Love As It Was Made to Be: 6.
Mar. 24th, 2012 09:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyThe next day, they traveled west a few miles, and came to a much larger trading town. There they provisioned themselves for the journey, including the purchase of a donkey. The man who sold it to them tried to convince them that a mule would be a more economical and sturdier pack animal for their journey, but all the mules rolled their eyes and shifted away from Cicatrix, while the donkey did not seem disturbed in the least.
Thus prepared, they made their way north out of the town, to a track that led up into the mountains. Journey was surprised that no one else seemed to be leaving the town that day, considering how smooth and well-traveled the track seemed to be. Perhaps it was luck and perhaps it was the witch; and perhaps it was no luck at all.
The trees clustered thickly about them as they climbed. Journey found it surprisingly exhausting work. He’d thought the hills were steep enough to climb, but this mountain path seemed to go up twice as fast as any of the hills had, for all it zigged back and forth across the face. After several miles, he looked down and could still see the roofs of the town they had just left, though they seemed small and far away.
They all had to rest several times during the day, and though Journey had thought they were bringing far too much water when they’d set out, the amount they drank during their short rests made him think they might not have brought enough. They only encountered one stream, where Cicatrix insisted the humans not drink, though she allowed the donkey to do so.
Journey was extremely grateful for that donkey, though it stank and relieved itself on the trail and occasionally refused to go around a turn without all three of them pulling on its bridle. The walk would have been even more difficult with a pack on his back, and the donkey could carry Hemlock as well. The boy still didn’t complain much, but when he started to stumble over smooth ground, his mother lifted him to the donkey’s back without comment.
Journey could not keep track of the time; the trees, a mixture of broad-leaved and needled, blocked out the sun without seeming to diminish the light much, so that he could not tell which direction the light was coming from. Too, there were mountains to the east and west, so the rising and setting sun might not be seen at all. But there came a time when the witch urged them faster, and within half an hour of that time, the light seemed to be dimming, and they reached a house.
It was a small, rude place by Journey’s estimation, but there was land cleared around it, including what had to be hundreds of feet of mountain going up. Cicatrix took Hemlock down from the donkey, put his hand in hers, and walked briskly to knock on the door. Journey trailed behind them without getting too far. The donkey stayed where it was left and began to crop at the grass.
Cicatrix’s knock was quickly answered by a thin woman with a dirty apron and flour in her hair. Her face was lined and pitted enough that Journey took her for his grandmother’s eyes, but her pale blue eyes widened and she smiled on seeing them, and he revised his estimation down significantly. “Travelers!” she cried in a strange accent, clipping her r’s and rounding her vowels. “Be you needing a place to stay?”
“If it isn’t too much trouble,” said Cicatrix, sounding surprisingly humble. “We can’t pay much, and there are three of us.”
The woman nodded cheerfully. “No trouble, a little coin and a bit of story is all we ask. If there wasn’t three of you I’d be worried for your safety on these mountains. Russet!” she called, turning halfway to look back into the house. “We’ve guests, see to their donkey! Come in,” she added, turning back to the travelers and beckoning them with a gnarled hand.
The home belonged to a shepherd and his family—the woman who had greeted them was his wife, and Russet was one of their seven children. None of them seemed to like either Cicatrix or Journey, for which they were scolded (though Journey thought the parents felt the same, and he saw the wife looking with pursed lips at the witch’s bare feet), but Journey was happy enough avoiding more than the occasional odd stare. The children seemed to know what the adults did not.
Thankfully they accepted Hemlock into their ranks, and he ran about in the backyard between the house and the sheep pen with them, waving sticks and shouting. Journey smiled to see it, and found that he was relieved to see Hemlock behaving like a normal child for once.
They shared the shepherds’ meal and fire, and were eventually asked to offer stories in recompense. Journey was happy to let Cicatrix do all the talking, and she did spin a wonderful tale of elf magic, but eventually Journey was asked for his story.
He took a deep breath and resisted the urge to look at Cicatrix. They had never discussed a story for how they had met. He had had nothing for the serving girl the other day. “This is my first time crossing the mountains,” he began, having no idea what he was going to say next. “My first time away from home, in fact.”
The shepherd, who had a full grey beard and twinkling blue eyes that just matched his wife’s, smiled at Journey. Journey smiled back and felt bolstered. “I was never meant to be a farmer’s son, I don’t think,” he said, the words emerging before he could even think of them. It was true; but he had no idea what was coming next, whether he was going to tell a story or just fumble around until the couple lost interest and sent everyone to bed. “But I guess I didn’t have much choice until I turned eighteen, which was just a few months ago. Then I started to get itchy feet, as you might call it. I didn’t want to stay at home any longer. There were plenty of girls at home who would have married me if I’d just asked, and one or two I might want to go home to in time, but I could never have been happy staying in one place all my life.”
