” “Speaking of food, the muffins will be ready in”—she checked the timer—“three minutes.” “Good. I’m suddenly starving.” “And Josh?” “He seemed fine. Sherri’s with him now.” “How’d it go?” “Oh, just your average everyday meet your gravely ill father for the first time at the age of thirty-six kind of encounter.” “That bad, huh?” Devon laughed. “No, that good. It went fine. He seems a kind and gentle man. In a different life, it would’ve been nice to know him sooner.” “He would’ve cherished you.” “I want to believe that,” Devon said. “But how do you know?” The oven timer dinged at just that moment. Both women jumped at the sound. Laura turned to the oven and used two potholders to remove the pan full of golden brown, perfectly shaped muffins. She set the pan on a cooling rack on the counter beside the oven then put the potholders back in their drawer. Devon watched her mother, waiting for her to finish her task. When Laura finally turned, Devon said, “The muffins look beautiful and smell great. I wouldn’t have guessed you were a baker.” “I’m not, anymore. This is a throw-back to a long, long time ago.”
Devon nodded toward the muffins. “Looks like you haven’t lost your touch.” “We’ll give them a few minutes to cool.” “I can wait.” “And for an answer to your previous question?” Laura asked. “Preferably not another thirty-six years.” “Don’t worry about that. I doubt I’ll last that long.” “Then how about now?” Laura nodded. “Please sit, dear.” She pulled out a chair from the table. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” “Coffee’d be great. It’s the fuel I run on at work.” Laura poured her a cup and brought it on a mismatched saucer. She brought milk in a small pottery pitcher, sugar in a shallow bowl, and a teaspoon for stirring. She then carefully pried three muffins out of the pan and set them on a bread plate and placed the plate in front of Devon. “Be careful. They’re still hot.” Devon said, “You must think I have the appetite of a field hand.” “Don’t you—after the night and the morning you’ve had?” Devon thought about that. “I just might.” She stirred a little milk into her coffee then slowly sipped it. “Ahh, awake at last.” “From this long dream.”
“Which the dream, which the reality?” Laura shrugged. “All a blur to me.” “You think it’ll ever come in focus again?” “If an infant has one weak eye, they cover the good one.” “And the blurry one learns to focus,” Devon finished. Laura shrugged. “We can hope.” She sat opposite Devon. She twirled her empty cup slowly on the table and stared at it as if it might hold the answers to all her questions, or at least sort out the current pain and uncertainty. “Josh was the ultimate romantic. If he’d got one look at you, newborn and helpless and cute as a button, he would have grabbed hold of you and never let go, defending you against all dangers, known and unknown.” “But the world would’ve won, worn him down?” “No, I don’t think so. Josh’s supply of romantic delusion was bottomless back then, at least far as I could tell.
The world might’ve tried to wear him down, but the world had met few rivals as determined as Josh.” “Then why didn’t you let him have me?” “Early on, I thought it might be spite—that if I wasn’t strong enough to raise you, I didn’t want him to have the chance. He certainly would’ve accused me of that, had he known. But once I was fully clear of his deeply rooted influence, I realized that I didn’t want to put you—or, for that matter, Josh—through what he and I had paid such a high price to learn.” Devon looked confused. “The world doesn’t break Josh, never has. It’s the object of his obsession that gets worn down and ultimately rebels. Sooner or later, that would’ve happened to you. It would’ve been hard on you; it might’ve killed Josh.” “So you spared us both?” “That’s what I came to think, when I thought about it at all—which wasn’t often, for obvious reasons.” “Then I suppose I should thank you.” “Not for that, Devon.” “Then for these incredible muffins!” She had just finished her second and was taking the paper wrapper off the third. “Those thanks I’ll accept with joy.” “Good.” She nibbled on the still warm muffin. “Oh, Angie’s coming, left a message this morning.” “You talked to her?” “Late last night, then she left a follow-up message when I was in with Josh and had my phone off.” “When will she arrive?” “She doesn’t know—something about waiting for space on a transport plane. But she’s coming.” “Good.” “You think we should tell Josh?” “Why not?” “What if she changes her mind? I just don’t want him hurt.” Laura smiled. “I hope I’m lucky enough to have you guarding me when I’m old.” “Don’t worry. I will.” “Promise?” Devon raised her eyes from finishing off the final muffin and gazed straight at her new-found mother. “Of course.” The two women sat in the spreading light and growing warmth of the inexorable spring morning.
Angie pulled out a paperback she kept handy for just such slow spells—Madame Bovary this time, her third reading of the novel. She sat beside an unconscious soldier on a gurney waiting for an evac chopper. He’d slipped while disembarking from a personnel carrier during a raid and his ankle got crushed as the ramp started to close. They’d immobilized his lower leg, pumped him full of morphine and antibiotics, and prepped him for transfer to Germany for possible reconstruction or amputation. Now all he needed was a chopper to carry him to the airport for the flight to Ramstein, but the choppers were all dispatched to a bombing site north of Baghdad. So Angie waited with the injured soldier in the quiet hospital tent, reading Madame Bovary. “She was doomed from the start,” he said. Angie jumped at the words.
The soldier was staring at her, clear-eyed and clearly awake. “Who was doomed?” “Emma Bovary. She expected too much.” “Of whom? Charles? Rodolphe?” “Of life. It’s a dangerous thing.” Angie was now more confused than startled. “What’s dangerous—life?” “Expectations.” “Better to have none?” “Yes.” “But what of hopes? What of dreams?” “‘Smoke before wind’ at best, a terminal cancer at worst. Emma had the worst kind.” Angie lowered her book and studied her calm patient. She was amazed he was conscious, let alone coherent. She quickly checked his IV drips—they were all open and flowing. “Are you all right?” “My ankle’s been better.” “I mean pain. Are you in pain?” “Been through worse.” “Can I get you anything?” “I’m fine for now. Just don’t leave.” “We’re waiting for evac. I’m not going anywhere till they arrive.” “Good.” The soldier closed his eyes. Angie studied his face. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen or twenty—he still had an adolescent softness to his cheeks and chin. He might one day grow into handsomeness, if his face could negotiate the transition to adulthood. She took a towel from the gurney and gently wiped a drop of sweat from his left temple. He opened his eyes at the touch of the towel and nodded thanks. “This morning I still expected to be an Olympic skier.” He spoke the words with a clinical detachment. “Still could be.” He offered her a beautiful smile, the brightest thing in the room at that moment. “Thanks for saying so, but you and I know that Olympic skiing is not in my future anymore.
