Love As It Was Made to Be: 9.
Mar. 24th, 2012 09:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyJourney had thought mountain air would be invigorating, but as they climbed, he and Hemlock both seemed to have less energy throughout the day, even as the muscles in their legs grew stronger. Cicatrix told them that the air was thinner in these high regions, and certainly the undergrowth seemed thinner and the trees more stunted. He kept expecting to reach the summit and see all the lands stretched out before them, but they continued to only climb, though sometimes the slope was less and sometimes it was more.
The terrain grew rougher and rockier, and their progress slowed for more reason than one: turns in the trail grew more and more common, and the donkey had to be coaxed along quite frequently. Then they came to what appeared to be a steep, rocky cliff in their path, and could not see anything around it. The path was narrow, but they could make it. Journey gritted his teeth and went to take the donkey’s reins and drag it around the corner by force.
Before he could take another step, though, Cicatrix hissed, “Wait.” He froze in place just as she did, one hand in the air, her shoulders slightly hunched. Her head was lifted to the sky, and her eyes glinted a strange, flat blue.
After a long moment she exhaled, dropped her hand and straightened. “It is all right. He will not hurt us. Though the donkey may,” she added, twisting her lips into a wry smile. “Go on, Journey. I shall push.”
Between the two of them they got the donkey around the corner the way they usually did. Then Journey turned around to be confronted by a strange, menacing creature—a man, he realized after a moment, but with hair and clothes so filthy and matted and eyes so wide and staring that he scarcely deserved the term. There was a sword in his hand.
Journey’s first instinct was to snatch his war hammer, but then he remembered the witch’s words. Still, he drew it, and held it lightly in the hand that was not clutching the donkey’s reins; there was no way to go back now, even if Cicatrix and Hemlock were to back away, and this man was blocking the narrow path forward. “Please excuse us,” he said politely, hoping that there was a threat behind his words. How reliable was the witch’s Sight, truly?
The man raised the sword, and Journey saw, with a surprising stab of pity, that it was thin and rusty, pitted in places, and would certainly shatter on impact with Journey’s clothing, let alone his weapon. “I’ll have your money,” the man snarled, his voice deep and rough.
“No,” said Journey. “I do not think you will.” He looked around, but he could not see where the man had emerged from. “I do not wish to hurt you,” he continued, knowing it was true. “If you simply step aside and let us pass, there will be no need for us to quarrel.”
“I’ll have your money!” the man repeated, shaking his sword in a movement that was at least as much palsied trembling as it was threat.
Journey glanced back, but he could not see Cicatrix past the donkey, and she seemed to be staying oddly silent. “Are you hungry, sir? I believe we could spare a little food. And if you go down the path for a day’s journey or so, there is an inn that I believe would take pity on you.”
The man backed away a step. His eyes were wild and wary. “I don’t need charity. I’ll fight you.”
Journey nodded. “I would prefer not to.” He reached back as best he could—thankfully the donkey did not seem to mind the intrusion, and he wondered if Cicatrix were using her concentration in ensorcelling the beast—and opened the nearest pack. Reaching his hand in, he encountered a large loaf of hearty bread, baked brown and filled with seeds and bits of dried fruit. It was good traveling ration, or so the man who had sold it to them had claimed. He held it up for a moment, then gently lobbed it toward the man on the trail.
The man stared until the bread was close enough that it would hit him if he did not stop it. Then he dropped his sword, snatched the loaf with both hands, and leapt sideways into the undergrowth.
Journey, startled, ran forward, dragging the donkey with him, but there was nothing; he could not see where the man had gone. There must have been some cave concealed in the stone. Now that the danger, slight though it may have been, was over, he found he was shaking. He toed the sword aside, getting it out of the trail.
Now that the donkey was around the narrow bit of trail, Cicatrix and Hemlock came around it. The boy stared wide-eyed at the sword, and the witch looked up at Journey and smiled a strange, sideways, twisted smile.
“What is it?” he asked, disturbed by her half-mocking expression. “Did I do something wrong? The bread can be taken from my rations.”
She did not answer, but kept walking. After a moment Journey, still leading the donkey, caught up with her. “You are not angry,” he said, not a question, because he had never seen her angry, and she was not so different now. But he was still puzzled.
“How could I ever be angry with you?” she said, amused. “I can never know what the right thing is to do, but I believe that you did it there. We will be comfortable without the bread.”
He shook his head, confused. “Then why do you smile at me that way?”
“You are different, that is all.”
Something twisted in his gut. He said, angrily, “How am I different? You must tell me.”
“No,” she said. “For you can only be who you are, and you were raised differently from any other man.”
“But my past as a man is real. Isn’t it?”
“It is real when your body is consulted. When your mind and emotions are consulted, perhaps not so much. For a man would have been raised to always answer sword with sword, never with soft words. Yet that man would have only fought harder and possibly injured himself and you had you defended yourself.”
“I only avoided fighting him because of what you said.”
She twisted her head up and to the side to look at him. “Then at least you listened to a woman.”
“Journey,” said Hemlock before he could come up with a response to that (and truly, he did not think he would have), “may I ride for a while?”
“Certainly,” he said, and stopped to lift the boy onto the donkey’s back.
That night, Cicatrix made a circle of protection around their camp, as she always did so that none of them would need to be wakeful to watch. Journey watched her more closely than ever.
