Love As It Was Made to Be: 8.
Mar. 24th, 2012 09:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyFrom then on, Journey made it a point to practice morning and evening with his hammer; before camp was struck in the morning, and after it was set up in the evening, for they did not encounter another friendly family with a house, and slept on the ground as he had been expecting. He knew that solo practice was no preparation for a live opponent—he had discovered that when he fought the cat—but he could at least keep his muscles limber and ready, and a live opponent was something he could wait to encounter.
In fact, they seemed to encounter no other travelers on the road for days, which he found puzzling—surely this was the best time for traveling, with the sun high and in the sky long, and the days warm? The air was growing steadily chillier as they made their gradual climb, and it was not yet the height of summer, but the work of climbing kept them warm enough that only Hemlock ever complained of the cold.
But when he asked Cicatrix, she could give no explanation. And if she could give no explanation, he supposed there was none to be had.
That evening, however, they encountered a surprise; a fairly large inn, situated beside a large and beautiful mountain lake. Journey and Hemlock took advantage of the fresh, cold water to swim and bathe (and he supposed Cicatrix did the same, though he did not see her do so). There were a few other people staying at the inn, but all seemed to be taciturn, unfriendly types.
The inn was run by a small family—a husband and wife and their two sons—and assisted by a young woman. They were fed mutton pie and fried fish. Journey wondered if the mutton came from further down the mountain. “Your inn seems nearly as empty as our path here has been,” he said to the wife when she came to refresh his ale. “I trust you get enough custom to keep your family fed.”
She sighed and rested the ewer of ale on the table. “Truth be told, it’s been hard lately,” she said. Her accent was similar to that of the shepherd family, but not as thick. “Since the last war, people just don’t cross the mountains as much as they used to. And when they do, it’s closer to the coasts.”
“Really? Why is that?” He took a drink of the pleasant ale, hoping his benign interest in her circumstances would show.
“Well, to the south the mountains are lower, so that has always been more common, but I think it’s just that people figure it’s easier to get back if the sea is an option too. The Artash don’t want to be stuck in Skareya and the Skareyans don’t want to be stuck in Atash.”
“That seems reasonable,” Journey said.
“Aye, but it means not so many people come to an inn in the middle of the mountains.” She gave him a wry smile, picked up her ewer, and went to serve others. Journey turned to Cicatrix, who had sat silent at the same table throughout the conversation, and raised his eyebrows. She gave no response.
Once again, he found himself sitting at the table long past the time when Cicatrix and Hemlock had gone off to bed, slowly drinking his ale. One of the men in the room had produced a guitar, and was playing and singing in a thin, high voice. Journey did not find the music unpleasant, but still wondered why he did not go to his own bed. They would be leaving in the morning, and he did not wish to be tired.
Then the serving girl, vanishing through the door into the kitchen, caught his eye again. She had been drawing his attention all night, and he was not sure why. Could he be attracted to her? She was pretty enough, he supposed, but not like the robust farm girls he had admired all his life. But his body had changed, and so had all the ways he acted. Perhaps his attractions had changed as well.
He began to take larger drinks of his ale, watching the singer with one eye and the kitchen door with another. When the girl emerged again, he was able to drain his drink without making it obvious that that was what he was doing, then raised his cup and gave her a smile. She looked down quickly, but after a few moments came by with more ale.
He smiled again as she poured, but she was looking modestly down, not catching his eye. Up close, she was still pretty, the lines of her face strong and her hair long and curling. She was dressed modestly in a long skirt and a plain blouse; it did not dip low like the dress of the serving girl at the bottom of the mountain. He wondered fleetingly if this girl could nevertheless be like her, but that did not seem likely. She had been modest and quiet all night, not speaking, as far as he could tell, to anyone other than the family that ran the inn.
Well, perhaps he could change that. “What brings a girl like you to work here?” he asked, softly, so as not to frighten her. “You are not one of the family, and I can only imagine it would be dangerous to travel these mountains alone.”
She looked up at him through her eyelashes, her blue eyes huge, and he feared he had frightened her, after all. But after a moment, she responded—just as softly—”Not so dangerous as you might think. If you are careful.”
He nodded slowly. “I suppose that is true; I have not encountered so much danger, as of yet.”