Thing is, I now realize it was never a realistic expectation. But it took God to put the hammer down on that expectation this morning.” “God?” “How else do you explain this?” He nodded toward his leg elevated on pillows under the sheet. “An accident.” “Not this time. God needed to shake me free of futile expectation.” “To what end?” “Well, I guess that’s the fun part—now I need to figure that out.” “And just how do you do that?” “Pick up the pieces you’re given, put them together best you can.” “When’d you get so smart?” “This morning around 11:20 Baghdad time.” “Steep price to pay.” “Cheap, compared to years or decades chasing phantom dreams.” Angie gazed at his face that’d seemed to age under her watch. “Then again,” he added, “might just be these high-dollar drugs you’re pumping into me.” He again flashed that incredible smile. “Never worked like this on anyone else.” “First time for everything.” He closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillow. “Please don’t leave.” Angie said, “I won’t.” He slid his left hand out from under the sheet and to the edge of the gurney, just beneath the lowest side rail. She reached out and accepted his grasp, a mutual gift. “Don’t talk about the first thing that pops up,” Josh joked as Sherri began his sponge bath by focusing on his groin region. She’d finally removed that uncomfortable catheter and was taking full advantage of this renewed access to his penis and scrotum. She scrubbed gently but firmly with her sponge dipped in warm, soapy water.
Drops of water leaked out of the sponge and trickled down over his inner thighs and testicles and anus to the thick towel she’d doubled up under his butt. “I’ll give it a workout, if you wish,” Sherri countered. “Probably could use the exercise.” “No ‘if you wish’ about it,” Josh said. “That soldier marches to the beat of his own drummer.” Sherri nodded. “So I’ve observed.” As if on cue, Josh’s half-tumescent penis flexed once and rolled to one side, then didn’t move again. Sherri sponged the spot it had vacated then continued her bathing gently down over his thighs and hips, every few seconds pausing to dip the sponge in the basin and squeezing out the excess water before continuing her scrubbing.
Josh closed his eyes and seamlessly set his mind to drift on the prevailing breezes of semi-consciousness. Not surprisingly, those breezes carried his mind to the hands of all the women that had massaged his nakedness—whether in love or lust or a desperate need only they knew—over the course of his life. It wasn’t a particularly long list, at least for a man of his generation and socio-cultural background—perhaps twenty or so women in all, though he’d never tried to establish an exact tally. Some of the massages had been of the one-night-stand variety—little more (or less) than furious gropes and probes and releases in bar-room toilet stalls, house-party guestrooms, motel beds.
In fact, there are 2 visits to Rome:
The Roma Pass, an interesting pass from Rome but does not include the Vatican (book here at the rate of 39 euros for the Rome Pass 72 hours)
The Omnia card, the most complete pass in Rome that includes the Roma Pass pass + full access to all Vatican sites (to reserve here)
In the next part of this post, I talk to you in detail about these 2 passes in Rome to guide you in the best choice of your pass to visit Rome. Also, I tell you where to buy your tourist pass for Rome at the best price.
Visit Pisa: What To Do In Pie In A Day!
Visiting Pisa is often reduced to visiting its famous leaning tower. However, this city of Tuscany has other assets. Although it can not compete with its famous neighbor Florence, visiting Pisa can easily last one day.
Spending a whole day in Pisa during a stay in Tuscany seems like a good idea. The historic center of Pisa is quite pleasant and clearly less touristy than Florence, for example.
What to do in Pisa Following this publication, I give you some ideas of visits to Pisa, but also some good plans to visit Pisa in one day!
The real name of the tower of Pisa is actually the bell tower of the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption of Pisa (Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta in Italian). This cathedral is sometimes called the Duomo of Pisa.
It was a condition she’d accepted all too readily. She retrieved her duffel from the backseat and closed the door. With the dome light out, new dark ensued but Angie didn’t feel threatened.
The lights in the house were adequate beacon; and off to the east, beyond the row of tall pines, dawn steadily approached. She walked across the parking area, down the steps to the front walk. She was in her Army fatigues and standard-issue boots. The attire was comfortable enough, and she’d grown used to it these past three months, but it felt awkward and out-of-place in this North Carolina setting. She wished she’d taken time to change back at the Air Station but too late now. She shortened her stride in an attempt to quiet her noisy footsteps. At the bottom of the steps up to the landing beside the kitchen door, she set her duffel down and reached up under the band to the deck. She hoped it was still too early for copperheads to be active, and she recalled the shiny black spider with the red hourglass on its thorax she’d brought cupped in her hands to her mother as a Mayday present when she was six.
Benign nature had left her unharmed then; she could risk trust in it again now. She counted the joists with her fingers—one, two, three—then reached up to the top of the fourth. Sure enough, there it was—the door key hanging on its nail all these years later. It felt cool and smooth—no rust evident to the touch—as she lifted it off the nail. She unlocked the deadbolt, opened the door, and stepped silently into the dimly lit kitchen. The room felt warm as an incubator after the brittle outdoors; the air was moist and close. Her nurse’s training made her wonder if fear or anxiety had caused her adrenal gland to secrete adrenaline into her bloodstream, raising her heart rate and blood pressure, and in turn causing her to feel hot and sweaty. But a secondary analysis of her body’s vitals assured her that her pulse and pressure were normal, her breathing calm. It was the room, not her, that was very warm, warm and humid after the chill dark. She set her duffel to the side under the coat hooks then turned to head down the darkened hallway toward the faint light emanating from the bedroom. Halfway there, in the darkest spot between the kitchen and the bedroom light, just in front of the coat closet that had been converted into storage for board games and athletic gear, her physiology did have a reaction to her heightened emotional state, only the opposite of the one she’d contemplated moments earlier—her blood pressure plummeted, her heart rate slowed, and her skin was suddenly cold and clammy.
She felt light-headed and would’ve hit the floor with a thud if her hand hadn’t reached out and found the closet door’s knob to steady her. Using the knob as a crutch and tether, she slowly lowered herself to the floor then leaned against the wall, raised her knees to her chest, and lowered her head between her knees so that it was below the level of her heart. She closed her eyes and waited for the blood to return to her brain. “It’ll be O.K.” a voice whispered. Angie tensed at the words but didn’t raise her head or open her eyes. “You didn’t think I’d let you walk in there alone, did you?” “Mom?” Angie wondered if she’d spoken the word or just thought it. “Darling.” “This is the last place I thought I’d find you.” “More likely the Iraqi desert or the Trauma Center?” “So much pain here for you—the betrayal.” “For you, dear; I go where you need me.” “Even if it hurts?” “It doesn’t hurt me anymore—maybe once, not now.” “Why not? He betrayed you!” “Two answers, dear—one, I’m beyond hurt here; two, being beyond hurt allows me to see that he didn’t betray me, he didn’t betray you, he betrayed himself. More specifically, his body betrayed his heart. I’m sorry for him and I’ve told him so, or at least tried.” “His body?” “His body needed Joan, needed her body—her feel, her scent, her breath, her taste —since the day he was conceived.