He paused to catch his breath and evaluate his words. He was relieved and joyful to find that they were becoming true as he spoke them, like the little lies he’d told the blacksmith when he bought his war hammer (now resting just by the door in a sign of trust). “But I didn’t know what to do at first. I could use my hammer, and I’m sure if there was a war on I would have joined up straight away, but the army doesn’t need me in peace time. I tried asking around for merchant caravan jobs, but none of those went through any of the towns near me and I didn’t want to go traveling to a big city when I didn’t even know if I’d find a job.
“So then I decided to see our local witch. She had a reputation for wisdom.” He finally turned to look at Cicatrix, who was leaning back in her seat, hands wrapped around a cup of hot wine. She was holding it up so it hid her face, but he thought he saw a twinkle of approval in her dark eyes. “And, well, it turns out a bodyguard is just what she needed. Maybe she brought me there with magic, but I’m having a good time so far.” The last part was finally something he’d consciously conceived. He thought he would have enjoyed traveling no matter what his life was like, but now that he’d been put in his new body, he’d never had a better time in his life.
“Not much of a story,” teased the shepherd’s wife.
Journey shrugged with a wry smile. “I haven’t had much of a life. If we come back through here, I can promise you a better one.”
She laughed. “That’s fair enough. I suppose we’d better all get some sleep, anyway. Kids! Bedtime!”
The children helped set up a bed for the guests—really just a thin straw mattress and a blanket by the fire, but Journey, who had been expecting for most of the day to sleep on the ground, was grateful for it. Cicatrix placed Hemlock between the two of them, alleviating Journey’s discomfort at sharing a single bed.
The boy fell asleep quickly, exhausted from hiking and playing. Journey stayed awake, pondering the story he’d told. It was so close to the truth, and yet, nothing at all like it.
He realized, from the fire’s glint, that Cicatrix, too, was still awake. He took a deep breath, and, speaking softly so as not to wake Hemlock, asked, “Where did that story come from?”
“You,” was the swift and equally soft reply.
He shook his head slowly, though he was on the far side from the fire and likely no light fell on him. “But why didn’t it come yesterday? I liked that serving girl. I wanted to impress her.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He sighed. “All right. I wanted her to go away. But I couldn’t think of any explanation for her. And then tonight, I did. Where did that come from?”
“It came from your own mind. You blocked yourself yesterday, because you were afraid.”
“But I was afraid tonight, too.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I thought I was.”
“It wasn’t the same fear.” One of the witch’s arms came up against the fire, and she seemed to brush at her face. “I cannot explain your own subconscious mind to you, Journey.”
“You seem to be able to explain everything else.”
She reached across Hemlock and lightly touched Journey’s shorn hair. “I see futures, not minds. Your memories contain one past, but your body contains another. When you are certain in this body, its past will be yours to tell.”
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Thus prepared, they made their way north out of the town, to a track that led up into the mountains. Journey was surprised that no one else seemed to be leaving the town that day, considering how smooth and well-traveled the track seemed to be. Perhaps it was luck and perhaps it was the witch; and perhaps it was no luck at all.
The trees clustered thickly about them as they climbed. Journey found it surprisingly exhausting work. He’d thought the hills were steep enough to climb, but this mountain path seemed to go up twice as fast as any of the hills had, for all it zigged back and forth across the face. After several miles, he looked down and could still see the roofs of the town they had just left, though they seemed small and far away.
They all had to rest several times during the day, and though Journey had thought they were bringing far too much water when they’d set out, the amount they drank during their short rests made him think they might not have brought enough. They only encountered one stream, where Cicatrix insisted the humans not drink, though she allowed the donkey to do so.
Journey was extremely grateful for that donkey, though it stank and relieved itself on the trail and occasionally refused to go around a turn without all three of them pulling on its bridle. The walk would have been even more difficult with a pack on his back, and the donkey could carry Hemlock as well. The boy still didn’t complain much, but when he started to stumble over smooth ground, his mother lifted him to the donkey’s back without comment.
Journey could not keep track of the time; the trees, a mixture of broad-leaved and needled, blocked out the sun without seeming to diminish the light much, so that he could not tell which direction the light was coming from. Too, there were mountains to the east and west, so the rising and setting sun might not be seen at all. But there came a time when the witch urged them faster, and within half an hour of that time, the light seemed to be dimming, and they reached a house.
It was a small, rude place by Journey’s estimation, but there was land cleared around it, including what had to be hundreds of feet of mountain going up. Cicatrix took Hemlock down from the donkey, put his hand in hers, and walked briskly to knock on the door. Journey trailed behind them without getting too far. The donkey stayed where it was left and began to crop at the grass.
Cicatrix’s knock was quickly answered by a thin woman with a dirty apron and flour in her hair. Her face was lined and pitted enough that Journey took her for his grandmother’s eyes, but her pale blue eyes widened and she smiled on seeing them, and he revised his estimation down significantly. “Travelers!” she cried in a strange accent, clipping her r’s and rounding her vowels. “Be you needing a place to stay?”