“But everything is strange,” she said. She seemed to be hinting at something, but he could not understand what.
“Not so strange, as of yet,” he said. “Or—are you from Atash?” He supposed Skareyan customs might seem strange if one hailed from another nation; he was certainly looking forward to learning what Artash customs might be like.
She shook her head slowly. “No, but I traveled far to come here.” She took a half-step away, then a deep breath. Her head lifted a little, so that she was looking at him more directly. “You are not like other men.”
His heart thudded into his stomach, and he felt heat come and inflame his face. Damn it, curse it! He had not dreamed she could know—but she had pointed him out, nevertheless. Just as he had nearly put out of his mind his life as a woman, he had it brought up again. He looked away, into his ale, which suddenly looked much less appealing. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“No, wait.” She sat down quickly and leaned close to him, her dark hair falling in a curtain about her face, so that he could not see her expression. “I did not mean to offend you. I do not think you are as different as I am. But I am different, too.” Her voice was so soft that he had to strain to hear her under the music.
All his fear fell away into confusion. She was not condemning him for his difference—but what could she mean? She must see some other difference in him than he had ever suspected.
But then she looked up again, her nose jutting through the dark hair, and everything fell into place. She was like him—exactly like him, but the opposite. He had long believed himself under a solitary curse, but it was not so. There was another. “You are—you were born a man,” he said, keeping his voice, too, extremely soft, because no one could overhear their conversation. “But you have not taken a new body?”
She shook her head, and her eyes roamed up and down his body. “Is that what you did? I wondered… I could not tell if you were like me, or a man with a woman’s body and trying to hide it.”
“I was born with a woman’s body,” he said, feeling a strange lightness at being able to confess it aloud. He had had some relief in his conversations with Cicatrix, but she had always known or assumed. “But I made a bargain with a witch. You are…” He half-rose from his seat as a thought occurred to him. “She is with me. I can bring you together. She can help you in the way she helped me. It was painful, but it is now so wonderful…”
“No.” She put a hand on his arm to stop him, and her hand was so delicate, graceful and soft like a woman’s, but with the strength and thicker knuckles of a man’s. “There was a price, was there not?”
“Of course.” He looked down at her in confusion.
“I have been to witches. I could not pay their price. I am happy enough here, in this guise.”
He sat abruptly, shocked. He could not imagine, never imagine, that anything could be more difficult than living in the wrong body. But he had never been able to hide, and she had created for herself such an effective disguise that it had taken even him some time to see it (though he doubted Cicatrix had been fooled for an instant). “Then I will not push you. Are you happy, truly?”
She smiled. It transformed her face. “I am. The people here do not know the truth, and they only think it is strange that I have never lain with any of the men who come here.” Her smile widened, and a pink blush came to her face. Journey could only stare dumbly. “I have never been with a man…” Gently, she entwined her fingers with his.
Journey blinked rapidly. “You are beautiful,” he finally said.
She let out a soft, feathery giggle, covered her mouth with the hand that was not holding his, and stood up. He came up with her, and she led him through the dimly-lit corners and out into the cold, fresh mountain air.
“Won’t they be angry that you are not working?” he whispered.
“Perhaps a little.” She glanced back, then shook her head. “Temperance has entreated me to enjoy myself—she thinks I am too young to waste my life in a little mountain inn like this. So if the others are angry, I think she will deflect them.” She paused, faltering a little in her steps. “But if you are not sure, we should go back.”
“No, I… I am sure that I want you. But I do not think I will know what to do.”
“That will make two of us.” The moonlight lit her face in much the same way that her smile had, until she led him into a pine grove and shadow fell over both of them. She knelt in the pine needles, and he followed her down. They made a soft, sweet-smelling cushion. Her hands ran lightly over his face.
He caught her hands and kissed them, one palm at a time. “You are trembling,” he said as he discovered it. “I do not want to hurt you…”
“You will not,” she said. “Or if you do, it will be my own fault and choice. I am trembling because I am happy.”
“I want to make you happy,” he said, and he kissed her lips.
Her soft, fluttering hands ran over his body, stripping him naked, admiring the curve of his muscles. She made no move to remove more of her own attire than was necessary, and he respected that, stroking only her silky hair and her warm face. In the shadow, with her tiny, half-swallowed cries and her soft body underneath him, he did not know the difference between her body and the one she should have had.
