Clare-Dragonfly (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
clare_dragonfly) wrote2012-03-24 09:20 pm
clare_dragonfly) wrote2012-03-24 09:20 pm
Love As It Was Made to Be: 14.
When Journey woke it was morning; the sun was shining brightly into the cave’s mouth, a few birds were singing, and the donkey had wandered a few feet outside to crop at the thin grass. Cicatrix was curled against his side, and they were both naked. There was a blanket over them, though he did not remember drawing it up.
While he was trying to decide whether he should move, and what he should do, she woke, opening her large, brown eyes and regarding him calmly. He thought perhaps one of them should say something, but she only turned away and began pulling her clothing on, so he did the same.
“Hemlock,” she said softly while Journey was still dressing, not looking at them. “It’s morning and it’s clear. Why don’t you go out and look for bird’s eggs for our breakfast?”
When Journey turned to look at the boy he was smiling widely. In a moment he jumped up and ran outside. Journey wanted to say that he could have done that, and wished she would have asked him—last night’s activities had not assuaged his restlessness—but then he realized she must have sent the child away so the two of them could be alone, and said nothing, waiting for her to start the conversation.
However, she simply turned to the saddlebags and began searching through them. “What are you looking for?” he finally asked.
“Oats,” she said. “I thought we had a few left, but I have not found them yet.”
“I fed the donkey some oats yesterday,” he said. “I didn’t know they were the last of them. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. He probably needed them more than we did. Hmm… some dried herbs, then, will be what we need to add to the eggs. Assuming Hemlock finds any.”
“I’m sure he will.” Journey sighed, still looking at Cicatrix’s back. “Are you going to ignore me all morning?”
She finally turned to him, frowning slightly in a way that did not affect her lips, only made a tiny line appear between her eyebrows. “I’m not ignoring you. Did you say something I failed to hear?”
He shook his head. “I thought you were going to say something.”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking me, Journey.”
“Last night…” He felt uncomfortable, not knowing what to say or how to say it. He glanced away, frustrated. “Don’t you know what I’m trying to say?”
“I do not.” She regarded him as calmly as ever. “I can learn what your wishes are, but I do not know what they are now.”
“Well, that’s probably because I don’t know what they are either.” He rose up onto his knees and pushed past her to the saddlebags. “I’ll find the herbs.”
Later, having breakfasted lightly on herbed bird’s eggs, they set off again. The rain and snow had washed the land clean. Journey could not tell whether they had joined the path at a lower point than they had left it; either way, there were no bloodstains in the dirt.
Cicatrix took the lead, and he found himself staring after her even more fixedly than usual. Half-paying attention to Hemlock’s pleased chatter about the lovely weather and how it was getting warmer with every step (the boy had become more and more loquacious, and more like an ordinary child, as the trip went on), he wondered at the source, and at his own unsettled feeling.
The witch seemed to be acting as though nothing had happened the night before—at least as though nothing had changed. But to Journey so much had changed. And the difference in attitudes disturbed him. He had always heard that men put much less importance on sex than women did, and that was why women had to protect themselves until marriage. Cicatrix was obviously not married, and neither of them had cared. Was this worry a sign that he had made the wrong choice after all?
But no; Journey ran his hand through his comfortable, still-short hair again. He had not even remembered that this was not the body he had always had in days. He had settled into it easily and happily. Cicatrix’s explanation must be right, that he had been raised differently from other men, so his attitudes were different.
“Don’t you think so?” Hemlock’s question cut into his thoughts.
“Hmm?” He looked down at the boy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question.”
“We must be getting close to the bottom. The path is so steep.”
Journey glanced around, noting that paler green, broad-leafed trees had begun to appear again among the pines and firs. He nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
That evening, as the broad-leafed trees began to take over from the evergreens, and after Hemlock had fallen asleep lying on the donkey’s neck, Journey caught up with the witch. “Cicatrix, I would speak to you.”
She glanced up. “Speak, if you wish. Has the journey tired him out already? Well, it will not be much longer now.”
“Yes.” He paused, gathering his thoughts, then spoke. “Do you still want me to escort you back over the mountains when we have left Hemlock with his father?”
“If you wish.” She watched the path, and there was no emotion in her voice. “As I am sure you have gathered by now, I am not in need of a bodyguard; I could hide myself in the mist if I wished. I hired you mostly for the sake of my son.”
He nodded. “But you would want me to return with you.”
“If that is your desire. We would certainly travel more quickly.”
He bit his lip and looked away, growing frustrated. She was so effortlessly calm, and she had seemed to know his thoughts so many times during this journey, except now, when he was having such a hard time speaking them. “Cicatrix, don’t you care for me?”
She sighed, an almost soundless exhalation. “I am a witch. We do not feel emotion in the same way that other people do. What we go through to gain our powers… it is worth it, but it changes us.”
That was interesting, but it did not answer his question. “So you do not care for me?”
“I would say that I do, but I do not think that means what you would wish it to mean.”