Once he stumbled on her, he could’ve no more resisted her than a starving child could turn away from a sumptuous banquet.” “He could’ve chosen not to.” “No.” “He could’ve tried.” “Oh, he tried; Lord knows he tried. He took cold showers, freezing cold; he took hot showers. He hit the porno shops and the strip clubs and the Internet sites. He took long walks into the woods and howled at the moon, the sun. He screamed into his pillow in the night, bit his pillow, gnawed his hand, his arm. He tried every way he could. It didn’t work.” “How do you know?” “That’s the good thing about here—you know everything about those you love. But on this one point, I have to admit I knew it then, while it was happening.” “And you didn’t stop it?” “I couldn’t, no more than Josh could. But at least he tried. I didn’t even try, and I’m sorry for that. Even knowing it wouldn’t have worked, I still should’ve tried.” “Why didn’t you?” “I was scared.
There was this yawning hole of need at the center of Josh that I discovered early on that I had no chance of filling. I was frightened by his need and shamed by my inability to meet it. I guess I gambled that Joan might fill that void and still leave me the parts of Josh I loved and needed.” “Some gamble.” “A foolish bet, in retrospect; but one I freely chose. But I never considered the risk to you. That was my fault, my selfishness. I should’ve weighed the risk to you and done something, anything, to spare you that hurt.” Angie could only agree. “Yes.” “I’m sorry, darling.” “We all are.” “Josh most of all.” “You know?” “I know. He’s paid, many times over. Forgive him.” “Is there time?” “Enough.” Angie opened her eyes and raised her head. Blood throbbed in her ears. The hall was perceptibly brighter though still locked in gray pre-dawn. Directly across from where she sat, a few feet above on the wall, a framed portrait photo of the three of them stared down at her. Even in the dim light, she could see the images. Far as she knew, it was the last photo ever taken of the three of them together.
They all looked so calm, relaxed, and happy. Laura’s eyes were locked on Angie like some majestic hawk—high up in the tree surveying the whole countryside with regal detachment and assurance before focusing all her attention on this new entrant—as she pushed open the ajar door to her parents’ bedroom. Angie stood in the doorway looking calmly at Laura seated in the chair with the nightstand light on behind her. Then she redirected her gaze to the slight figure lying in the bed and wondered if that pale, wizened old man were really her father. Seeing that helpless figure caused her to redefine Laura’s intense glare as protective rather than aloof. “I figured you as resourceful,” Laura said quietly but firmly, “but I didn’t know the half of it. Must be your father in you.”
Angie tilted her head in silent question. “Maybe your mother too,” Laura added quickly. “I can’t speak to that. But your father was the most resourceful person I ever knew. You wanted something done, give him the task. He’d find a way, whatever it took.” Angie noted her persistent use of the past tense but temporarily balked at its meaning. “Still?” Laura smiled. The expression did wonders for her face. “We’re here, aren’t we?” Angie nodded. “But is he?” Laura took Josh’s near cool wrist in her fingers and waited for a pulse. It arrived after a long pause, barely perceptible, more an echo of life than life itself. She nodded. “Yes,” then added, “But I don’t know that he’ll come back from this one.” This one what? Angie wondered—this crisis, this coma, this infection, this dream, this sleep, this what? Her nurse’s training wanted an immediate diagnosis, prognosis, and treatment regimen. Time was wasting—she needed to act, not watch. Her legs began to wobble.
Laura stood quickly, caught Angie around the waist, and guided her into the bedside chair she’d just occupied. “Drink some of this,” she said and raised her can of cola to Angie’s nearly blue lips. Angie took a sip or two then sat back in the chair. “Thanks. Long night.” “For us all,” she said, glancing at Josh as she set the soft-drink can on the nightstand. Angie followed Laura’s gaze to her father. The sight of him so radically changed from her last image of him cut her deeply, deeper than she’d ever been cut or thought she could be. So this is it, she thought. This is the reckoning. Laura squatted in front of Angie, reached up and gently turned Angie’s gaze from Josh to her. “I’m Laura, in case you didn’t know; Josh’s first wife.” Angie nodded but said nothing. “Devon, Josh’s other daughter, is asleep down the hall. And Sherri, the home nurse, is asleep in the guestroom. He’s been well cared for.” “I can see that.” “We had the sensors on him, but he made us take them off the last time he was conscious.” “When was that?” “Yesterday morning.” “So we’re flying blind.” It was a statement, not a question. As a nurse— particularly one less than a day removed from service in Iraq, one huge testing ground for the latest in diagnostic technologies—this absence of even the most basic of patient data seemed almost criminally negligent. Laura noted her objection and understood, at least in a general way, its origins.
But she chose to avoid direct confrontation. “He’s flying—well, somewhere. I almost said ‘home,’ but realized this is his home. This is where he wanted to be; this is where he wanted to die. He called me here from California to help guarantee that he died here at home—no hospital equipment, no strangers hovering, no extraordinary measures or lastditch heroic stands. He wanted—.” She paused then corrected herself. “He wants to die at home.” Angie, her blood pressure and heart rate stabilized by the dose of cola and caffeine and her seated posture, looked first to her father then to Laura and nodded silent assent—she’d not made herself available for any of the decision-making; she’d not question or try to undo any of those choices now (too late anyway, she could clearly see). She recalled returning to base from a briefing in Baghdad when the Humvee she was riding in came on the aftermath of a recent bombing. She jumped out and focused on an unconscious Marine being cradled in the lap of a buddy. At first glance, except for being unconscious, the Marine showed no visible injuries. She bent down to begin providing care when the buddy pointed a pistol at her and gestured for her to step back. Tears streamed down the pistol-waver’s dusty face.
She protested firmly, said the man (no more than a boy, really—maybe nineteen or twenty) needed immediate medical attention and that she was a nurse (in case he didn’t recognize her regiment’s medical insignia on her uniform) and trained in battlefield trauma care. Still, the protector wouldn’t relent, kept the pistol drawn and pointed loosely in her direction. She was about to turn and try to find help in subduing this clearly shocked guardian when the unconscious soldier released an awful groan from his core, tensed from head to toe, then fell limp. The guardian took a deep breath, wiped the tears from his face with the sleeve of his free arm, lowered the pistol, and said, “You can have him now
Of course, it is possible to climb to the top of the tower of Pisa. The tower can be visited every day of the week. You can imagine, given the fame of the tower, there is a crowd, especially in high season! To avoid waiting to buy your tickets (and potentially for the visit), it is easier to book your ticket to the Leaning Tower online. You just have to choose a time interval and go to the tower of Pisa to climb to the top without having to queue ... Practice!
