Love As It Was Made to Be: 4.
Mar. 24th, 2012 09:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyThere was no fanfare when the journey began; the witch simply made the three of them a hearty breakfast (he did not know where the eggs had come from and he did not ask), handed out bags, and bid them walk. Journey spent almost the entire first mile rearranging the bags that he carried so they hung evenly on his body, did not restrict any of his movement, and left him easy space to get to the war hammer if he needed it. He did not expect to need to, as they were more than a day’s walk out from the mountains, but felt that—since he had been hired as an escort and bodyguard—he ought to be prepared for any eventuality.
Hemlock did not appear to need any help with his pack, trudging sturdily along with it strapped across his shoulders. Nor did the witch, who evidently had experience with cross-country walking. They had been walking for close to an hour, and were far out from anything but fields and farmhouses, when Journey finally dared to comment, “I’d thought we might hire horses for this journey. Wouldn’t it be much faster if we were riding?”
“Horses do not like me,” was the witch’s terse response, and Journey, nervous, left it at that.
They spent the night at an inn, where the keeper, giving them a single room with one bed, seemed to take it for granted that Journey and Cicatrix were a couple. Journey did not, and took a blanket to sleep on the floor by the fire. No one said anything to prevent him, and he woke surprisingly refreshed. (Of course, the inn’s food, a beefy stew for supper and porridge with several grains and fruits for breakfast, helped as well.)
By late morning of the second day of walking, Journey could tell they were walking on rising ground. First he only felt the steepness of the road under his feet, but then he began to feel it in his calf muscles. Used to flat ground, they complained, but on a strange level, he enjoyed the exercise. He was using the muscles he had always been meant to use.
Whenever they were on the road alone (which was less than half of the time; they were often passed by farmers and dairy wives going to and from market in one of the larger towns), he amused himself by practicing with the war hammer. There didn’t seem to be much to practice, but he was a little clumsy with taking it out of his belt, and he supposed working his muscles could only be helpful.
Cicatrix and Hemlock were silent almost entirely as they walked. Only a few times did Hemlock complain of tiredness. In the later afternoon, Journey and Cicatrix traded off carrying Hemlock’s pack to let his shoulders rest. Journey’s own shoulders ached, and no rearranging of the weight seemed to make him feel better, but he supposed that was simply because he was unused to carrying much. If he had been raised as a boy, he knew, he would have been plowing and butchering, not carrying anything to market.
All the silence gave him time to think. He had often wondered how life would have been different if he had been born the sex he had always known he should be. Now, he wondered how much of his new body and his new knowledge were because of the witch’s spell, and how much were truly him. It disturbed him a little. His stupefying comfort in his new body, as well as the fact that the witch’s magic came from the gods, made him think that this was the right path, but if so, why had he been born with a woman’s body to begin with?
He had never had much faith in the gods, mostly, he thought, because of the circumstances of his gender-backwards life. He knew they were real, of course—you could not avoid the gods, not in Skareya—but he had never thought they had much to do with his life, or much that they could do for his benefit.
But maybe they had more power, or more compassion, than he had thought.
He had come to no conclusions by the time they came to a large town, where, the witch decreed with an eye to the pink and purple of the western sky, they would spend the night. This time they had a choice between three different inns. The witch chose the most inexpensive, because, she said, it did not take horses, and she preferred to avoid disrupting other people’s lives.
This time, at least, they took two rooms, and Journey had a chance to separate himself from the others when Cicatrix decided she and Hemlock needed baths. Not that he disliked them; their habitual silence and lack of curiosity about his life made him much more comfortable with him than with his family. But it was nice to be on his own for a moment, even if it was in a cheap tavern in the middle of a bustling trade town. He had spent every moment of the last several days, and all of the time since he’d gained his own body, in their company, and he enjoyed the chance to try it out on his own.
Of course, there wasn’t much to do with it. The town might be larger and busier than any he’d ever seen before, but he had little money and nothing to bother trading for. They had arrived in time for the tail end of a market, and he browsed the weapons and armor stalls, but found nothing that called to him or seemed like something he would make much use of. He bought a small, sweet, exotic fruit from Ahlos far to the south and munched on it while he walked back to the tavern.
