Love As It Was Made to Be: 10.
Mar. 24th, 2012 09:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyThat same afternoon, the trail faded away. The trees and scrub had been growing thinner and thinner, the rock more and more predominant, but Journey had not realized that the trees would vanish altogether or that the land before them would become all sheer rock. When he asked Cicatrix, she said, “We are at the top of the mountain. The winds are too strong here, and it is too cold. Nothing will grow.”
Heather and other tiny flowers grew in cracks and sheltered places, but he did not contradict her. It was cold, and windy, and there was no longer any verdant protection.
Journey wrapped a cloak about himself and climbed to the top of a rocky outcropping (carefully avoiding the heather as he stepped) to look around. But, while he could see dark patches that must have been trees below him and to every side, he could not tell how to go on. The rocks were mazed and tumbled, and any way to go forward might have been safe, or treacherous. There were fields near his home that were bogs in the spring, and Journey understood how a place that looked safe might suck you under at the merest misstep—or, in this case, move from under your foot and send you tumbling into blankness.
Furthermore, they were now so high that they were inside a cloud. Even if the path on the other side were marked, he could not see it.
He climbed down, caught his breath (the rock sheltered them, a little, from the wind) and explained what he had seen to Hemlock and Cicatrix. Hemlock bit his lip, but Cicatrix only nodded as though that was no less than she had expected. “I will go first, then,” she said. “Journey, keep tight hold on the donkey’s lead, but do not follow too closely behind me.”
“Will you use your magic to find the right path?” he asked her, but she did not answer.
She started up, and he waited a moment to give her a head start, then followed, tugging the donkey along behind him. It gave a snort and a toss of its head but went along. Hemlock walked along by its side, holding on to a saddlebag.
For a short time Cicatrix strode confidently up the smooth rock—and Journey could see now that here it was smooth, polished down by many pairs of feet and hooves—and they were silent. The mist seemed to thicken as they went further up, even more than it had seemed from Journey’s climb. Just as the donkey began to balk at going into the mist, Cicatrix paused, turning her head from side to side like a hound.
Journey, too, halted, waiting for Cicatrix to choose her direction. When they began moving again, he asked (his voice sounded strange and muffled in the mist), “Are you all right back there, Hemlock?”
“I believe so,” said the boy in his strangely mature way. “If I trip, I will catch myself on the saddlebags.”
“Be sure to make some sound if you do, so I can stop,” said Journey. He blinked as Cicatrix seemed to vanish in the mist, then reappear a foot to the left. She made no signal or gesture to him, but he turned the donkey’s head to the left nevertheless, and continued following slowly.
“I will,” Hemlock said. “If you trip, Mother will see to you.”
Yes, he supposed she would. “Now let us only hope that the donkey does not trip.”
Hemlock laughed, then went silent again. In the time of quiet Cicatrix twice more disappeared in the mist and reappeared where she should not have been. Journey followed wherever she went.
Eventually, the boy spoke again. “What did you do with yourself before you met Mother? I mean, how did you spend your time and feed yourself?”
“Well, I didn’t really do anything,” said Journey, surprised at the question. “I worked on the farm, but it was my parents’ farm, and they and my brothers did most of the work. They fed me, just like your mother feeds you.”
“So you never did anything like you’re doing for us?”
“No. I never left my village, and I was never allowed to use a weapon.”
“Mother does not like weapons, either, but she says when I live with my father I will be expected to learn to use one.”
Journey nodded, concentrating on where his feet fell. “That’s probably true. He is a lord, is he not? If Atash is anything like Skareya, he is expected to defend his lands. And you’ll be his heir, so you’ll have to defend the lands too.”
Hemlock was silent again for a moment. “I don’t know why the land needs me to have a weapon to defend it.”
“Well, when they say the land, they mean the crops that grow in it, and the animals, and the people that live there. The people can defend themselves, some of them, but they need a leader.”
Hemlock seemed to have nothing to say to that, which was somewhat convenient, as at that moment Cicatrix paused, turned, and met Journey’s eyes. Her own eyes were large and dark, as though no light could leave them. As soon as the eye contact had been established, she broke it and turned around again, walking carefully.
He did not understand her look until he had taken three more steps and there was suddenly a chasm to his left. The mist swirled about it, and when he looked down he saw only darkness, though whether that was due to great depth or dark-needled trees at the bottom he was not sure. “Hemlock,” he called, a bit frightened, for there was jagged rock to the right and they would only have a narrow space on which to walk. “Come here and walk in front of me.”
Hemlock did as was requested, with only a single, wordless glance at the chasm. Journey put one hand on his shoulder to steady them both, and they navigated the path slowly (for the donkey had to be urged along at every step) but without incident.
When the path widened again, Journey could not see Cicatrix, but there was still only one way to go, so he continued ahead. Hemlock fell back again to hold the saddlebag. The path rose steeply here, and after a moment, Journey’s head and shoulders broke through the cloud, and he was above it. He sucked in a lungful of the cold, thin air in surprise, and looked around. It was as though he stood in a sea of gray. There was nothing around, no movement or life—except, there, ahead of him, the witch’s dark head, which descended again into the mist almost the moment he caught sight of it.