She was not there at breakfast, though the woman—Temperance, one of the inn’s owners—smiled and winked at him as she served his eggs. It was not until after they left that morning that he realized he had never asked the girl’s name.
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In fact, they seemed to encounter no other travelers on the road for days, which he found puzzling—surely this was the best time for traveling, with the sun high and in the sky long, and the days warm? The air was growing steadily chillier as they made their gradual climb, and it was not yet the height of summer, but the work of climbing kept them warm enough that only Hemlock ever complained of the cold.
But when he asked Cicatrix, she could give no explanation. And if she could give no explanation, he supposed there was none to be had.
That evening, however, they encountered a surprise; a fairly large inn, situated beside a large and beautiful mountain lake. Journey and Hemlock took advantage of the fresh, cold water to swim and bathe (and he supposed Cicatrix did the same, though he did not see her do so). There were a few other people staying at the inn, but all seemed to be taciturn, unfriendly types.
The inn was run by a small family—a husband and wife and their two sons—and assisted by a young woman. They were fed mutton pie and fried fish. Journey wondered if the mutton came from further down the mountain. “Your inn seems nearly as empty as our path here has been,” he said to the wife when she came to refresh his ale. “I trust you get enough custom to keep your family fed.”
She sighed and rested the ewer of ale on the table. “Truth be told, it’s been hard lately,” she said. Her accent was similar to that of the shepherd family, but not as thick. “Since the last war, people just don’t cross the mountains as much as they used to. And when they do, it’s closer to the coasts.”
“Really? Why is that?” He took a drink of the pleasant ale, hoping his benign interest in her circumstances would show.
“Well, to the south the mountains are lower, so that has always been more common, but I think it’s just that people figure it’s easier to get back if the sea is an option too. The Artash don’t want to be stuck in Skareya and the Skareyans don’t want to be stuck in Atash.”
“That seems reasonable,” Journey said.
“Aye, but it means not so many people come to an inn in the middle of the mountains.” She gave him a wry smile, picked up her ewer, and went to serve others. Journey turned to Cicatrix, who had sat silent at the same table throughout the conversation, and raised his eyebrows. She gave no response.
Once again, he found himself sitting at the table long past the time when Cicatrix and Hemlock had gone off to bed, slowly drinking his ale. One of the men in the room had produced a guitar, and was playing and singing in a thin, high voice. Journey did not find the music unpleasant, but still wondered why he did not go to his own bed. They would be leaving in the morning, and he did not wish to be tired.
Then the serving girl, vanishing through the door into the kitchen, caught his eye again. She had been drawing his attention all night, and he was not sure why. Could he be attracted to her? She was pretty enough, he supposed, but not like the robust farm girls he had admired all his life. But his body had changed, and so had all the ways he acted. Perhaps his attractions had changed as well.
He began to take larger drinks of his ale, watching the singer with one eye and the kitchen door with another. When the girl emerged again, he was able to drain his drink without making it obvious that that was what he was doing, then raised his cup and gave her a smile. She looked down quickly, but after a few moments came by with more ale.
He smiled again as she poured, but she was looking modestly down, not catching his eye. Up close, she was still pretty, the lines of her face strong and her hair long and curling. She was dressed modestly in a long skirt and a plain blouse; it did not dip low like the dress of the serving girl at the bottom of the mountain. He wondered fleetingly if this girl could nevertheless be like her, but that did not seem likely. She had been modest and quiet all night, not speaking, as far as he could tell, to anyone other than the family that ran the inn.
Well, perhaps he could change that. “What brings a girl like you to work here?” he asked, softly, so as not to frighten her. “You are not one of the family, and I can only imagine it would be dangerous to travel these mountains alone.”
She looked up at him through her eyelashes, her blue eyes huge, and he feared he had frightened her, after all. But after a moment, she responded—just as softly—”Not so dangerous as you might think. If you are careful.”
He nodded slowly. “I suppose that is true; I have not encountered so much danger, as of yet.”
“But everything is strange,” she said. She seemed to be hinting at something, but he could not understand what.
“Not so strange, as of yet,” he said. “Or—are you from Atash?” He supposed Skareyan customs might seem strange if one hailed from another nation; he was certainly looking forward to learning what Artash customs might be like.
