Love As It Was Made to Be: 12.
Mar. 24th, 2012 09:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyIn the morning, though both Journey and Cicatrix woke with the dawn, the black-haired man and his companions were gone. So were the contents of one of the saddlebags. It was only food, but Journey was angry. “Did you not see this?” he asked Cicatrix, but she gave no answer.
Journey tried to hunt, but his hammer was not a weapon suited for game, and the only wild things to be found this close to the clouds were fleet squirrels and tiny mice, not worth the time even if he could catch them. Without discussing it with the others, he began to consume less, hoping to make the food stretch. He did not know how many inns or friendly shepherds they would find on the Artash side of the mountains.
However, to his surprise, they were not on that side yet, for the land dipped down, and leveled out for some way. They had traveled downward less than half the time they had traveled up, and the clouds were still close. Here was a sweet valley between the mountains, and almost he might have killed a deer, but he did not, for they had no way to dress or transport it.
They reached the center of the valley, a little after sunset; there, nestled beside another clear mountain lake, was a cozy inn. Journey did not know how the men had managed to miss Cicatrix’s money and steal only food—perhaps she had seen it coming after all—but they still had plenty of coin, and she bought for them meals and rooms for the night.
Some of the serving girls flirted with Journey, but he did not flirt back. When he slept that night, he thought it was the most comfortable bed he had ever been in.
They began to climb again that afternoon, and Journey thought that the trees looked thicker and darker on this mountain—or perhaps it was only that they were coming closer to their destination, and he was afraid.
“Journey,” Cicatrix said softly, from where she was leading the donkey behind him. “Be on your guard.”
He glanced back at her serene face, nodded, and slipped the hammer from his belt.
Enough time passed that he had begun to doubt whether she had seen anything—or perhaps whatever danger it was had seen his hammer and slunk back into the trees—but then something swung into his path and landed with a thump ahead of him. It was a man with black hair and a scar on his face that twisted his mouth into a sneer.
“We’ll have your bags,” he said. “And that fine donkey too, I shouldn’t think.”
“I think you should not,” said Cicatrix, in a cold, clear voice.
Journey winced and looked back at her. For had she not seen what he had—the trees beside them suddenly bristling with arrow-points? There were at least a half-dozen, and only three of them. Here, perhaps, there would be larger game, and he could hunt for them. It would be easier and safer for them to simply give the bandits what they wanted.
But her eyes were calm, and her mouth pressed into a line, and he knew that she wanted him to fight.
When he turned back to the bandit captain his eyes were laughing. “Well, will you fight me then, a boy with a hammer and a girl with no shoes on? So be it, then.” He drew a long dagger and leapt at Journey.
Journey had a moment to be surprised that he had not ordered his men to fire on them, and then he was fighting. His first blow with the hammer knocked the bandit back, but angered him; his second blow knocked the knife from the man’s hand and may have shattered the bones there. He could not say, for the bandit was now shouting for his men to fire and Journey was dropping and rolling for his life as arrows whizzed past him. Cicatrix and Hemlock were pressed against the donkey. He could not understand what they were doing, but as none of them were pierced, it must have been something useful. The donkey’s eyes were rolling madly, but it wasn’t bolting.
Rolling back onto his stomach, Journey had a clear view of the bandit captain, and struck at him again. This blow somehow, through sheer luck, connected with the man’s leg, and he fell, howling. But the knife was in his other hand now.
Journey scrambled to his feet. “Call your men off,” he tried to say, panting, but either he was too out of breath to make himself understood or the bandit captain didn’t want to understand. The man roared again and struck out with the knife. It scraped along Journey’s chest, leaving a long, burning line of pain. Journey flailed out with his hammer and felt it connect. His vision went black for a moment, and when he could see again, the bandit was lying at his feet, a dent in the side of his skull and blood running from it, his eyes open and staring to the sky.
Shaking on his feet, Journey swung left and right, ready to face the rest of the band (though the pain in his chest was fierce, and he was having trouble catching his breath), but they melted into the trees. Killing their chief must have taken the fight out of them.
