Love As It Was Made to Be: 16.
Mar. 24th, 2012 09:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyIn the morning Cicatrix asked the innkeeper if she knew a lord… Upka? It seemed a strange name to Journey, but, he supposed, Skareyan names must seem strange to them. The innkeeper did know where the man lived, it seemed, and gave Cicatrix directions for finding him. Journey was surprised to learn that his lands were less than a day’s walk away, but, he supposed, that explained how the man seemed to have known about the customs of Skareyan witches.
However, being confronted so quickly with the approaching end of their journey sent his gut twisting inside him. He was not even sure what he dreaded, exactly. But he knew everything would be different soon—even more different than it had been previously.
Cicatrix made arrangements for the donkey to be boarded for up to two nights, but made no arrangements for herself or anyone else. Journey wondered if she knew the promise he had made to Hemlock; none of them had spoken this morning, except about food.
That did not change as they set off, Cicatrix striding confidently in front to lead the way, her bare feet kicking up dust from the road. Journey and Hemlock stayed close behind her. After they had left the town’s borders, Journey felt a little hand slipping into his. He smiled and squeezed it, and did not let go.
It still did not change when they stopped for lunch, or when they started again afterward. Journey wondered if the witch had any idea how fearful her son was; certainly it showed on his face by now, but she did not seem to acknowledge his emotion in any way. How could she have raised her son and been a good mother if she did not even know when he needed her? Perhaps she did know, and she was simply trying to make this easier for him, though if so Journey thought she was going about it in the wrong way.
“Are you all right?” he asked Hemlock, softly, when a large house that must have been their goal began to loom between them and the horizon. “I could ask her to make camp for another night, if you wish to delay it.”
Hemlock shook his head firmly, though his hand clutched at Journey’s and he looked with determination into the distance, rather than meeting his companion’s eyes. “I don’t think it will help to wait. It will just make it scarier, because I’ll have to think about it more.”
Journey nodded. “That is probably wise.” If Hemlock said it, it must indeed be wise; he was the most mature and intelligent child Journey had ever known. Perhaps, he realized, this was due to the emotional distance of his mother. The child must have learned to fend for himself in many ways.
They reached the great house just as the sun was bending toward the western horizon behind them, tingeing the sky just a bit with pink. Cicatrix strode to the door without hesitation, and was stopped by guards bearing spears. Journey and Hemlock waited a pace behind her. Journey, not wanting to seem a threat, kept his hand from his hammer, but he was very aware of it. He hoped that there would be no need to fight their way into the home of Hemlock’s father, but protection was what he had been hired for, and if Cicatrix was threatened he would protect her, for the sake of his honor and her son if for no other reason.
But she spoke to him in a strange tongue, full of round vowels and hard consonants, the same language that Journey had heard spoken more and more often as they traveled deeper into Atash. He had not known that the witch spoke Artash. He wondered why she had not used it before.
The guards spoke back in that same tongue, sharply, but after a short exchange one went inside, casting a distrustful glance back at Journey, and the other lowered his spear again to block the door.
The wait seemed to stretch into eternity. Journey longed for a cool drink, for the dust of their travel had parched his throat. Hemlock gripped his hand ever tighter. But Cicatrix waited calmly, her hands at her side.
Finally there was a clattering from inside, and the one guard glanced back in alarm, then stepped aside hastily, barely in time to avoid being struck by the door as it was flung open. “You,” said a burly man with a thick beard, once black but now streaked with gray, fully Atash by appearance but speaking Skareyan. “Is it true?”
“If your guard has relayed my message faithfully, then yes, it is the truth,” said the witch. Journey now saw that there was a woman beside the man, dressed in a simple white frock, with black hair (even more liberally filled with gray than the man’s beard) piled atop her head. She was slender and middle-aged; her face was frightened, but there was a trembling hope of a smile on her lips. “We met under a full moon eight years ago, when Atash and Skareya were at war. I bore a son, and there was no other man who could be his father. Now I bring him to you.”
The man and the woman spoke in their foreign tongue, and the man seemed to reassure the woman; there were tears in her eyes, and he squeezed her shoulder. Then he turned back to the witch. “Where is my son?”
Cicatrix stepped aside and gestured to Hemlock. Journey squeezed the boy’s hand, then extricated his own. “Go on. Remember what I said. He is your father, and he will love you.” He tried to speak softly enough that the people in the door would not hear him, but the man fixed Journey with pale blue eyes for a moment before returning them to Hemlock.