The tower of Pisa is still quite impressive. I did not imagine that she was so inclined! Although it is hyper-touristy and is a small cliché, visiting the tower of Pisa is one of the things to do in Pisa.
Spending a whole day in Pisa during a stay in Tuscany seems like a good idea. The historic center of Pisa is quite pleasant and clearly less touristy than Florence, for example.
What to do in Pisa Following this publication, I give you some ideas of visits to Pisa, but also some good plans to visit Pisa in one day!
What to do in Pisa: Visit the famous tour of Pisa!
Impossible to visit Pisa without going, at least, at the foot of the famous tower of Pisa (Torre di Pisa in Italian). Even if the tower of Pisa is one of those places in the world that one has the impression of knowing even before going there, it is clearly a necessary step when one is in Pisa for the first time. time!The real name of the tower of Pisa is actually the bell tower of the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Assumption of Pisa (Cattedrale di Santa Maria Assunta in Italian). This cathedral is sometimes called the Duomo of Pisa.
It was a condition she’d accepted all too readily. She retrieved her duffel from the backseat and closed the door. With the dome light out, new dark ensued but Angie didn’t feel threatened.
The lights in the house were adequate beacon; and off to the east, beyond the row of tall pines, dawn steadily approached. She walked across the parking area, down the steps to the front walk. She was in her Army fatigues and standard-issue boots. The attire was comfortable enough, and she’d grown used to it these past three months, but it felt awkward and out-of-place in this North Carolina setting. She wished she’d taken time to change back at the Air Station but too late now. She shortened her stride in an attempt to quiet her noisy footsteps. At the bottom of the steps up to the landing beside the kitchen door, she set her duffel down and reached up under the band to the deck. She hoped it was still too early for copperheads to be active, and she recalled the shiny black spider with the red hourglass on its thorax she’d brought cupped in her hands to her mother as a Mayday present when she was six.
Benign nature had left her unharmed then; she could risk trust in it again now. She counted the joists with her fingers—one, two, three—then reached up to the top of the fourth. Sure enough, there it was—the door key hanging on its nail all these years later. It felt cool and smooth—no rust evident to the touch—as she lifted it off the nail. She unlocked the deadbolt, opened the door, and stepped silently into the dimly lit kitchen. The room felt warm as an incubator after the brittle outdoors; the air was moist and close. Her nurse’s training made her wonder if fear or anxiety had caused her adrenal gland to secrete adrenaline into her bloodstream, raising her heart rate and blood pressure, and in turn causing her to feel hot and sweaty. But a secondary analysis of her body’s vitals assured her that her pulse and pressure were normal, her breathing calm. It was the room, not her, that was very warm, warm and humid after the chill dark. She set her duffel to the side under the coat hooks then turned to head down the darkened hallway toward the faint light emanating from the bedroom. Halfway there, in the darkest spot between the kitchen and the bedroom light, just in front of the coat closet that had been converted into storage for board games and athletic gear, her physiology did have a reaction to her heightened emotional state, only the opposite of the one she’d contemplated moments earlier—her blood pressure plummeted, her heart rate slowed, and her skin was suddenly cold and clammy.
She felt light-headed and would’ve hit the floor with a thud if her hand hadn’t reached out and found the closet door’s knob to steady her. Using the knob as a crutch and tether, she slowly lowered herself to the floor then leaned against the wall, raised her knees to her chest, and lowered her head between her knees so that it was below the level of her heart. She closed her eyes and waited for the blood to return to her brain. “It’ll be O.K.” a voice whispered. Angie tensed at the words but didn’t raise her head or open her eyes. “You didn’t think I’d let you walk in there alone, did you?” “Mom?” Angie wondered if she’d spoken the word or just thought it. “Darling.” “This is the last place I thought I’d find you.” “More likely the Iraqi desert or the Trauma Center?” “So much pain here for you—the betrayal.” “For you, dear; I go where you need me.” “Even if it hurts?” “It doesn’t hurt me anymore—maybe once, not now.” “Why not? He betrayed you!” “Two answers, dear—one, I’m beyond hurt here; two, being beyond hurt allows me to see that he didn’t betray me, he didn’t betray you, he betrayed himself. More specifically, his body betrayed his heart. I’m sorry for him and I’ve told him so, or at least tried.” “His body?” “His body needed Joan, needed her body—her feel, her scent, her breath, her taste —since the day he was conceived.
Once he stumbled on her, he could’ve no more resisted her than a starving child could turn away from a sumptuous banquet.” “He could’ve chosen not to.” “No.” “He could’ve tried.” “Oh, he tried; Lord knows he tried. He took cold showers, freezing cold; he took hot showers. He hit the porno shops and the strip clubs and the Internet sites. He took long walks into the woods and howled at the moon, the sun. He screamed into his pillow in the night, bit his pillow, gnawed his hand, his arm. He tried every way he could. It didn’t work.” “How do you know?” “That’s the good thing about here—you know everything about those you love. But on this one point, I have to admit I knew it then, while it was happening.” “And you didn’t stop it?” “I couldn’t, no more than Josh could. But at least he tried. I didn’t even try, and I’m sorry for that. Even knowing it wouldn’t have worked, I still should’ve tried.” “Why didn’t you?” “I was scared.
There was this yawning hole of need at the center of Josh that I discovered early on that I had no chance of filling. I was frightened by his need and shamed by my inability to meet it. I guess I gambled that Joan might fill that void and still leave me the parts of Josh I loved and needed.” “Some gamble.” “A foolish bet, in retrospect; but one I freely chose. But I never considered the risk to you. That was my fault, my selfishness. I should’ve weighed the risk to you and done something, anything, to spare you that hurt.” Angie could only agree. “Yes.” “I’m sorry, darling.” “We all are.” “Josh most of all.” “You know?” “I know. He’s paid, many times over. Forgive him.” “Is there time?” “Enough.” Angie opened her eyes and raised her head. Blood throbbed in her ears. The hall was perceptibly brighter though still locked in gray pre-dawn. Directly across from where she sat, a few feet above on the wall, a framed portrait photo of the three of them stared down at her. Even in the dim light, she could see the images. Far as she knew, it was the last photo ever taken of the three of them together.