Killing? Journey looked down at the man again. There was no movement, not even the tiniest rise and fall of the chest, and as he reached the realization his knees gave out from underneath him and he fell to the ground.
“Journey!” cried Cicatrix, and ran forward to grab at him. He could hear the donkey braying and stamping, but couldn’t do anything about it. He wasn’t sure he understood anything that was going on.
“Are they gone?” he asked, trying to look around even as Cicatrix clamped his head between her knees. “Don’t hold me down, I have to—”
“You have to stay still,” said the witch sharply. “You’re injured.”
Part of him heard and understood the wisdom of her words, and part of him continued on the adrenaline-filled track his mind had joined when the knife had appeared. “Hemlock—you? You’re not injured?”
“We’re fine,” Cicatrix said. “And the donkey, too. They had no aim whatsoever. Now hold still.”
He finally obeyed, though her voice was nothing at all like soothing. It was starting to rain, and he had to shut his eyes so they didn’t fill with water, though he thought it looked beautiful, coming down all silver through the dark trees. Cicatrix ripped away his shirt, and he grunted with pain where it pulled against his wound, then almost shouted as she prodded it with her fingers. “You’re just making it worse.”
“I’m not. I do believe I know what I am doing, as a matter of fact.” She tore more of his shirt and dabbed at the blood. “This isn’t very bad, really. You did a good job there.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he responded, tiny drips of rainwater getting into his mouth. “I just flailed around. Where’d all the others go?”
“They’re not here anymore. Don’t worry about them.”
“How do you know?”
“I am a witch. Now hush so I can concentrate.”
He obeyed. It helped that Hemlock had evidently gotten the donkey under control, and they had come around the two of them on the path and were standing over him; he was both pleased not to have as much rain dripping on him any more and relieved to be able to see with his own eyes that they were both all right. Hemlock looked down at him with his large, solemn eyes, but did not seem the least bit worried.
After a moment the pain subsided, and his chest felt tight. Cicatrix made a long stroke across his chest with her cool fingers, and then nodded. “All right. Try to sit up.”
He did, and was amazed to discover that while there was still pain, and his chest was still tight, he could breathe much more easily, and he did not seem to be bleeding any longer. He tried to look down at his chest, but the wound was too high for him to look at easily; still, he thought he saw a pink line of scarring rather than the deep cut it had been only minutes ago.
“You healed me?” he asked wonderingly, lifting his fingers to prod at the wound.
Cicatrix snatched at his hand, stopping it from touching his chest. “Yes, for the most part, but no other fingers but mine should touch it for at least several days. It is a fragile enchantment, and you could break the wound open.”
He turned his head and blinked at her. “Why didn’t you heal me after I fought that cat?”
She smiled faintly. “Three reasons. One, you were then being foolhardy; you were now being brave. Two, I try not to make my skills too obvious, and this is one that many people will demand more of should I let them. Three, those were all quite superficial wounds, and we had the facilities to bandage them. We have no good bandages here, and I had to close it up so infection did not set in.”
He nodded, still perhaps slightly dazed. He had lost blood, after all. “Well, thank you.” He coughed slightly; he felt a twinge, but still, not much pain. “Or—what do I owe you for this?” he added, slightly alarmed; for she was a witch, and as everyone knew, witches did nothing for free.
But that made her laugh the sweet laugh that did not match her voice. “You do not owe me this time, Journey, for it is part of escorting me. If our bargain was different, or if you were with another group, perhaps you would not be so lucky.”
He looked into her eyes and nodded, and wondered if she had known about the black-haired man’s offer the other day.
“Now,” she said, getting to her feet, “these storms can be dangerous in the mountains, and we should find shelter. Hemlock, will you help me?”
Between the two of them, they got Journey to his feet. He thought he would be able to walk normally, but an unexpected wave of dizziness hit him as soon as he was upright. Cicatrix told him that was normal, as he had lost blood, and luckily, the donkey was there for him to lean on. They moved slowly, but at least his weight seemed to calm the beast. Cicatrix took them off the trail after a short time, and led them to a cave that looked blissfully warm and dry. Journey stumbled inside, still with no shirt on, and fell quickly into sleep.