He realized, as he tossed away the pit outside the place they’d taken rooms, that no one had given him so much as a strange look, let alone the nasty words he had got used to as a girl. He was already beginning to be used to being treated as a normal man. Further, he realized that he had only purchased the fruit because the fruit-seller was a girl his own age with freckles and dimples. Well, he decided, it had been worth it on multiple levels.
When he entered the low-ceilinged, smoky main room, Cicatrix and Hemlock were nowhere to be seen (and anyway, if they needed him, he was sure the witch would be able to find him wherever he might go), and supper was beginning to be served. He was not hungry enough for that yet, but he sat down and ordered an ale, now on alert and paying attention to the way people looked at and spoke to him. Of course, he had no idea how people normally looked at a man, certainly in a place like this; but most people’s eyes flicked to his face, then to the weapon at his belt, and then ignored him. The heavy, round-faced woman he ordered the ale from didn’t even bat an eye.
The serving girl who brought him the drink, however, was another story. She paused, just for a fraction of a second, as she walked over with the tray of drinks, and Journey’s heart sank. He forced a smile as she approached, even though he was sure she’d seen right through him—but her answering smile seemed quite genuine, and as she set down his mug, she actually gave him a wink before sauntering away.
He stared after her for a long moment, completely baffled. What had that meant? Did she like him? That didn’t make any sense. Was she telling him that she had seen through his magical change, but wouldn’t let anyone else know? That was better, but still nerve-wracking, and he was going to have to talk to her to find out.
He was so busy staring after her as she handed out drinks, and trying to keep his stomach from churning, that he forgot all about his ale. When she turned around from a table in the back and saw him staring, he started to blush, but she grinned widely and walked back towards him, swaying her hips. He was transfixed. There’d been a little experimentation with female friends when he was younger—before they figured out how different he was from all the others and he stopped having friends at all—but no one had ever acted like that towards him before.
He had barely managed to gather his thoughts and keep his jaw from dropping when she reached his table and thumped down in one of the empty seats, dropping her tray to clatter on the table. “Don’t you like your ale?” she asked in a low, smoky voice.
“Huh? Oh, of course,” he said intelligently. He was definitely blushing again. He looked down at the foamy drink, grabbed it, and took a hasty slurp, spilling almost as much as he drank out the back of the mug. It was tasty, as a matter of fact; he’d never been permitted to have drinks this strong before, just small beer and watered wine, and the rich flavors played enticingly over his tongue.
Not as enticing, of course, as the girl was. He wondered suddenly if she sold her body for money. He’d heard of women like that, of course—it had been one of his mother’s worries when he didn’t want to be like all the other girls. He’d never met one, though, and he didn’t know what he would do if this girl wanted him to pay her. He didn’t think he could handle that.
“So,” she said, leaning over the table so that the neck of her dress dipped low and he could see the valley between her breasts, “what brings you to Uska? I know I’ve never seen you around before. I’d remember.” He’d once thought he hated the female form; now that he had his male body, and now that he was looking at this woman, he was quite certain that it was just his own that had bothered him.
“Ah, just passing through, actually.” At least the stumbling over his words was familiar. He had not liked to be spoken to as a woman, and he was entirely unfamiliar with being spoken to as a man. “We’re—I’m—we’re on our way to Atash.”
“Atash, really? That’s quite a journey.” One of her hands was creeping closer to his arm. “Are you with one of the trading caravans?”
Her finger brushed his skin. He jumped. “No. I’m with, um, a witch, actually.” He realized, despite her innocuous appearance, that he probably shouldn’t tell her everything—Cicatrix might not want the world to know what she was doing, and certainly neither of them wanted anyone to know what a vulnerable position the child was in. “Just the hired help.”
“I’m sure you’re the best help she could hire,” she said. Now she was stroking his arm, very lightly. He became aware of some very strange feelings in the lower regions of his body.
“Well, er, thank you.” He coughed, then took another drink of his ale to cover his discomfort. He had no idea what to say next, but she was showing no inclination to leave. “So, what’s your… name?” The last word came out as half a squeak. He hoped he wouldn’t have to go through puberty again in this body. It certainly seemed adult…
She smiled widely. “Magnolia. What’s yours?”
“Journey.” It felt so wonderful to give out his new name--his true name.
She laughed. “You must be a traveling bodyguard. Have you been to Atash before?”