Then perhaps she did know his thoughts after all. “Perhaps you know what it is I wish to tell you already, but I must say it. I love you, Cicatrix.”
She finally turned her head to face him, her mouth twisting in that odd smile, at once joyful and mirthless. “You do not.”
“What?” That response was so utterly unexpected—he had thought she would explain her own emotions, or tell him she knew, or anything but a denial—that he stopped in his tracks, inadvertently yanking on the donkey’s bridle and making it stop in its tracks and snort, tossing its head.
The motion made Hemlock awake, and he sat up, blinking sleepily. “Have we found a camp?”
“No, I’m sorry—” Journey began, but before he could get half his words out, Cicatrix interrupted him smoothly.
“Yes, I think we have. Just there.” She pointed to a small copse formed by a group of tall, silvery aspens; small, but nearly twice the size of the cave they had spent the last two months in. The ground between them looked smooth, and was blanketed in leaf mold.
Cicatrix turned off the path to the copse, and Journey followed, tugging on the donkey’s bridle to make it come. It snorted again but did not give any other protest. Journey kept glancing at her as they made camp and ate their supper. Every time, she met his eyes, but they did not speak. Hemlock, still sleepy, did not seem to notice the silence.
Journey felt that there was a lump in his heart; he was afraid that if he spoke, tears would spill from his eyes and he would look weak and fearful in front of her. But when he finally let it out, his voice was steady and his eyes were dry. “What did you mean?”
She did not pretend not to know what he was talking about. “Just what I said. You do not love me, Journey, and I am glad for it, because, as I told you, I do not feel emotions in the same way that others do. You have only deluded yourself, perhaps because I am the first woman you have been with since you gained your body, and you are full of wonder at it.”
This misjudgment was so unexpected and bizarre that it made Journey laugh out loud, with surprise and nerves. “You are not the first woman I have been with.”
He was gratified to find that she was startled in return. Her eyebrows went up, then knit together. “No?”
“The maid at the inn near the top of the first mountain. She was… like me—she did not have a true woman’s body. But it was the same, and I do not love her. I do not even know her name.”
Cicatrix smiled, but it seemed sad. “Then I do not know why you have deluded yourself. But I know that you have.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I can see into your heart, and it is muddled, but I am not in it.”
He shook his head. “How is that possible? I have traveled with you for these days. I trust you entirely. When I fought that bandit, my own safety was not in my mind. I hated to kill him, but I would have killed all of them to protect you.”
“That is not what is in your heart.”
He looked away, frustrated at her obtuseness, but the feeling of tears had gone. “Then what is in my heart?”
She stood up and stepped away, shaking out her bedroll. “That you must discover for yourself.”
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While he was trying to decide whether he should move, and what he should do, she woke, opening her large, brown eyes and regarding him calmly. He thought perhaps one of them should say something, but she only turned away and began pulling her clothing on, so he did the same.
“Hemlock,” she said softly while Journey was still dressing, not looking at them. “It’s morning and it’s clear. Why don’t you go out and look for bird’s eggs for our breakfast?”
When Journey turned to look at the boy he was smiling widely. In a moment he jumped up and ran outside. Journey wanted to say that he could have done that, and wished she would have asked him—last night’s activities had not assuaged his restlessness—but then he realized she must have sent the child away so the two of them could be alone, and said nothing, waiting for her to start the conversation.
However, she simply turned to the saddlebags and began searching through them. “What are you looking for?” he finally asked.
“Oats,” she said. “I thought we had a few left, but I have not found them yet.”
“I fed the donkey some oats yesterday,” he said. “I didn’t know they were the last of them. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. He probably needed them more than we did. Hmm… some dried herbs, then, will be what we need to add to the eggs. Assuming Hemlock finds any.”
“I’m sure he will.” Journey sighed, still looking at Cicatrix’s back. “Are you going to ignore me all morning?”
She finally turned to him, frowning slightly in a way that did not affect her lips, only made a tiny line appear between her eyebrows. “I’m not ignoring you. Did you say something I failed to hear?”
He shook his head. “I thought you were going to say something.”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking me, Journey.”
“Last night…” He felt uncomfortable, not knowing what to say or how to say it. He glanced away, frustrated. “Don’t you know what I’m trying to say?”
“I do not.” She regarded him as calmly as ever. “I can learn what your wishes are, but I do not know what they are now.”
“Well, that’s probably because I don’t know what they are either.” He rose up onto his knees and pushed past her to the saddlebags. “I’ll find the herbs.”
Later, having breakfasted lightly on herbed bird’s eggs, they set off again. The rain and snow had washed the land clean. Journey could not tell whether they had joined the path at a lower point than they had left it; either way, there were no bloodstains in the dirt.
Cicatrix took the lead, and he found himself staring after her even more fixedly than usual. Half-paying attention to Hemlock’s pleased chatter about the lovely weather and how it was getting warmer with every step (the boy had become more and more loquacious, and more like an ordinary child, as the trip went on), he wondered at the source, and at his own unsettled feeling.