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Journey tried to hunt, but his hammer was not a weapon suited for game, and the only wild things to be found this close to the clouds were fleet squirrels and tiny mice, not worth the time even if he could catch them. Without discussing it with the others, he began to consume less, hoping to make the food stretch. He did not know how many inns or friendly shepherds they would find on the Artash side of the mountains.
However, to his surprise, they were not on that side yet, for the land dipped down, and leveled out for some way. They had traveled downward less than half the time they had traveled up, and the clouds were still close. Here was a sweet valley between the mountains, and almost he might have killed a deer, but he did not, for they had no way to dress or transport it.
They reached the center of the valley, a little after sunset; there, nestled beside another clear mountain lake, was a cozy inn. Journey did not know how the men had managed to miss Cicatrix’s money and steal only food—perhaps she had seen it coming after all—but they still had plenty of coin, and she bought for them meals and rooms for the night.
Some of the serving girls flirted with Journey, but he did not flirt back. When he slept that night, he thought it was the most comfortable bed he had ever been in.
They began to climb again that afternoon, and Journey thought that the trees looked thicker and darker on this mountain—or perhaps it was only that they were coming closer to their destination, and he was afraid.
“Journey,” Cicatrix said softly, from where she was leading the donkey behind him. “Be on your guard.”
He glanced back at her serene face, nodded, and slipped the hammer from his belt.
Enough time passed that he had begun to doubt whether she had seen anything—or perhaps whatever danger it was had seen his hammer and slunk back into the trees—but then something swung into his path and landed with a thump ahead of him. It was a man with black hair and a scar on his face that twisted his mouth into a sneer.
“We’ll have your bags,” he said. “And that fine donkey too, I shouldn’t think.”
“I think you should not,” said Cicatrix, in a cold, clear voice.
Journey winced and looked back at her. For had she not seen what he had—the trees beside them suddenly bristling with arrow-points? There were at least a half-dozen, and only three of them. Here, perhaps, there would be larger game, and he could hunt for them. It would be easier and safer for them to simply give the bandits what they wanted.
But her eyes were calm, and her mouth pressed into a line, and he knew that she wanted him to fight.
When he turned back to the bandit captain his eyes were laughing. “Well, will you fight me then, a boy with a hammer and a girl with no shoes on? So be it, then.” He drew a long dagger and leapt at Journey.
Journey had a moment to be surprised that he had not ordered his men to fire on them, and then he was fighting. His first blow with the hammer knocked the bandit back, but angered him; his second blow knocked the knife from the man’s hand and may have shattered the bones there. He could not say, for the bandit was now shouting for his men to fire and Journey was dropping and rolling for his life as arrows whizzed past him. Cicatrix and Hemlock were pressed against the donkey. He could not understand what they were doing, but as none of them were pierced, it must have been something useful. The donkey’s eyes were rolling madly, but it wasn’t bolting.
Rolling back onto his stomach, Journey had a clear view of the bandit captain, and struck at him again. This blow somehow, through sheer luck, connected with the man’s leg, and he fell, howling. But the knife was in his other hand now.
Journey scrambled to his feet. “Call your men off,” he tried to say, panting, but either he was too out of breath to make himself understood or the bandit captain didn’t want to understand. The man roared again and struck out with the knife. It scraped along Journey’s chest, leaving a long, burning line of pain. Journey flailed out with his hammer and felt it connect. His vision went black for a moment, and when he could see again, the bandit was lying at his feet, a dent in the side of his skull and blood running from it, his eyes open and staring to the sky.
Shaking on his feet, Journey swung left and right, ready to face the rest of the band (though the pain in his chest was fierce, and he was having trouble catching his breath), but they melted into the trees. Killing their chief must have taken the fight out of them.
Killing? Journey looked down at the man again. There was no movement, not even the tiniest rise and fall of the chest, and as he reached the realization his knees gave out from underneath him and he fell to the ground.