They all looked so calm, relaxed, and happy. Laura’s eyes were locked on Angie like some majestic hawk—high up in the tree surveying the whole countryside with regal detachment and assurance before focusing all her attention on this new entrant—as she pushed open the ajar door to her parents’ bedroom. Angie stood in the doorway looking calmly at Laura seated in the chair with the nightstand light on behind her. Then she redirected her gaze to the slight figure lying in the bed and wondered if that pale, wizened old man were really her father. Seeing that helpless figure caused her to redefine Laura’s intense glare as protective rather than aloof. “I figured you as resourceful,” Laura said quietly but firmly, “but I didn’t know the half of it. Must be your father in you.”
Angie tilted her head in silent question. “Maybe your mother too,” Laura added quickly. “I can’t speak to that. But your father was the most resourceful person I ever knew. You wanted something done, give him the task. He’d find a way, whatever it took.” Angie noted her persistent use of the past tense but temporarily balked at its meaning. “Still?” Laura smiled. The expression did wonders for her face. “We’re here, aren’t we?” Angie nodded. “But is he?” Laura took Josh’s near cool wrist in her fingers and waited for a pulse. It arrived after a long pause, barely perceptible, more an echo of life than life itself. She nodded. “Yes,” then added, “But I don’t know that he’ll come back from this one.” This one what? Angie wondered—this crisis, this coma, this infection, this dream, this sleep, this what? Her nurse’s training wanted an immediate diagnosis, prognosis, and treatment regimen. Time was wasting—she needed to act, not watch. Her legs began to wobble.
Laura stood quickly, caught Angie around the waist, and guided her into the bedside chair she’d just occupied. “Drink some of this,” she said and raised her can of cola to Angie’s nearly blue lips. Angie took a sip or two then sat back in the chair. “Thanks. Long night.” “For us all,” she said, glancing at Josh as she set the soft-drink can on the nightstand. Angie followed Laura’s gaze to her father. The sight of him so radically changed from her last image of him cut her deeply, deeper than she’d ever been cut or thought she could be. So this is it, she thought. This is the reckoning. Laura squatted in front of Angie, reached up and gently turned Angie’s gaze from Josh to her. “I’m Laura, in case you didn’t know; Josh’s first wife.” Angie nodded but said nothing. “Devon, Josh’s other daughter, is asleep down the hall. And Sherri, the home nurse, is asleep in the guestroom. He’s been well cared for.” “I can see that.” “We had the sensors on him, but he made us take them off the last time he was conscious.” “When was that?” “Yesterday morning.” “So we’re flying blind.” It was a statement, not a question. As a nurse— particularly one less than a day removed from service in Iraq, one huge testing ground for the latest in diagnostic technologies—this absence of even the most basic of patient data seemed almost criminally negligent. Laura noted her objection and understood, at least in a general way, its origins.
But she chose to avoid direct confrontation. “He’s flying—well, somewhere. I almost said ‘home,’ but realized this is his home. This is where he wanted to be; this is where he wanted to die. He called me here from California to help guarantee that he died here at home—no hospital equipment, no strangers hovering, no extraordinary measures or lastditch heroic stands. He wanted—.” She paused then corrected herself. “He wants to die at home.” Angie, her blood pressure and heart rate stabilized by the dose of cola and caffeine and her seated posture, looked first to her father then to Laura and nodded silent assent—she’d not made herself available for any of the decision-making; she’d not question or try to undo any of those choices now (too late anyway, she could clearly see). She recalled returning to base from a briefing in Baghdad when the Humvee she was riding in came on the aftermath of a recent bombing. She jumped out and focused on an unconscious Marine being cradled in the lap of a buddy. At first glance, except for being unconscious, the Marine showed no visible injuries. She bent down to begin providing care when the buddy pointed a pistol at her and gestured for her to step back. Tears streamed down the pistol-waver’s dusty face.
She protested firmly, said the man (no more than a boy, really—maybe nineteen or twenty) needed immediate medical attention and that she was a nurse (in case he didn’t recognize her regiment’s medical insignia on her uniform) and trained in battlefield trauma care. Still, the protector wouldn’t relent, kept the pistol drawn and pointed loosely in her direction. She was about to turn and try to find help in subduing this clearly shocked guardian when the unconscious soldier released an awful groan from his core, tensed from head to toe, then fell limp. The guardian took a deep breath, wiped the tears from his face with the sleeve of his free arm, lowered the pistol, and said, “You can have him now
Of course, it is possible to climb to the top of the tower of Pisa. The tower can be visited every day of the week. You can imagine, given the fame of the tower, there is a crowd, especially in high season! To avoid waiting to buy your tickets (and potentially for the visit), it is easier to book your ticket to the Leaning Tower online. You just have to choose a time interval and go to the tower of Pisa to climb to the top without having to queue ... Practice!
The tower of Pisa is still quite impressive. I did not imagine that she was so inclined! Although it is hyper-touristy and is a small cliché, visiting the tower of Pisa is one of the things to do in Pisa.
Visit The Palace Of The Doges In Venice
In Venice, visiting the Doge's Palace appears at the top of the must list! In fact, you can not go to Venice without visiting the Doge's Palace it is probably the most famous monument in Venice.
In this post dedicated entirely to the Ducal Palace or the Palazzo Ducale, which will give you all the information to prepare the visit of the Ducal Palace in Venice: schedules, how to get there, prices, book the ticket online, ...
I also share my advice to enjoy visiting the Doge's palace without the crowds. In fact, as an important historical building in Venice, Doge's Palace attracts many visitors, both on weekdays and on weekends ...
And it was that spirit, the essence of a loved one, that mattered. * * * The next night, Sirona pushed aside the hide door of the dwelling she shared with Dysri and went out into the cold stillness. She moved quickly through the camp, stopping only to pat one of the hounds, stretched out, guarding the doorway of a dwelling. She rubbed the huge, fawncolored animal behind its ears, and it gave a shuddering sigh. After giving the dog a final pat, she straightened and moved on. She walked to the edge of the settlement and sought out a herding path that led up into the hills.
The ground crunched with frost as she walked, and overhead the stars hung in the blue black sky like sparkling ice crystals. On the western horizon, the crescent moon gleamed like the blade of a curved ceremonial knife. The going was rough, the trackway rocky and edged with furze. As she picked her way along, a wolf howled in the distance. But her heart didn’t race, nor did she tense with dread. It was a wolf that had led her to this place of sanctuary. The brisk air pierced her clothing. She pulled her mantle more tightly around her body and quickened her pace. The pathway crossed two hills, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, then led down into a ravine thick with thorn and bramble bushes. She pushed her way through the brush and dodged the stones littering the pathway.