Slowly, the boy stepped forward, crossing the distance with small strides until he reached the man who was his father. The Artash lord was gentle with him, crouching down until his eyes were on the same level with the boy’s. He touched his shoulders gently, and his eyes seemed to search Hemlock’s face. Then he exhaled and stood up. “This boy is indeed my son.” He turned to the woman and said what must have been the same words in their language. She gave a tiny cry and turned to him, burying her head in his shoulder.
Holding his wife with one arm, he turned his face to Cicatrix and gave her a solemn nod. “I thank you deeply for bringing me my son. Now that I have an heir, I need not take another wife. My sister has a daughter who will take her place in the household. Will you stay with us, and join our household, to help care for your child?”
“No. He no longer needs me; he needs his father. And I must return to my own land.”
The Artash lord nodded, evidently unsurprised, then turned his head slightly to indicate Journey. “And who is this young man? Another of your sons?”
Cicatrix shook her head to deny it, but did not explain. Journey took a deep breath and stepped forward, trying to seem brave. “I am Hemlock’s bodyguard. With your permission, I will stay on with your household, and remain in his service. I would guard him with my life.” He had not planned to say the last part, but it was true, and it seemed to be the right thing. The expression in the lord’s eyes lightened, and he nodded.
“Yes, my son will, I think, need a loyal man like you, one who cannot be bought by my enemies. Though I suppose you will have to learn the language eventually.” His lips moved in what might have been a tiny smile, and Journey felt himself smiling in return.
The woman had pulled away from her husband; her eyes were red but dry now. She now crouched down beside Hemlock and put her hand on her chest. “Iwala,” she said. Then she made the same gesture to Hemlock. He said his name, and she repeated it carefully, though with a bit of a lisp. Despite her evident fear and sorrow, Journey could see that she was ready to love him.
He stepped further forward, nearly to the threshold of the great house. He now saw that more than a dozen people—guards and servants—were clustered just inside, trying to see what was going on. They whispered, but Journey paid them no mind. He took Hemlock’s hand in his again. “I am ready for a new life. And I will have it with my friend.”
This time, the lord smiled distinctly and reached out to clasp Journey’s hand. “Then we have a place for you, and welcome.”
The lord and lady guided them into the house, and the servants began to speak aloud. For several minutes, Journey concentrated on the exchange of names; the Artash names sounded very similar to him, but he thought he would remember all the maids’ correctly, at least. Then the guard went to shut the door behind them, and Journey took his last opportunity to glance back, but the witch had already gone.
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However, being confronted so quickly with the approaching end of their journey sent his gut twisting inside him. He was not even sure what he dreaded, exactly. But he knew everything would be different soon—even more different than it had been previously.
Cicatrix made arrangements for the donkey to be boarded for up to two nights, but made no arrangements for herself or anyone else. Journey wondered if she knew the promise he had made to Hemlock; none of them had spoken this morning, except about food.
That did not change as they set off, Cicatrix striding confidently in front to lead the way, her bare feet kicking up dust from the road. Journey and Hemlock stayed close behind her. After they had left the town’s borders, Journey felt a little hand slipping into his. He smiled and squeezed it, and did not let go.
It still did not change when they stopped for lunch, or when they started again afterward. Journey wondered if the witch had any idea how fearful her son was; certainly it showed on his face by now, but she did not seem to acknowledge his emotion in any way. How could she have raised her son and been a good mother if she did not even know when he needed her? Perhaps she did know, and she was simply trying to make this easier for him, though if so Journey thought she was going about it in the wrong way.
“Are you all right?” he asked Hemlock, softly, when a large house that must have been their goal began to loom between them and the horizon. “I could ask her to make camp for another night, if you wish to delay it.”
Hemlock shook his head firmly, though his hand clutched at Journey’s and he looked with determination into the distance, rather than meeting his companion’s eyes. “I don’t think it will help to wait. It will just make it scarier, because I’ll have to think about it more.”
Journey nodded. “That is probably wise.” If Hemlock said it, it must indeed be wise; he was the most mature and intelligent child Journey had ever known. Perhaps, he realized, this was due to the emotional distance of his mother. The child must have learned to fend for himself in many ways.
They reached the great house just as the sun was bending toward the western horizon behind them, tingeing the sky just a bit with pink. Cicatrix strode to the door without hesitation, and was stopped by guards bearing spears. Journey and Hemlock waited a pace behind her. Journey, not wanting to seem a threat, kept his hand from his hammer, but he was very aware of it. He hoped that there would be no need to fight their way into the home of Hemlock’s father, but protection was what he had been hired for, and if Cicatrix was threatened he would protect her, for the sake of his honor and her son if for no other reason.
But she spoke to him in a strange tongue, full of round vowels and hard consonants, the same language that Journey had heard spoken more and more often as they traveled deeper into Atash. He had not known that the witch spoke Artash. He wondered why she had not used it before.