He shook his head. “This is my first time.” He considered explaining that this was his first time as anyone’s bodyguard, but that would be too complicated, and he wouldn’t know how to explain what had happened between leaving his home town and traveling with the witch.
“Tell me about the other places you’ve been,” she begged. “Have you been to any other countries?”
He shook his head, his tongue locked with fear and confusion. He dug desperately around in his subconscious for a lie like the ones he’d told the blacksmith and others he’d spoken to, but nothing came to mind. If he had been born a man, he might not now be a bodyguard. He certainly would not have been a bodyguard before the last few months, since he would not have been an adult—and he could not come up with a way that his imaginary alter ego would have fallen in with a witch.
At the time he thought it luck that Cicatrix and Hemlock descended the stairs and started towards him at that very moment, but later, he realized that it had to have been another manifestation of Cicatrix’s Sight.
“Excellent, you are here,” said the witch briskly, taking hold of Journey’s shoulder. “The boy needs new shoes. We must visit the market before it closes.” She gave Magnolia a cold glance as she pulled Journey to his feet, seeming to acknowledge the woman politely at the same time as she dismissed her without a second thought.
Journey gave an apologetic smile, said “I’m very sorry, I must go,” and fumbled in his pouch for a silver piece, which he knew was overpaying for the drink, but he hoped might get the serving girl to leave him alone in the future—or perhaps make up for the delay to the woman at the bar, in whose darkened brow he saw a baleful anger.
They hurried out of the tavern; Cicatrix’s face betrayed no emotion, but Hemlock’s was pleased, and Journey was relieved that he had a way to escape from that conversation without seeming rude. “Does Hemlock really need new shoes?” he asked the witch in a quiet voice. Walking beside her small, slim form always made him feel large and ungainly, though nothing else could manage to give him the least bit of discomfort in his new body.
She looked up at him, her expression still calm but her eyes dancing with amusement, and said, “Of course. I do not lie.” And they left it at that.
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Hemlock did not appear to need any help with his pack, trudging sturdily along with it strapped across his shoulders. Nor did the witch, who evidently had experience with cross-country walking. They had been walking for close to an hour, and were far out from anything but fields and farmhouses, when Journey finally dared to comment, “I’d thought we might hire horses for this journey. Wouldn’t it be much faster if we were riding?”
“Horses do not like me,” was the witch’s terse response, and Journey, nervous, left it at that.
They spent the night at an inn, where the keeper, giving them a single room with one bed, seemed to take it for granted that Journey and Cicatrix were a couple. Journey did not, and took a blanket to sleep on the floor by the fire. No one said anything to prevent him, and he woke surprisingly refreshed. (Of course, the inn’s food, a beefy stew for supper and porridge with several grains and fruits for breakfast, helped as well.)
By late morning of the second day of walking, Journey could tell they were walking on rising ground. First he only felt the steepness of the road under his feet, but then he began to feel it in his calf muscles. Used to flat ground, they complained, but on a strange level, he enjoyed the exercise. He was using the muscles he had always been meant to use.
Whenever they were on the road alone (which was less than half of the time; they were often passed by farmers and dairy wives going to and from market in one of the larger towns), he amused himself by practicing with the war hammer. There didn’t seem to be much to practice, but he was a little clumsy with taking it out of his belt, and he supposed working his muscles could only be helpful.
Cicatrix and Hemlock were silent almost entirely as they walked. Only a few times did Hemlock complain of tiredness. In the later afternoon, Journey and Cicatrix traded off carrying Hemlock’s pack to let his shoulders rest. Journey’s own shoulders ached, and no rearranging of the weight seemed to make him feel better, but he supposed that was simply because he was unused to carrying much. If he had been raised as a boy, he knew, he would have been plowing and butchering, not carrying anything to market.
All the silence gave him time to think. He had often wondered how life would have been different if he had been born the sex he had always known he should be. Now, he wondered how much of his new body and his new knowledge were because of the witch’s spell, and how much were truly him. It disturbed him a little. His stupefying comfort in his new body, as well as the fact that the witch’s magic came from the gods, made him think that this was the right path, but if so, why had he been born with a woman’s body to begin with?
He had never had much faith in the gods, mostly, he thought, because of the circumstances of his gender-backwards life. He knew they were real, of course—you could not avoid the gods, not in Skareya—but he had never thought they had much to do with his life, or much that they could do for his benefit.