At last she came to a clearing where a handful of knee-high, lichen-splashed boulders were arranged in a circle. She took a deep breath and then entered the circle. After pausing a moment to gather her thoughts, she lifted her hands to the sky. “Arianrhod, lady of the moon, the face of the Goddess who rules the sky and shines her bright light upon the land, show me the way. Tell me what I must do.” She waited, but heard nothing except a faint whisper of breeze stirring the leaves of the nearby bushes. A sigh escaped her lips. She understood that she was meant to go to the sacred isle, to share what she’d shared with Cruthin, even if their mating had fallen short of completion.
She was meant to be banished from her tribe and to travel north. But after that, her destiny, her purpose, grew blurry and vague. Bits and pieces of knowledge had come to her, but so much else eluded her. It seemed the answers lay in the future, a future that she could not see, no matter how hard she tried. Please, Great Mother, she begged silently, give me a sign. Once again, she raised her arms to the heavens and repeated her exhortation. But no tingling started along her spine and her inner vision remained empty. Above her the stars shone, cold and brilliant, and the face of the Lady gazed down upon her with silence. She sighed again, thinking she should return to the settlement. There were no answers here. She thought then of Old Ogimos, the ancient, solemn Drui who hadn’t lectured on the movement of the stars, nor made them recite endless tales and genealogies, or demanded that they learn the proper way of performing a ceremony. Instead, Ogimos had taught them things of the spirit, awakening in them a sense of the pattern all around, the way everything was connected.
Now his words came back to her. You must not be impatient with the gods, but let them reveal their purpose for you in their own time. You must remain quiet and still and listen. Listen with your heart and your spirit. The answers will come to you on the whispering wind, or the voice of a stream splashing over the rocks. Secrets await you in the dark shadows of the woods, in the perfection of a flower hidden among the fallen leaves and dried grass. The flower waits for the right moment to bloom, to come forth in all its glory. And so, someday, the answers will be revealed to you and you will understand at last. His words made her look down at the ground. Her gaze fell upon the dried bracken at her feet, the curling mosses that would be green in summer, but which now looked dead and brown. The earth and most of the plants and trees would sleep through the coming season of cold and snow.
They would reawaken in the spring, but for now they were dormant. Perhaps that was what she was meant to do also, here in the land of the north. Perhaps as Dysri had suggested, she wasn’t supposed to take action or to pursue her destiny. Perhaps, like the brown, lifeless vegetation all around her, she was meant to enter a time of waiting, to draw close within herself and absorb the life force all around, to gather it in, so when the time came to act, she could be strong... and powerful... like the Goddess.
The thought made her impatient. She didn’t want to wait. She wanted knowledge and answers. And yet, the earth told her that this was the way of all things. The rhythm of life, of the seasons, couldn’t be rushed. Her own body told her this as well. She was still very young. Her moontimes had begun only a turn of the seasons ago. She had scarcely crossed the threshold of womanhood. Perhaps that was why things had gone wrong with Cruthin. They were both too immature, too unfinished, to complete the ceremony as it should be completed. More children playing a game than adults performing a sacred rite. But someday... She thought of her first vision. That time would come. She knew it, could feel it with every breath she took. But first she would be tested, tested cruelly.
Even as she had the thought, the visions came. She began to shiver violently as her mind was filled with images: Nesta lying dead on the ground. A terrified woman fleeing a warrior with a sword. The red-haired queen, her face a mask of triumphant cruelty. Chariots and warriors. Fire and blood. Death and destruction. She gasped and slumped to her knees, covering her face with her hands. If this was what was to come, then she had no desire to hurry to meet the future. She was not ready yet.
Not ready... The images vanished and Sirona got slowly to her feet. The Goddess had answered after all, telling her that she should enjoy this time of quiet and peace, this season—or seasons—of her spirit lying fallow. She gazed up again at the sky, silently thanking the lady of the moon for her soft, beneficent light. * * * * * * * * * Lady of the Moon is part one of the historical saga The Silver Wheel. The following is a preview of part 2, The Raven of Death. Please follow me online at http://marygillgannon.com for updates on this saga as well as my other books. Preview The Raven of Death, Part 2 of The Silver Wheel Saga A.D. 61 The settlement was crowded with many wooden buildings, although they didn’t look like the round dwellings of a Pretani settlement. The air was full of the haze of smoke. Ahead of her, Sirona saw a woman with long, reddish gold braids. The woman moved cautiously, a bundle clutched her to her chest. Her eyes darted around, wide with fear and dread. The tall form of a man loomed out of the murk. He wore a long warrior’s mustache and carried a club and a round shield. With his club, he knocked the woman down.
The woman struggled to rise, but her attacker swung the club once more, striking her on the side of the head. As the woman fell, the bundle she carried went flying. The babe inside the wrapping tumbled out and lay squalling on the ground. The warrior crouched over the woman, as if to make certain she was dead, then straightened. He started to move on, and then spied the baby lying there, screaming, tiny fists flailing. With a swift kick, he sent the infant sailing into the wall of a nearby building. Sirona awoke, pulse pounding, stomach churning. She sat up and took a deep breath as she sought to shake off the horror of the dream. Dysri, lying nearby in the leather-walled shelter, also roused. “Sirona, what is it?” “A Seeing, I think.” Sirona swallowed, struggling against a wave of nausea.
“This one was awful.” “Do you want me to brew some mint and thyme to help calm you?” Sirona touched the blue-green stone hanging between her breasts, seeking comfort from the warmth of the object. “I’ll be all right. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Dysri sat up on her bedplace. “You’ve had several troubling dreams lately. What do you think it means?” Sirona shook her head, unwilling to discuss the matter. “Go back to sleep, and I’ll try to do the same.” Long after Dysri’s breathing had grown deep and even, Sirona lay there, wide awake. She kept seeing the dream in her mind. Both the woman and the warrior had appeared to be Pretani. So, why had the man killed her? And why did these visions come to her now, when she had lived in the north for four untroubled years? Her sense of foreboding grew until it felt like a rock lodged in her belly. She could feel her destiny reaching out for her... a claw-like hand groping in the darkness. Shuddering, she once more shifted position on the bedplace. * * * “Sirona, wake up.” Dysri nudged her. “There’s a visitor in camp.” Sirona’s stomach still felt unsettled from the vision of the night before, and her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. But once awake, she hurried to dress and comb her hair. She felt certain this visitor and her visions were connected. Although he appeared fairly young, the man talking to Ruadan in the chieftain’s hall wore the garb of a Learned One.