The guards spoke back in that same tongue, sharply, but after a short exchange one went inside, casting a distrustful glance back at Journey, and the other lowered his spear again to block the door.
The wait seemed to stretch into eternity. Journey longed for a cool drink, for the dust of their travel had parched his throat. Hemlock gripped his hand ever tighter. But Cicatrix waited calmly, her hands at her side.
Finally there was a clattering from inside, and the one guard glanced back in alarm, then stepped aside hastily, barely in time to avoid being struck by the door as it was flung open. “You,” said a burly man with a thick beard, once black but now streaked with gray, fully Atash by appearance but speaking Skareyan. “Is it true?”
“If your guard has relayed my message faithfully, then yes, it is the truth,” said the witch. Journey now saw that there was a woman beside the man, dressed in a simple white frock, with black hair (even more liberally filled with gray than the man’s beard) piled atop her head. She was slender and middle-aged; her face was frightened, but there was a trembling hope of a smile on her lips. “We met under a full moon eight years ago, when Atash and Skareya were at war. I bore a son, and there was no other man who could be his father. Now I bring him to you.”
The man and the woman spoke in their foreign tongue, and the man seemed to reassure the woman; there were tears in her eyes, and he squeezed her shoulder. Then he turned back to the witch. “Where is my son?”
Cicatrix stepped aside and gestured to Hemlock. Journey squeezed the boy’s hand, then extricated his own. “Go on. Remember what I said. He is your father, and he will love you.” He tried to speak softly enough that the people in the door would not hear him, but the man fixed Journey with pale blue eyes for a moment before returning them to Hemlock.
Slowly, the boy stepped forward, crossing the distance with small strides until he reached the man who was his father. The Artash lord was gentle with him, crouching down until his eyes were on the same level with the boy’s. He touched his shoulders gently, and his eyes seemed to search Hemlock’s face. Then he exhaled and stood up. “This boy is indeed my son.” He turned to the woman and said what must have been the same words in their language. She gave a tiny cry and turned to him, burying her head in his shoulder.
Holding his wife with one arm, he turned his face to Cicatrix and gave her a solemn nod. “I thank you deeply for bringing me my son. Now that I have an heir, I need not take another wife. My sister has a daughter who will take her place in the household. Will you stay with us, and join our household, to help care for your child?”
“No. He no longer needs me; he needs his father. And I must return to my own land.”
The Artash lord nodded, evidently unsurprised, then turned his head slightly to indicate Journey. “And who is this young man? Another of your sons?”
Cicatrix shook her head to deny it, but did not explain. Journey took a deep breath and stepped forward, trying to seem brave. “I am Hemlock’s bodyguard. With your permission, I will stay on with your household, and remain in his service. I would guard him with my life.” He had not planned to say the last part, but it was true, and it seemed to be the right thing. The expression in the lord’s eyes lightened, and he nodded.
“Yes, my son will, I think, need a loyal man like you, one who cannot be bought by my enemies. Though I suppose you will have to learn the language eventually.” His lips moved in what might have been a tiny smile, and Journey felt himself smiling in return.
The woman had pulled away from her husband; her eyes were red but dry now. She now crouched down beside Hemlock and put her hand on her chest. “Iwala,” she said. Then she made the same gesture to Hemlock. He said his name, and she repeated it carefully, though with a bit of a lisp. Despite her evident fear and sorrow, Journey could see that she was ready to love him.
He stepped further forward, nearly to the threshold of the great house. He now saw that more than a dozen people—guards and servants—were clustered just inside, trying to see what was going on. They whispered, but Journey paid them no mind. He took Hemlock’s hand in his again. “I am ready for a new life. And I will have it with my friend.”
This time, the lord smiled distinctly and reached out to clasp Journey’s hand. “Then we have a place for you, and welcome.”
The lord and lady guided them into the house, and the servants began to speak aloud. For several minutes, Journey concentrated on the exchange of names; the Artash names sounded very similar to him, but he thought he would remember all the maids’ correctly, at least. Then the guard went to shut the door behind them, and Journey took his last opportunity to glance back, but the witch had already gone.
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no subject
Date: 2012-05-13 03:18 pm (UTC)(I have no ulterior motives whatsoever, I assure you. It just seems that way.)
But anyway d'aaaaaaaawwwww. Hemlock and Journey are so sweet. <3 And yay for happy endings!
no subject
Date: 2012-05-13 05:22 pm (UTC)Thank you so much! ♥
no subject
Date: 2012-05-13 06:20 pm (UTC)Ooooh, a sequel! Exciting! And yes I suspect Hemlock would be older. I look forward to seeing how he grows and changes!