“If it isn’t too much trouble,” said Cicatrix, sounding surprisingly humble. “We can’t pay much, and there are three of us.”
The woman nodded cheerfully. “No trouble, a little coin and a bit of story is all we ask. If there wasn’t three of you I’d be worried for your safety on these mountains. Russet!” she called, turning halfway to look back into the house. “We’ve guests, see to their donkey! Come in,” she added, turning back to the travelers and beckoning them with a gnarled hand.
The home belonged to a shepherd and his family—the woman who had greeted them was his wife, and Russet was one of their seven children. None of them seemed to like either Cicatrix or Journey, for which they were scolded (though Journey thought the parents felt the same, and he saw the wife looking with pursed lips at the witch’s bare feet), but Journey was happy enough avoiding more than the occasional odd stare. The children seemed to know what the adults did not.
Thankfully they accepted Hemlock into their ranks, and he ran about in the backyard between the house and the sheep pen with them, waving sticks and shouting. Journey smiled to see it, and found that he was relieved to see Hemlock behaving like a normal child for once.
They shared the shepherds’ meal and fire, and were eventually asked to offer stories in recompense. Journey was happy to let Cicatrix do all the talking, and she did spin a wonderful tale of elf magic, but eventually Journey was asked for his story.
He took a deep breath and resisted the urge to look at Cicatrix. They had never discussed a story for how they had met. He had had nothing for the serving girl the other day. “This is my first time crossing the mountains,” he began, having no idea what he was going to say next. “My first time away from home, in fact.”
The shepherd, who had a full grey beard and twinkling blue eyes that just matched his wife’s, smiled at Journey. Journey smiled back and felt bolstered. “I was never meant to be a farmer’s son, I don’t think,” he said, the words emerging before he could even think of them. It was true; but he had no idea what was coming next, whether he was going to tell a story or just fumble around until the couple lost interest and sent everyone to bed. “But I guess I didn’t have much choice until I turned eighteen, which was just a few months ago. Then I started to get itchy feet, as you might call it. I didn’t want to stay at home any longer. There were plenty of girls at home who would have married me if I’d just asked, and one or two I might want to go home to in time, but I could never have been happy staying in one place all my life.”
He paused to catch his breath and evaluate his words. He was relieved and joyful to find that they were becoming true as he spoke them, like the little lies he’d told the blacksmith when he bought his war hammer (now resting just by the door in a sign of trust). “But I didn’t know what to do at first. I could use my hammer, and I’m sure if there was a war on I would have joined up straight away, but the army doesn’t need me in peace time. I tried asking around for merchant caravan jobs, but none of those went through any of the towns near me and I didn’t want to go traveling to a big city when I didn’t even know if I’d find a job.
“So then I decided to see our local witch. She had a reputation for wisdom.” He finally turned to look at Cicatrix, who was leaning back in her seat, hands wrapped around a cup of hot wine. She was holding it up so it hid her face, but he thought he saw a twinkle of approval in her dark eyes. “And, well, it turns out a bodyguard is just what she needed. Maybe she brought me there with magic, but I’m having a good time so far.” The last part was finally something he’d consciously conceived. He thought he would have enjoyed traveling no matter what his life was like, but now that he’d been put in his new body, he’d never had a better time in his life.
“Not much of a story,” teased the shepherd’s wife.
Journey shrugged with a wry smile. “I haven’t had much of a life. If we come back through here, I can promise you a better one.”
She laughed. “That’s fair enough. I suppose we’d better all get some sleep, anyway. Kids! Bedtime!”
The children helped set up a bed for the guests—really just a thin straw mattress and a blanket by the fire, but Journey, who had been expecting for most of the day to sleep on the ground, was grateful for it. Cicatrix placed Hemlock between the two of them, alleviating Journey’s discomfort at sharing a single bed.
The boy fell asleep quickly, exhausted from hiking and playing. Journey stayed awake, pondering the story he’d told. It was so close to the truth, and yet, nothing at all like it.
He realized, from the fire’s glint, that Cicatrix, too, was still awake. He took a deep breath, and, speaking softly so as not to wake Hemlock, asked, “Where did that story come from?”
“You,” was the swift and equally soft reply.
He shook his head slowly, though he was on the far side from the fire and likely no light fell on him. “But why didn’t it come yesterday? I liked that serving girl. I wanted to impress her.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He sighed. “All right. I wanted her to go away. But I couldn’t think of any explanation for her. And then tonight, I did. Where did that come from?”
“It came from your own mind. You blocked yourself yesterday, because you were afraid.”
“But I was afraid tonight, too.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“I thought I was.”
“It wasn’t the same fear.” One of the witch’s arms came up against the fire, and she seemed to brush at her face. “I cannot explain your own subconscious mind to you, Journey.”
“You seem to be able to explain everything else.”
She reached across Hemlock and lightly touched Journey’s shorn hair. “I see futures, not minds. Your memories contain one past, but your body contains another. When you are certain in this body, its past will be yours to tell.”
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