As soon as he saw her, the man’s blue eyes widened. Gradually, she recognized him. It was the young Drui who had come to Mordarach the spring before the gathering on the sacred isle. He smiled and beckoned her near. “It’s a pleasure to find another Learned One here in the north. I am Kellach of the Silure tribe.” Sirona cleared her throat and responded, “And I am—” “Sirona of the Tarisllwyth,” he finished for her. “I remember you from when I visited your home dun.” Sirona stared at him, not knowing what to say. Kellach’s blue eyes focused on her keenly. “I recently went back to Mordarach. When I asked about you, I was told you were dead. They said you went north to find your father’s tribe. When your escort didn’t return, they sent out a search party but found nothing. They thought all of you had been killed by Romans.” “I wasn’t there when the Romans attacked,” Sirona explained. “I had gone off to fetch some water. When I came back, my escort was dead. I attempted to bury the two men, then wandered on my own for days until I made my way here.
Tell me, how did Tarbelinus’s search party know we were attacked by Romans?” “Of course it was Romans,” Kellach responded. He glanced at Ruadan. “Who else would have done such a thing?” He looked back at Sirona. “Apparently, you haven’t been in contact with Tarisllwyth these past years. It would seem I have much news to share with you.” Ruadan, a florid-faced, burly man who got his name from his bright red hair, gestured broadly. “Let us seat ourselves before the fire and you can share your tale with all of us.” Once settled on some furs with a cup of heather beer in his hand, Kellach began, “This is the story of Sirona’s home tribe. Three years ago, Romans came to their settlement.
At first, they demanded tribute and their chieftain, Tarbelinus, gave it to them. But he eventually grew angered by the contempt they showed your people and plotted his revenge. This previous sunseason, when a Roman envoy came to collect the tribute, Tarbelinus had them killed. That brought the wrath of the Romans down upon them. A large force was sent to the settlement.” He shook his sadly. “They tried to fight, but they were easily defeated. There were simply too many of the enemy.
from 01/11 to 03/31: from 8.30 to 17.30 (last admission: one hour before the closing of the mouth)
from 01/04 to 31/10: from 08:30 to 19:00 (last admission one hour before closing)
Keep in mind, it is possible to visit the Doge's Palace at night, often from spring until late summer.
Palace of these nocturnal Ducal of Venice takes place only on Fridays and Saturdays. Ducal Palace is open until 23pm, with one last possible admission one hour before closing the palace, or 22 hours.
In this post dedicated entirely to the Ducal Palace or the Palazzo Ducale, which will give you all the information to prepare the visit of the Ducal Palace in Venice: schedules, how to get there, prices, book the ticket online, ...
I also share my advice to enjoy visiting the Doge's palace without the crowds. In fact, as an important historical building in Venice, Doge's Palace attracts many visitors, both on weekdays and on weekends ...
Visit of the Doge's Palace: Practical Information
To start this entry in the Doge's Palace of Venice, we will deal with the practical aspects of the visit of the landmark Palace, Venice Ducal. In Italian, the building is called the Palazzo Ducale. In French, it is also sometimes called the Doge's Palace.And it was that spirit, the essence of a loved one, that mattered. * * * The next night, Sirona pushed aside the hide door of the dwelling she shared with Dysri and went out into the cold stillness. She moved quickly through the camp, stopping only to pat one of the hounds, stretched out, guarding the doorway of a dwelling. She rubbed the huge, fawncolored animal behind its ears, and it gave a shuddering sigh. After giving the dog a final pat, she straightened and moved on. She walked to the edge of the settlement and sought out a herding path that led up into the hills.
The ground crunched with frost as she walked, and overhead the stars hung in the blue black sky like sparkling ice crystals. On the western horizon, the crescent moon gleamed like the blade of a curved ceremonial knife. The going was rough, the trackway rocky and edged with furze. As she picked her way along, a wolf howled in the distance. But her heart didn’t race, nor did she tense with dread. It was a wolf that had led her to this place of sanctuary. The brisk air pierced her clothing. She pulled her mantle more tightly around her body and quickened her pace. The pathway crossed two hills, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, then led down into a ravine thick with thorn and bramble bushes. She pushed her way through the brush and dodged the stones littering the pathway.
At last she came to a clearing where a handful of knee-high, lichen-splashed boulders were arranged in a circle. She took a deep breath and then entered the circle. After pausing a moment to gather her thoughts, she lifted her hands to the sky. “Arianrhod, lady of the moon, the face of the Goddess who rules the sky and shines her bright light upon the land, show me the way. Tell me what I must do.” She waited, but heard nothing except a faint whisper of breeze stirring the leaves of the nearby bushes. A sigh escaped her lips. She understood that she was meant to go to the sacred isle, to share what she’d shared with Cruthin, even if their mating had fallen short of completion.
She was meant to be banished from her tribe and to travel north. But after that, her destiny, her purpose, grew blurry and vague. Bits and pieces of knowledge had come to her, but so much else eluded her. It seemed the answers lay in the future, a future that she could not see, no matter how hard she tried. Please, Great Mother, she begged silently, give me a sign. Once again, she raised her arms to the heavens and repeated her exhortation. But no tingling started along her spine and her inner vision remained empty. Above her the stars shone, cold and brilliant, and the face of the Lady gazed down upon her with silence. She sighed again, thinking she should return to the settlement. There were no answers here. She thought then of Old Ogimos, the ancient, solemn Drui who hadn’t lectured on the movement of the stars, nor made them recite endless tales and genealogies, or demanded that they learn the proper way of performing a ceremony. Instead, Ogimos had taught them things of the spirit, awakening in them a sense of the pattern all around, the way everything was connected.
Now his words came back to her. You must not be impatient with the gods, but let them reveal their purpose for you in their own time. You must remain quiet and still and listen. Listen with your heart and your spirit. The answers will come to you on the whispering wind, or the voice of a stream splashing over the rocks. Secrets await you in the dark shadows of the woods, in the perfection of a flower hidden among the fallen leaves and dried grass. The flower waits for the right moment to bloom, to come forth in all its glory. And so, someday, the answers will be revealed to you and you will understand at last. His words made her look down at the ground. Her gaze fell upon the dried bracken at her feet, the curling mosses that would be green in summer, but which now looked dead and brown. The earth and most of the plants and trees would sleep through the coming season of cold and snow.
They would reawaken in the spring, but for now they were dormant. Perhaps that was what she was meant to do also, here in the land of the north. Perhaps as Dysri had suggested, she wasn’t supposed to take action or to pursue her destiny. Perhaps, like the brown, lifeless vegetation all around her, she was meant to enter a time of waiting, to draw close within herself and absorb the life force all around, to gather it in, so when the time came to act, she could be strong... and powerful... like the Goddess.