The witch seemed to be acting as though nothing had happened the night before—at least as though nothing had changed. But to Journey so much had changed. And the difference in attitudes disturbed him. He had always heard that men put much less importance on sex than women did, and that was why women had to protect themselves until marriage. Cicatrix was obviously not married, and neither of them had cared. Was this worry a sign that he had made the wrong choice after all?
But no; Journey ran his hand through his comfortable, still-short hair again. He had not even remembered that this was not the body he had always had in days. He had settled into it easily and happily. Cicatrix’s explanation must be right, that he had been raised differently from other men, so his attitudes were different.
“Don’t you think so?” Hemlock’s question cut into his thoughts.
“Hmm?” He looked down at the boy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question.”
“We must be getting close to the bottom. The path is so steep.”
Journey glanced around, noting that paler green, broad-leafed trees had begun to appear again among the pines and firs. He nodded. “Yes, I think so.”
That evening, as the broad-leafed trees began to take over from the evergreens, and after Hemlock had fallen asleep lying on the donkey’s neck, Journey caught up with the witch. “Cicatrix, I would speak to you.”
She glanced up. “Speak, if you wish. Has the journey tired him out already? Well, it will not be much longer now.”
“Yes.” He paused, gathering his thoughts, then spoke. “Do you still want me to escort you back over the mountains when we have left Hemlock with his father?”
“If you wish.” She watched the path, and there was no emotion in her voice. “As I am sure you have gathered by now, I am not in need of a bodyguard; I could hide myself in the mist if I wished. I hired you mostly for the sake of my son.”
He nodded. “But you would want me to return with you.”
“If that is your desire. We would certainly travel more quickly.”
He bit his lip and looked away, growing frustrated. She was so effortlessly calm, and she had seemed to know his thoughts so many times during this journey, except now, when he was having such a hard time speaking them. “Cicatrix, don’t you care for me?”
She sighed, an almost soundless exhalation. “I am a witch. We do not feel emotion in the same way that other people do. What we go through to gain our powers… it is worth it, but it changes us.”
That was interesting, but it did not answer his question. “So you do not care for me?”
“I would say that I do, but I do not think that means what you would wish it to mean.”
Then perhaps she did know his thoughts after all. “Perhaps you know what it is I wish to tell you already, but I must say it. I love you, Cicatrix.”
She finally turned her head to face him, her mouth twisting in that odd smile, at once joyful and mirthless. “You do not.”
“What?” That response was so utterly unexpected—he had thought she would explain her own emotions, or tell him she knew, or anything but a denial—that he stopped in his tracks, inadvertently yanking on the donkey’s bridle and making it stop in its tracks and snort, tossing its head.
The motion made Hemlock awake, and he sat up, blinking sleepily. “Have we found a camp?”
“No, I’m sorry—” Journey began, but before he could get half his words out, Cicatrix interrupted him smoothly.
“Yes, I think we have. Just there.” She pointed to a small copse formed by a group of tall, silvery aspens; small, but nearly twice the size of the cave they had spent the last two months in. The ground between them looked smooth, and was blanketed in leaf mold.
Cicatrix turned off the path to the copse, and Journey followed, tugging on the donkey’s bridle to make it come. It snorted again but did not give any other protest. Journey kept glancing at her as they made camp and ate their supper. Every time, she met his eyes, but they did not speak. Hemlock, still sleepy, did not seem to notice the silence.
Journey felt that there was a lump in his heart; he was afraid that if he spoke, tears would spill from his eyes and he would look weak and fearful in front of her. But when he finally let it out, his voice was steady and his eyes were dry. “What did you mean?”
She did not pretend not to know what he was talking about. “Just what I said. You do not love me, Journey, and I am glad for it, because, as I told you, I do not feel emotions in the same way that others do. You have only deluded yourself, perhaps because I am the first woman you have been with since you gained your body, and you are full of wonder at it.”
This misjudgment was so unexpected and bizarre that it made Journey laugh out loud, with surprise and nerves. “You are not the first woman I have been with.”
He was gratified to find that she was startled in return. Her eyebrows went up, then knit together. “No?”
“The maid at the inn near the top of the first mountain. She was… like me—she did not have a true woman’s body. But it was the same, and I do not love her. I do not even know her name.”
Cicatrix smiled, but it seemed sad. “Then I do not know why you have deluded yourself. But I know that you have.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I can see into your heart, and it is muddled, but I am not in it.”
He shook his head. “How is that possible? I have traveled with you for these days. I trust you entirely. When I fought that bandit, my own safety was not in my mind. I hated to kill him, but I would have killed all of them to protect you.”
“That is not what is in your heart.”
He looked away, frustrated at her obtuseness, but the feeling of tears had gone. “Then what is in my heart?”
She stood up and stepped away, shaking out her bedroll. “That you must discover for yourself.”
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