But maybe they had more power, or more compassion, than he had thought.
He had come to no conclusions by the time they came to a large town, where, the witch decreed with an eye to the pink and purple of the western sky, they would spend the night. This time they had a choice between three different inns. The witch chose the most inexpensive, because, she said, it did not take horses, and she preferred to avoid disrupting other people’s lives.
This time, at least, they took two rooms, and Journey had a chance to separate himself from the others when Cicatrix decided she and Hemlock needed baths. Not that he disliked them; their habitual silence and lack of curiosity about his life made him much more comfortable with him than with his family. But it was nice to be on his own for a moment, even if it was in a cheap tavern in the middle of a bustling trade town. He had spent every moment of the last several days, and all of the time since he’d gained his own body, in their company, and he enjoyed the chance to try it out on his own.
Of course, there wasn’t much to do with it. The town might be larger and busier than any he’d ever seen before, but he had little money and nothing to bother trading for. They had arrived in time for the tail end of a market, and he browsed the weapons and armor stalls, but found nothing that called to him or seemed like something he would make much use of. He bought a small, sweet, exotic fruit from Ahlos far to the south and munched on it while he walked back to the tavern.
He realized, as he tossed away the pit outside the place they’d taken rooms, that no one had given him so much as a strange look, let alone the nasty words he had got used to as a girl. He was already beginning to be used to being treated as a normal man. Further, he realized that he had only purchased the fruit because the fruit-seller was a girl his own age with freckles and dimples. Well, he decided, it had been worth it on multiple levels.
When he entered the low-ceilinged, smoky main room, Cicatrix and Hemlock were nowhere to be seen (and anyway, if they needed him, he was sure the witch would be able to find him wherever he might go), and supper was beginning to be served. He was not hungry enough for that yet, but he sat down and ordered an ale, now on alert and paying attention to the way people looked at and spoke to him. Of course, he had no idea how people normally looked at a man, certainly in a place like this; but most people’s eyes flicked to his face, then to the weapon at his belt, and then ignored him. The heavy, round-faced woman he ordered the ale from didn’t even bat an eye.
The serving girl who brought him the drink, however, was another story. She paused, just for a fraction of a second, as she walked over with the tray of drinks, and Journey’s heart sank. He forced a smile as she approached, even though he was sure she’d seen right through him—but her answering smile seemed quite genuine, and as she set down his mug, she actually gave him a wink before sauntering away.
He stared after her for a long moment, completely baffled. What had that meant? Did she like him? That didn’t make any sense. Was she telling him that she had seen through his magical change, but wouldn’t let anyone else know? That was better, but still nerve-wracking, and he was going to have to talk to her to find out.
He was so busy staring after her as she handed out drinks, and trying to keep his stomach from churning, that he forgot all about his ale. When she turned around from a table in the back and saw him staring, he started to blush, but she grinned widely and walked back towards him, swaying her hips. He was transfixed. There’d been a little experimentation with female friends when he was younger—before they figured out how different he was from all the others and he stopped having friends at all—but no one had ever acted like that towards him before.
He had barely managed to gather his thoughts and keep his jaw from dropping when she reached his table and thumped down in one of the empty seats, dropping her tray to clatter on the table. “Don’t you like your ale?” she asked in a low, smoky voice.
“Huh? Oh, of course,” he said intelligently. He was definitely blushing again. He looked down at the foamy drink, grabbed it, and took a hasty slurp, spilling almost as much as he drank out the back of the mug. It was tasty, as a matter of fact; he’d never been permitted to have drinks this strong before, just small beer and watered wine, and the rich flavors played enticingly over his tongue.
Not as enticing, of course, as the girl was. He wondered suddenly if she sold her body for money. He’d heard of women like that, of course—it had been one of his mother’s worries when he didn’t want to be like all the other girls. He’d never met one, though, and he didn’t know what he would do if this girl wanted him to pay her. He didn’t think he could handle that.
“So,” she said, leaning over the table so that the neck of her dress dipped low and he could see the valley between her breasts, “what brings you to Uska? I know I’ve never seen you around before. I’d remember.” He’d once thought he hated the female form; now that he had his male body, and now that he was looking at this woman, he was quite certain that it was just his own that had bothered him.