The thought made her impatient. She didn’t want to wait. She wanted knowledge and answers. And yet, the earth told her that this was the way of all things. The rhythm of life, of the seasons, couldn’t be rushed. Her own body told her this as well. She was still very young. Her moontimes had begun only a turn of the seasons ago. She had scarcely crossed the threshold of womanhood. Perhaps that was why things had gone wrong with Cruthin. They were both too immature, too unfinished, to complete the ceremony as it should be completed. More children playing a game than adults performing a sacred rite. But someday... She thought of her first vision. That time would come. She knew it, could feel it with every breath she took. But first she would be tested, tested cruelly.
Even as she had the thought, the visions came. She began to shiver violently as her mind was filled with images: Nesta lying dead on the ground. A terrified woman fleeing a warrior with a sword. The red-haired queen, her face a mask of triumphant cruelty. Chariots and warriors. Fire and blood. Death and destruction. She gasped and slumped to her knees, covering her face with her hands. If this was what was to come, then she had no desire to hurry to meet the future. She was not ready yet.
Not ready... The images vanished and Sirona got slowly to her feet. The Goddess had answered after all, telling her that she should enjoy this time of quiet and peace, this season—or seasons—of her spirit lying fallow. She gazed up again at the sky, silently thanking the lady of the moon for her soft, beneficent light. * * * * * * * * * Lady of the Moon is part one of the historical saga The Silver Wheel. The following is a preview of part 2, The Raven of Death. Please follow me online at http://marygillgannon.com for updates on this saga as well as my other books. Preview The Raven of Death, Part 2 of The Silver Wheel Saga A.D. 61 The settlement was crowded with many wooden buildings, although they didn’t look like the round dwellings of a Pretani settlement. The air was full of the haze of smoke. Ahead of her, Sirona saw a woman with long, reddish gold braids. The woman moved cautiously, a bundle clutched her to her chest. Her eyes darted around, wide with fear and dread. The tall form of a man loomed out of the murk. He wore a long warrior’s mustache and carried a club and a round shield. With his club, he knocked the woman down.
The woman struggled to rise, but her attacker swung the club once more, striking her on the side of the head. As the woman fell, the bundle she carried went flying. The babe inside the wrapping tumbled out and lay squalling on the ground. The warrior crouched over the woman, as if to make certain she was dead, then straightened. He started to move on, and then spied the baby lying there, screaming, tiny fists flailing. With a swift kick, he sent the infant sailing into the wall of a nearby building. Sirona awoke, pulse pounding, stomach churning. She sat up and took a deep breath as she sought to shake off the horror of the dream. Dysri, lying nearby in the leather-walled shelter, also roused. “Sirona, what is it?” “A Seeing, I think.” Sirona swallowed, struggling against a wave of nausea.
“This one was awful.” “Do you want me to brew some mint and thyme to help calm you?” Sirona touched the blue-green stone hanging between her breasts, seeking comfort from the warmth of the object. “I’ll be all right. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Dysri sat up on her bedplace. “You’ve had several troubling dreams lately. What do you think it means?” Sirona shook her head, unwilling to discuss the matter. “Go back to sleep, and I’ll try to do the same.” Long after Dysri’s breathing had grown deep and even, Sirona lay there, wide awake. She kept seeing the dream in her mind. Both the woman and the warrior had appeared to be Pretani. So, why had the man killed her? And why did these visions come to her now, when she had lived in the north for four untroubled years? Her sense of foreboding grew until it felt like a rock lodged in her belly. She could feel her destiny reaching out for her... a claw-like hand groping in the darkness. Shuddering, she once more shifted position on the bedplace. * * * “Sirona, wake up.” Dysri nudged her. “There’s a visitor in camp.” Sirona’s stomach still felt unsettled from the vision of the night before, and her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. But once awake, she hurried to dress and comb her hair. She felt certain this visitor and her visions were connected. Although he appeared fairly young, the man talking to Ruadan in the chieftain’s hall wore the garb of a Learned One.
As soon as he saw her, the man’s blue eyes widened. Gradually, she recognized him. It was the young Drui who had come to Mordarach the spring before the gathering on the sacred isle. He smiled and beckoned her near. “It’s a pleasure to find another Learned One here in the north. I am Kellach of the Silure tribe.” Sirona cleared her throat and responded, “And I am—” “Sirona of the Tarisllwyth,” he finished for her. “I remember you from when I visited your home dun.” Sirona stared at him, not knowing what to say. Kellach’s blue eyes focused on her keenly. “I recently went back to Mordarach. When I asked about you, I was told you were dead. They said you went north to find your father’s tribe. When your escort didn’t return, they sent out a search party but found nothing. They thought all of you had been killed by Romans.” “I wasn’t there when the Romans attacked,” Sirona explained. “I had gone off to fetch some water. When I came back, my escort was dead. I attempted to bury the two men, then wandered on my own for days until I made my way here.
Tell me, how did Tarbelinus’s search party know we were attacked by Romans?” “Of course it was Romans,” Kellach responded. He glanced at Ruadan. “Who else would have done such a thing?” He looked back at Sirona. “Apparently, you haven’t been in contact with Tarisllwyth these past years. It would seem I have much news to share with you.” Ruadan, a florid-faced, burly man who got his name from his bright red hair, gestured broadly. “Let us seat ourselves before the fire and you can share your tale with all of us.” Once settled on some furs with a cup of heather beer in his hand, Kellach began, “This is the story of Sirona’s home tribe. Three years ago, Romans came to their settlement.
At first, they demanded tribute and their chieftain, Tarbelinus, gave it to them. But he eventually grew angered by the contempt they showed your people and plotted his revenge. This previous sunseason, when a Roman envoy came to collect the tribute, Tarbelinus had them killed. That brought the wrath of the Romans down upon them. A large force was sent to the settlement.” He shook his sadly. “They tried to fight, but they were easily defeated. There were simply too many of the enemy.
Hours of the Palace of the Doges of Venice
Doge's Palace hours vary depending on the season. These are the visiting times of the Doge's Palace:from 01/11 to 03/31: from 8.30 to 17.30 (last admission: one hour before the closing of the mouth)
from 01/04 to 31/10: from 08:30 to 19:00 (last admission one hour before closing)
Keep in mind, it is possible to visit the Doge's Palace at night, often from spring until late summer.
Palace of these nocturnal Ducal of Venice takes place only on Fridays and Saturdays. Ducal Palace is open until 23pm, with one last possible admission one hour before closing the palace, or 22 hours.
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