“Journey!” cried Cicatrix, and ran forward to grab at him. He could hear the donkey braying and stamping, but couldn’t do anything about it. He wasn’t sure he understood anything that was going on.
“Are they gone?” he asked, trying to look around even as Cicatrix clamped his head between her knees. “Don’t hold me down, I have to—”
“You have to stay still,” said the witch sharply. “You’re injured.”
Part of him heard and understood the wisdom of her words, and part of him continued on the adrenaline-filled track his mind had joined when the knife had appeared. “Hemlock—you? You’re not injured?”
“We’re fine,” Cicatrix said. “And the donkey, too. They had no aim whatsoever. Now hold still.”
He finally obeyed, though her voice was nothing at all like soothing. It was starting to rain, and he had to shut his eyes so they didn’t fill with water, though he thought it looked beautiful, coming down all silver through the dark trees. Cicatrix ripped away his shirt, and he grunted with pain where it pulled against his wound, then almost shouted as she prodded it with her fingers. “You’re just making it worse.”
“I’m not. I do believe I know what I am doing, as a matter of fact.” She tore more of his shirt and dabbed at the blood. “This isn’t very bad, really. You did a good job there.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he responded, tiny drips of rainwater getting into his mouth. “I just flailed around. Where’d all the others go?”
“They’re not here anymore. Don’t worry about them.”
“How do you know?”
“I am a witch. Now hush so I can concentrate.”
He obeyed. It helped that Hemlock had evidently gotten the donkey under control, and they had come around the two of them on the path and were standing over him; he was both pleased not to have as much rain dripping on him any more and relieved to be able to see with his own eyes that they were both all right. Hemlock looked down at him with his large, solemn eyes, but did not seem the least bit worried.
After a moment the pain subsided, and his chest felt tight. Cicatrix made a long stroke across his chest with her cool fingers, and then nodded. “All right. Try to sit up.”
He did, and was amazed to discover that while there was still pain, and his chest was still tight, he could breathe much more easily, and he did not seem to be bleeding any longer. He tried to look down at his chest, but the wound was too high for him to look at easily; still, he thought he saw a pink line of scarring rather than the deep cut it had been only minutes ago.
“You healed me?” he asked wonderingly, lifting his fingers to prod at the wound.
Cicatrix snatched at his hand, stopping it from touching his chest. “Yes, for the most part, but no other fingers but mine should touch it for at least several days. It is a fragile enchantment, and you could break the wound open.”
He turned his head and blinked at her. “Why didn’t you heal me after I fought that cat?”
She smiled faintly. “Three reasons. One, you were then being foolhardy; you were now being brave. Two, I try not to make my skills too obvious, and this is one that many people will demand more of should I let them. Three, those were all quite superficial wounds, and we had the facilities to bandage them. We have no good bandages here, and I had to close it up so infection did not set in.”
He nodded, still perhaps slightly dazed. He had lost blood, after all. “Well, thank you.” He coughed slightly; he felt a twinge, but still, not much pain. “Or—what do I owe you for this?” he added, slightly alarmed; for she was a witch, and as everyone knew, witches did nothing for free.
But that made her laugh the sweet laugh that did not match her voice. “You do not owe me this time, Journey, for it is part of escorting me. If our bargain was different, or if you were with another group, perhaps you would not be so lucky.”
He looked into her eyes and nodded, and wondered if she had known about the black-haired man’s offer the other day.
“Now,” she said, getting to her feet, “these storms can be dangerous in the mountains, and we should find shelter. Hemlock, will you help me?”
Between the two of them, they got Journey to his feet. He thought he would be able to walk normally, but an unexpected wave of dizziness hit him as soon as he was upright. Cicatrix told him that was normal, as he had lost blood, and luckily, the donkey was there for him to lean on. They moved slowly, but at least his weight seemed to calm the beast. Cicatrix took them off the trail after a short time, and led them to a cave that looked blissfully warm and dry. Journey stumbled inside, still with no shirt on, and fell quickly into sleep.
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