She shook her head slowly. “No, but I traveled far to come here.” She took a half-step away, then a deep breath. Her head lifted a little, so that she was looking at him more directly. “You are not like other men.”
His heart thudded into his stomach, and he felt heat come and inflame his face. Damn it, curse it! He had not dreamed she could know—but she had pointed him out, nevertheless. Just as he had nearly put out of his mind his life as a woman, he had it brought up again. He looked away, into his ale, which suddenly looked much less appealing. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“No, wait.” She sat down quickly and leaned close to him, her dark hair falling in a curtain about her face, so that he could not see her expression. “I did not mean to offend you. I do not think you are as different as I am. But I am different, too.” Her voice was so soft that he had to strain to hear her under the music.
All his fear fell away into confusion. She was not condemning him for his difference—but what could she mean? She must see some other difference in him than he had ever suspected.
But then she looked up again, her nose jutting through the dark hair, and everything fell into place. She was like him—exactly like him, but the opposite. He had long believed himself under a solitary curse, but it was not so. There was another. “You are—you were born a man,” he said, keeping his voice, too, extremely soft, because no one could overhear their conversation. “But you have not taken a new body?”
She shook her head, and her eyes roamed up and down his body. “Is that what you did? I wondered… I could not tell if you were like me, or a man with a woman’s body and trying to hide it.”
“I was born with a woman’s body,” he said, feeling a strange lightness at being able to confess it aloud. He had had some relief in his conversations with Cicatrix, but she had always known or assumed. “But I made a bargain with a witch. You are…” He half-rose from his seat as a thought occurred to him. “She is with me. I can bring you together. She can help you in the way she helped me. It was painful, but it is now so wonderful…”
“No.” She put a hand on his arm to stop him, and her hand was so delicate, graceful and soft like a woman’s, but with the strength and thicker knuckles of a man’s. “There was a price, was there not?”
“Of course.” He looked down at her in confusion.
“I have been to witches. I could not pay their price. I am happy enough here, in this guise.”
He sat abruptly, shocked. He could not imagine, never imagine, that anything could be more difficult than living in the wrong body. But he had never been able to hide, and she had created for herself such an effective disguise that it had taken even him some time to see it (though he doubted Cicatrix had been fooled for an instant). “Then I will not push you. Are you happy, truly?”
She smiled. It transformed her face. “I am. The people here do not know the truth, and they only think it is strange that I have never lain with any of the men who come here.” Her smile widened, and a pink blush came to her face. Journey could only stare dumbly. “I have never been with a man…” Gently, she entwined her fingers with his.
Journey blinked rapidly. “You are beautiful,” he finally said.
She let out a soft, feathery giggle, covered her mouth with the hand that was not holding his, and stood up. He came up with her, and she led him through the dimly-lit corners and out into the cold, fresh mountain air.
“Won’t they be angry that you are not working?” he whispered.
“Perhaps a little.” She glanced back, then shook her head. “Temperance has entreated me to enjoy myself—she thinks I am too young to waste my life in a little mountain inn like this. So if the others are angry, I think she will deflect them.” She paused, faltering a little in her steps. “But if you are not sure, we should go back.”
“No, I… I am sure that I want you. But I do not think I will know what to do.”
“That will make two of us.” The moonlight lit her face in much the same way that her smile had, until she led him into a pine grove and shadow fell over both of them. She knelt in the pine needles, and he followed her down. They made a soft, sweet-smelling cushion. Her hands ran lightly over his face.
He caught her hands and kissed them, one palm at a time. “You are trembling,” he said as he discovered it. “I do not want to hurt you…”
“You will not,” she said. “Or if you do, it will be my own fault and choice. I am trembling because I am happy.”
“I want to make you happy,” he said, and he kissed her lips.
Her soft, fluttering hands ran over his body, stripping him naked, admiring the curve of his muscles. She made no move to remove more of her own attire than was necessary, and he respected that, stroking only her silky hair and her warm face. In the shadow, with her tiny, half-swallowed cries and her soft body underneath him, he did not know the difference between her body and the one she should have had.
She was not there at breakfast, though the woman—Temperance, one of the inn’s owners—smiled and winked at him as she served his eggs. It was not until after they left that morning that he realized he had never asked the girl’s name.
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