He followed, and found himself descending as well. “Have we reached the top? Are we going down again?” Hemlock asked from behind him.
“I do not know,” he said. “You ask the same questions that are in my mind.”
It seemed to be true: they descended steeply for several yards, Cicatrix appearing and disappearing out of the mist ahead of them, before the ground leveled out again. They were still surrounded by the cloud, but the path seemed to have emerged once more; there was heather again, bits of it, and tumbled rocks to the left and right, but a smooth way of stone between. Hemlock walked forward and took Journey’s free hand again.
“If you didn’t do anything before you came to see us,” said Hemlock, surprising Journey both with the sudden sound (for the mist muffled even the donkey’s hooves on the rock) and with the return to the older topic, “what will you do after you’re done?”
“Well… I don’t know.” Journey was silent for a moment, thinking, then added, “You surprised me,” before working through his answer to the question.
“What do you mean?” asked Hemlock.
“I didn’t expect such an interesting question, I suppose. And I hadn’t thought about it. Before I came to see your mother, I could only imagine two paths for my future. One would be continuing to pretend to be a girl, marrying, and having children while working on my husband’s farm. It would have been awful for me. The other path was, of course, going to see a witch.” The mist was clearing now, and while Cicatrix continued to lead them from a distance ahead, he could now see her clearly. Hemlock’s little hand was a warm pressure on his own. “I never thought about what would happen after that. This duty gave me a purpose, but I hadn’t thought about it ending.”
“Will you take my mother back to Skareya?”
“If she wishes it. I did make that promise.”
“No one will stay with me.”
Journey glanced down at the boy, who suddenly seemed smaller than he ever had before. His brown head barely came past Journey’s hip. “You’ll be with your father. The family will… I’m sure they’ll be very happy to have you.”
“I’ve never met my father,” said Hemlock.
“No, I suppose you haven’t.” Journey tried to turn his mind away from his pity for the boy, back toward the question he had been asked. There was growing darkness ahead; the witch’s bright garb stood out. “I like being your protector, so I could find a job as a bodyguard or fighter, but I don’t know if that’s really how I want to spend the rest of my life. I suppose I’m going to have to figure out what it is I actually like. I spent so much time fighting against what was expected of me that I never grasped my own feelings.” He sighed. “I hope you never have to fight like that.”
Cicatrix had stopped. The darkness ahead, Journey now saw, had two sources: the trees, and the growing night. But the path ahead was clear again. Hemlock let go of Journey’s hand and ran ahead to meet his mother.
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Heather and other tiny flowers grew in cracks and sheltered places, but he did not contradict her. It was cold, and windy, and there was no longer any verdant protection.
Journey wrapped a cloak about himself and climbed to the top of a rocky outcropping (carefully avoiding the heather as he stepped) to look around. But, while he could see dark patches that must have been trees below him and to every side, he could not tell how to go on. The rocks were mazed and tumbled, and any way to go forward might have been safe, or treacherous. There were fields near his home that were bogs in the spring, and Journey understood how a place that looked safe might suck you under at the merest misstep—or, in this case, move from under your foot and send you tumbling into blankness.
Furthermore, they were now so high that they were inside a cloud. Even if the path on the other side were marked, he could not see it.
He climbed down, caught his breath (the rock sheltered them, a little, from the wind) and explained what he had seen to Hemlock and Cicatrix. Hemlock bit his lip, but Cicatrix only nodded as though that was no less than she had expected. “I will go first, then,” she said. “Journey, keep tight hold on the donkey’s lead, but do not follow too closely behind me.”
“Will you use your magic to find the right path?” he asked her, but she did not answer.
She started up, and he waited a moment to give her a head start, then followed, tugging the donkey along behind him. It gave a snort and a toss of its head but went along. Hemlock walked along by its side, holding on to a saddlebag.
For a short time Cicatrix strode confidently up the smooth rock—and Journey could see now that here it was smooth, polished down by many pairs of feet and hooves—and they were silent. The mist seemed to thicken as they went further up, even more than it had seemed from Journey’s climb. Just as the donkey began to balk at going into the mist, Cicatrix paused, turning her head from side to side like a hound.
Journey, too, halted, waiting for Cicatrix to choose her direction. When they began moving again, he asked (his voice sounded strange and muffled in the mist), “Are you all right back there, Hemlock?”
“I believe so,” said the boy in his strangely mature way. “If I trip, I will catch myself on the saddlebags.”
“Be sure to make some sound if you do, so I can stop,” said Journey. He blinked as Cicatrix seemed to vanish in the mist, then reappear a foot to the left. She made no signal or gesture to him, but he turned the donkey’s head to the left nevertheless, and continued following slowly.
“I will,” Hemlock said. “If you trip, Mother will see to you.”
Yes, he supposed she would. “Now let us only hope that the donkey does not trip.”
