From: li@Data-IO.COM (Phyllis Rostykus)
Subject: By the Fire [was Re: prejudice]
Keywords: comfort
Organization: Data I/O Corporation
Date: Tue, 15 Dec 1992 00:14:23 GMT

Actually, written both by Thyra and Blammor...

In article <JBrandt-131292105721@aaa.uoregon.edu> Thyra wrote:
> She has no words to offer, but tries to comfort them with a purr and an
> empath's healing gifts. Then she becomes a black housecat with a velvet
> collar, and pads over to Blammor. She curls up in his lap, to enjoy the
> fire and offer comfort to her friend.

Blammor smiles a very small smile as Thyra curls up in his lap.  Gently,
his slender, Dark fingers stroke the smoothness of her black fur.   He rubs
her behind the ears and all along the neck, losing himself in the softness
of her fur and simple task of providing gentle pleasure for a friend.

Gradually, a sort of empathy is achieved.  It is warm and very simple, the
sharing of a physical comfort.  The chair is well stuffed, and has large
enough wings to hide him from the rest of the room.  So Blammor feels
slightly more protected from all the people in the Place.  The volume has
been so huge he just cuts off the rest of the room, to only know what goes
on with himself and Liralen, eventhough she is busy, elsewhere, in the
room.  Gradually, his channel with Thyra changes as Blammor's thoughts
wander a little.

The surface feelings are tiredness, soreness in muscles all along his arms
and legs.  There is, however, pleasure behind that pain, the glimpses of a
Christmas Party that the company threw last Friday.  Full of laughter and
dancing with all the energy that they have always focussed on everything
that they've done.  Dancing until they and their John were drenched in
sweat, laughing, breathless, and changing the image that everyone at work
had had of them.  

Then a weekend full of firelight, football, a drum carder, mountains of
soft, grey wool, and a spinning wheel, mostly the warm gold brown of an
oak colored finish, but also worn and dark in streaks and smudges spots
from being well used and well oiled.  So full of it all, a lot of kinks
and cricks in Blammor's frame are from picking, carding and spinning for
about 14 hours a day both days of the weekend.  But there is also
satisfaction from the aches, and four fat grey skeins of soft, black and
white streaked yarn.  And a lessening of the pressure for *making* gifts
for Christmas.  We're almost there... is the final whispered thought.

Fezzik is in there, big and black and cheerful.  Picking him up at a house
about four miles away from the house after John had left him outside after
going to church without telling Phyllis about it.  The two Australians had
greeted her with laughter and Fezzik had come up to her with one of their
two English Shepard dogs' rawhide bone.  Then he had scrambled back to
steal their other one.   The husband has laughed and said, "You *can't*
have both, you big lug, you."  Lots of laughter and the lady saying, "He's
so much fun when he comes, but we worry a little about him getting back
home."  Worry indeed, there is a deep, still pool of worry for the big
dog, anger at John for not putting Fezzik in his pen when he left, for
keeping the pup safe at home.  Some anger at herself for not making sure
that the pup was there.  Then a smile and some laughter at the thought of a
huge bag of big rawhide bones with a red ribbon and a tag reading "Merry
Christmas From: Fezzik" appearing on their doorstep.

Four engineers standing around a Spac station.  Tears aren't something one
often sees at work.  Four engineers just standing there, completely
silent, after one of them told the others the news.  Two of them leaking
slow tears.  The woman isn't one of the ones crying and she wonders, just
a little, about what is wrong with her.  All she feels is a small hollow,
and a business like, 'O.K.  What next?'  Of course, she's never really
known the guy that well, but... you'd think a death would have more affect
on her.   Blammor notes, however, that she's no better than anyone else at
coming up with something coherent to actually *do* and is rather
uncharacteristically quiet and angry at everything and anything that
doesn't have to do with living.

Thyra's purring deepens, and she rubs her head firmly against Blammor's
chest.  Her soft voice sounds in his inner ear, audible only to Blammor
<<Each passing is diffent, and affects us differently. When Jason's
grandfather passed on, he was unable to attend the funeral, or even be in
the area. Other commitments to his career kept him away. He loved his
Grandpa, who had taught him much of what he now knows of the woodcrafter's
art. Yet at the news of his passing, he shed no tears. He'd cried for
lesser things, without shame. But this time they just didn't come. I guess
it depends a lot on how you view death. If you see it as an end, an
annihilation of what a person was, there is reason for tears. If you see
it as a changing, and recognize that the good the person did in this life
lives on in our memories and the things they left to us, then there is
sadness for the loss of their companionship, but less reason for grief.
Death is but a door we all must pass in time, as we walk the path of life.
Sometimes a loved one or a friend hurries on ahead of us on that path.
But in a sense, they have but passed a bend in the trail, and we shall
rejoin them in due time. I don't know if that helps, but wanted to share
it, for what it's worth.>>

Blammor chuckles softly at Thyra's words, and nods in agreement.  Slowly he
stands.  Thyra slipped silently from Blammor's lap as he stood. She resumes
her feline human form, and comes up betwee Blammor and Liralen; hugging
them both, purring like a lion, and trying for all she's worth to provide
a healing grounding point for the pain and anguish within her friends. A
calming blue aura faintly surrounds them, as they stand quietly together
by the fire, basking in its warmth.

Blammor chuckles softly and hugs her back.  "Thank you." he says very 
softly, "I guess I needed that more than I knew..." 
-- 
Blammor	                | "The giant Rok hit his single eye on a stone.
a.k.a. Phyllis Rostykus |  The eye turned inwards, and he died of what he
li@inigo.Data-IO.com    |  saw there."  _The Forgotten Beasts of Eld_