“Ah, just passing through, actually.” At least the stumbling over his words was familiar. He had not liked to be spoken to as a woman, and he was entirely unfamiliar with being spoken to as a man. “We’re—I’m—we’re on our way to Atash.”
“Atash, really? That’s quite a journey.” One of her hands was creeping closer to his arm. “Are you with one of the trading caravans?”
Her finger brushed his skin. He jumped. “No. I’m with, um, a witch, actually.” He realized, despite her innocuous appearance, that he probably shouldn’t tell her everything—Cicatrix might not want the world to know what she was doing, and certainly neither of them wanted anyone to know what a vulnerable position the child was in. “Just the hired help.”
“I’m sure you’re the best help she could hire,” she said. Now she was stroking his arm, very lightly. He became aware of some very strange feelings in the lower regions of his body.
“Well, er, thank you.” He coughed, then took another drink of his ale to cover his discomfort. He had no idea what to say next, but she was showing no inclination to leave. “So, what’s your… name?” The last word came out as half a squeak. He hoped he wouldn’t have to go through puberty again in this body. It certainly seemed adult…
She smiled widely. “Magnolia. What’s yours?”
“Journey.” It felt so wonderful to give out his new name--his true name.
She laughed. “You must be a traveling bodyguard. Have you been to Atash before?”
He shook his head. “This is my first time.” He considered explaining that this was his first time as anyone’s bodyguard, but that would be too complicated, and he wouldn’t know how to explain what had happened between leaving his home town and traveling with the witch.
“Tell me about the other places you’ve been,” she begged. “Have you been to any other countries?”
He shook his head, his tongue locked with fear and confusion. He dug desperately around in his subconscious for a lie like the ones he’d told the blacksmith and others he’d spoken to, but nothing came to mind. If he had been born a man, he might not now be a bodyguard. He certainly would not have been a bodyguard before the last few months, since he would not have been an adult—and he could not come up with a way that his imaginary alter ego would have fallen in with a witch.
At the time he thought it luck that Cicatrix and Hemlock descended the stairs and started towards him at that very moment, but later, he realized that it had to have been another manifestation of Cicatrix’s Sight.
“Excellent, you are here,” said the witch briskly, taking hold of Journey’s shoulder. “The boy needs new shoes. We must visit the market before it closes.” She gave Magnolia a cold glance as she pulled Journey to his feet, seeming to acknowledge the woman politely at the same time as she dismissed her without a second thought.
Journey gave an apologetic smile, said “I’m very sorry, I must go,” and fumbled in his pouch for a silver piece, which he knew was overpaying for the drink, but he hoped might get the serving girl to leave him alone in the future—or perhaps make up for the delay to the woman at the bar, in whose darkened brow he saw a baleful anger.
They hurried out of the tavern; Cicatrix’s face betrayed no emotion, but Hemlock’s was pleased, and Journey was relieved that he had a way to escape from that conversation without seeming rude. “Does Hemlock really need new shoes?” he asked the witch in a quiet voice. Walking beside her small, slim form always made him feel large and ungainly, though nothing else could manage to give him the least bit of discomfort in his new body.
She looked up at him, her expression still calm but her eyes dancing with amusement, and said, “Of course. I do not lie.” And they left it at that.
Previous. | Next.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 12:21 pm (UTC)Journey is so cute, though. ^-^ I want to ruffle his hair, but he'd probably not know how to deal with that if I could. ^-~ I do like how you've taken the time to show us how he settles into his new body and life as well as how it isn't an entirely smooth transition.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 05:14 pm (UTC)Hehe, no, he probably would not like that XD Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 05:39 pm (UTC)The reason I poked it is because this is actually the second time Journey's given his name to someone other than Cicatrix or Hemlock. The first time is when the smith in the previous chapter asks him his name.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 06:58 pm (UTC)Oh dear, that is a very excellent reason to poke at it. I shall definitely fix that!
no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 07:16 pm (UTC)I'm not sure whether to call myself or the program stupid now... *feels very foolish, certainly* I thought I'd checked whether you could open/see them... Not sure you'll like it with the story posted, though. There was a lot. ^-^;;; Do you want me to send it again in doc so OO should show you the comments?
*should really learn not to use Office at all*
no subject
Date: 2012-05-12 02:49 am (UTC)