After they set out in the morning they were accosted by brigands. This time Cicatrix had not warned them. Most of them carried short knives; the leader carried a sword, bright, shining, and sharp. Journey knocked it out of his hand with a single swing of his hammer. The brigands fled without even frightening the donkey.
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The terrain grew rougher and rockier, and their progress slowed for more reason than one: turns in the trail grew more and more common, and the donkey had to be coaxed along quite frequently. Then they came to what appeared to be a steep, rocky cliff in their path, and could not see anything around it. The path was narrow, but they could make it. Journey gritted his teeth and went to take the donkey’s reins and drag it around the corner by force.
Before he could take another step, though, Cicatrix hissed, “Wait.” He froze in place just as she did, one hand in the air, her shoulders slightly hunched. Her head was lifted to the sky, and her eyes glinted a strange, flat blue.
After a long moment she exhaled, dropped her hand and straightened. “It is all right. He will not hurt us. Though the donkey may,” she added, twisting her lips into a wry smile. “Go on, Journey. I shall push.”
Between the two of them they got the donkey around the corner the way they usually did. Then Journey turned around to be confronted by a strange, menacing creature—a man, he realized after a moment, but with hair and clothes so filthy and matted and eyes so wide and staring that he scarcely deserved the term. There was a sword in his hand.
Journey’s first instinct was to snatch his war hammer, but then he remembered the witch’s words. Still, he drew it, and held it lightly in the hand that was not clutching the donkey’s reins; there was no way to go back now, even if Cicatrix and Hemlock were to back away, and this man was blocking the narrow path forward. “Please excuse us,” he said politely, hoping that there was a threat behind his words. How reliable was the witch’s Sight, truly?
The man raised the sword, and Journey saw, with a surprising stab of pity, that it was thin and rusty, pitted in places, and would certainly shatter on impact with Journey’s clothing, let alone his weapon. “I’ll have your money,” the man snarled, his voice deep and rough.
“No,” said Journey. “I do not think you will.” He looked around, but he could not see where the man had emerged from. “I do not wish to hurt you,” he continued, knowing it was true. “If you simply step aside and let us pass, there will be no need for us to quarrel.”
“I’ll have your money!” the man repeated, shaking his sword in a movement that was at least as much palsied trembling as it was threat.
Journey glanced back, but he could not see Cicatrix past the donkey, and she seemed to be staying oddly silent. “Are you hungry, sir? I believe we could spare a little food. And if you go down the path for a day’s journey or so, there is an inn that I believe would take pity on you.”
The man backed away a step. His eyes were wild and wary. “I don’t need charity. I’ll fight you.”
Journey nodded. “I would prefer not to.” He reached back as best he could—thankfully the donkey did not seem to mind the intrusion, and he wondered if Cicatrix were using her concentration in ensorcelling the beast—and opened the nearest pack. Reaching his hand in, he encountered a large loaf of hearty bread, baked brown and filled with seeds and bits of dried fruit. It was good traveling ration, or so the man who had sold it to them had claimed. He held it up for a moment, then gently lobbed it toward the man on the trail.
The man stared until the bread was close enough that it would hit him if he did not stop it. Then he dropped his sword, snatched the loaf with both hands, and leapt sideways into the undergrowth.
Journey, startled, ran forward, dragging the donkey with him, but there was nothing; he could not see where the man had gone. There must have been some cave concealed in the stone. Now that the danger, slight though it may have been, was over, he found he was shaking. He toed the sword aside, getting it out of the trail.
Now that the donkey was around the narrow bit of trail, Cicatrix and Hemlock came around it. The boy stared wide-eyed at the sword, and the witch looked up at Journey and smiled a strange, sideways, twisted smile.
“What is it?” he asked, disturbed by her half-mocking expression. “Did I do something wrong? The bread can be taken from my rations.”
She did not answer, but kept walking. After a moment Journey, still leading the donkey, caught up with her. “You are not angry,” he said, not a question, because he had never seen her angry, and she was not so different now. But he was still puzzled.
“How could I ever be angry with you?” she said, amused. “I can never know what the right thing is to do, but I believe that you did it there. We will be comfortable without the bread.”
He shook his head, confused. “Then why do you smile at me that way?”
“You are different, that is all.”
Something twisted in his gut. He said, angrily, “How am I different? You must tell me.”
“No,” she said. “For you can only be who you are, and you were raised differently from any other man.”
“But my past as a man is real. Isn’t it?”
“It is real when your body is consulted. When your mind and emotions are consulted, perhaps not so much. For a man would have been raised to always answer sword with sword, never with soft words. Yet that man would have only fought harder and possibly injured himself and you had you defended yourself.”
“I only avoided fighting him because of what you said.”
She twisted her head up and to the side to look at him. “Then at least you listened to a woman.”
“Journey,” said Hemlock before he could come up with a response to that (and truly, he did not think he would have), “may I ride for a while?”
“Certainly,” he said, and stopped to lift the boy onto the donkey’s back.
That night, Cicatrix made a circle of protection around their camp, as she always did so that none of them would need to be wakeful to watch. Journey watched her more closely than ever.
After they set out in the morning they were accosted by brigands. This time Cicatrix had not warned them. Most of them carried short knives; the leader carried a sword, bright, shining, and sharp. Journey knocked it out of his hand with a single swing of his hammer. The brigands fled without even frightening the donkey.
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