Hemlock laughed, then went silent again. In the time of quiet Cicatrix twice more disappeared in the mist and reappeared where she should not have been. Journey followed wherever she went.
Eventually, the boy spoke again. “What did you do with yourself before you met Mother? I mean, how did you spend your time and feed yourself?”
“Well, I didn’t really do anything,” said Journey, surprised at the question. “I worked on the farm, but it was my parents’ farm, and they and my brothers did most of the work. They fed me, just like your mother feeds you.”
“So you never did anything like you’re doing for us?”
“No. I never left my village, and I was never allowed to use a weapon.”
“Mother does not like weapons, either, but she says when I live with my father I will be expected to learn to use one.”
Journey nodded, concentrating on where his feet fell. “That’s probably true. He is a lord, is he not? If Atash is anything like Skareya, he is expected to defend his lands. And you’ll be his heir, so you’ll have to defend the lands too.”
Hemlock was silent again for a moment. “I don’t know why the land needs me to have a weapon to defend it.”
“Well, when they say the land, they mean the crops that grow in it, and the animals, and the people that live there. The people can defend themselves, some of them, but they need a leader.”
Hemlock seemed to have nothing to say to that, which was somewhat convenient, as at that moment Cicatrix paused, turned, and met Journey’s eyes. Her own eyes were large and dark, as though no light could leave them. As soon as the eye contact had been established, she broke it and turned around again, walking carefully.
He did not understand her look until he had taken three more steps and there was suddenly a chasm to his left. The mist swirled about it, and when he looked down he saw only darkness, though whether that was due to great depth or dark-needled trees at the bottom he was not sure. “Hemlock,” he called, a bit frightened, for there was jagged rock to the right and they would only have a narrow space on which to walk. “Come here and walk in front of me.”
Hemlock did as was requested, with only a single, wordless glance at the chasm. Journey put one hand on his shoulder to steady them both, and they navigated the path slowly (for the donkey had to be urged along at every step) but without incident.
When the path widened again, Journey could not see Cicatrix, but there was still only one way to go, so he continued ahead. Hemlock fell back again to hold the saddlebag. The path rose steeply here, and after a moment, Journey’s head and shoulders broke through the cloud, and he was above it. He sucked in a lungful of the cold, thin air in surprise, and looked around. It was as though he stood in a sea of gray. There was nothing around, no movement or life—except, there, ahead of him, the witch’s dark head, which descended again into the mist almost the moment he caught sight of it.
He followed, and found himself descending as well. “Have we reached the top? Are we going down again?” Hemlock asked from behind him.
“I do not know,” he said. “You ask the same questions that are in my mind.”
It seemed to be true: they descended steeply for several yards, Cicatrix appearing and disappearing out of the mist ahead of them, before the ground leveled out again. They were still surrounded by the cloud, but the path seemed to have emerged once more; there was heather again, bits of it, and tumbled rocks to the left and right, but a smooth way of stone between. Hemlock walked forward and took Journey’s free hand again.
“If you didn’t do anything before you came to see us,” said Hemlock, surprising Journey both with the sudden sound (for the mist muffled even the donkey’s hooves on the rock) and with the return to the older topic, “what will you do after you’re done?”
“Well… I don’t know.” Journey was silent for a moment, thinking, then added, “You surprised me,” before working through his answer to the question.
“What do you mean?” asked Hemlock.
“I didn’t expect such an interesting question, I suppose. And I hadn’t thought about it. Before I came to see your mother, I could only imagine two paths for my future. One would be continuing to pretend to be a girl, marrying, and having children while working on my husband’s farm. It would have been awful for me. The other path was, of course, going to see a witch.” The mist was clearing now, and while Cicatrix continued to lead them from a distance ahead, he could now see her clearly. Hemlock’s little hand was a warm pressure on his own. “I never thought about what would happen after that. This duty gave me a purpose, but I hadn’t thought about it ending.”
“Will you take my mother back to Skareya?”
“If she wishes it. I did make that promise.”
“No one will stay with me.”
Journey glanced down at the boy, who suddenly seemed smaller than he ever had before. His brown head barely came past Journey’s hip. “You’ll be with your father. The family will… I’m sure they’ll be very happy to have you.”
“I’ve never met my father,” said Hemlock.
“No, I suppose you haven’t.” Journey tried to turn his mind away from his pity for the boy, back toward the question he had been asked. There was growing darkness ahead; the witch’s bright garb stood out. “I like being your protector, so I could find a job as a bodyguard or fighter, but I don’t know if that’s really how I want to spend the rest of my life. I suppose I’m going to have to figure out what it is I actually like. I spent so much time fighting against what was expected of me that I never grasped my own feelings.” He sighed. “I hope you never have to fight like that.”
Cicatrix had stopped. The darkness ahead, Journey now saw, had two sources: the trees, and the growing night. But the path ahead was clear again. Hemlock let go of Journey’s hand and ran ahead to meet his mother.
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Date: 2012-05-12 08:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-12 04:07 pm (UTC)