1 reply to this topic

[Orsino]

Here's another installment of Rachel's story. In the night that follows her trip to market, she sleeps off the discovery that her village has been destroyed by the slavers. Her dream brings in elements of the romance with Gareth and of the prophecy (should probably be read before the story) given her by Titania, Queen of Faerie, in play. Something only touched upon in the story is the character's transformation: although young, she began play with the white hair and the wrinkled appearance of an old woman. I'd thought that last bit too much for the writing class, and so omitted it.

This Gareth is a creature of her subconscious, and serves to remind her of her insecurities. I like the dream-logic, by which things just sort of happen without explanation. The unidentified male voice added here was added to the setting to placate my wife, who only liked gaming in Greyhawk, where her characters could worship Heironeous.

[Orsino]

After the village burned came the dream. Beneath an orphaned and half-scorched cape, she sobbed and shook into a hard sleep made worse by the smoke and reek of blood. Through the impossibly quiet night, she slept in the mud among the pig carcasses. Bundled up against the morning she dreaded, a dawn of decisions and more tears.

The hard-packed sand hurt her as she ran down the moonlit beach, gasping in the salt-smelling air, a balmy breeze that savored of flowers and dead fish tugging at her unbound hair. Just as the river-men said in their tales, waves whispered as they lapped at the shore; here they seemed to hiss their frustration as they reached for her, fell back, and grasped again. The figure down the shore had his back to her, but could only be Master Gareth, he of the broad shoulders and fine clothes.

Why did he not hear her approach? Was he unaware of the wet slap-slap of feet-- Goddess let them be feet!--behind her. She shouted his name, panicked, but still he stood calmly, looking up at the few stars that fought the Moon's glare. The sounds of pursuit rose at her heels.

The sand was softer here, and her legs heavier with fatigue, as she drew closer to Gareth in her flight. As was ever his way, he turned to face her as she approached, his arms crossed in the stance that made her feel once more that she was late for some appointed meeting. Yet here he was, heir to a barony, out for a walk in his dressing gown, bare feet shining palely in the moonlight. Why should she feel so awkward, wrapped up in her traveling cloak? And why did he do nought but grin his haughty grin, deep grey eyes dancing above, when she was chased his way by who knew what?

"And will you always be a-running, Miss Rachel?" He snorted as she passed, and then called to her fleeing back, "No more for me than how-do-yous from a daughter of priest and priestess? Run, then; catch the Moon if you will, and trust that I shall wait upon your leisure. Your pleasure--"

His sweet mocking speech was cut off by a bellow from the beast that trailed her, and a hot stink played about her shoulders as something, perhaps another something, sighed in anticipation of the kill. A huge hand brushed her hair, the near miss horribly like Gareth's imagined caresses, and she screamed into the night. The Moon, the lamp from whence shines a witch's might, glared as She hoisted Herself out of Her dark ocean womb.

Goddess, came her prayer unbidden, help me now, though I prayed to another in my folly! If e'er You'd have me follow the path my father planned, help me now. As she pleaded, the cries of Rachel's pursuers fell away on the wind. No, not gone, but faint, and more angered than exultant. She dared slacken her pace, breath rattling and heart thudding in time with the waves upon the shining shore. She spun, risking a look behind. Nothing there now but sand, sand and the warm light of the full Moon's face. The shushing of the waters, friendly for the first time, smothered a last howl from the north. She panted and closed her eyes against the salty air. I thank You, Goddess, and will requite Your blessing. I'll burn You a candle upon Ste. Anne's Day.

The sky yawned overhead, fat with orange light, and now the stars of the Plough spun widdershins from the sea to stand overhead. The faint hook of the Sickle directed her gaze eastward over the waves, where yet the Moon sat upon the edge of the world, larger by far than She should be.

There too, not ten feet away, stood a grand door of heavy wood, poised over the glittering ocean, wavelets lapping playfully at its bottom edge. No one beckoned her thither, and yet she was drawn to it, because it was beautifully crafted and a merry white, just as was the door to the manor, where dear, dead Gareth would open it and welcome her. She reached for the handle eagerly, seeing her fingers approach it but slowly, as though she'd reach forever. The metal of the handle was old, so incredibly old, and the chill of it thrilled her. An eagle’s head it was, whose beak curved dangerously around her little finger.

Could that be her hand? That old woman's claw, lined like the map on the chapel wall, and wrinkled as thoroughly? An Gareth be upon the other side, what will he be thinking? Do I go to meet the dead of the village in such a guise, they'll not know me. I shall have to speak the spell of fire, she thought firmly, and we'll trade remembrances of Mass, when Father would have me light the Presence flame. And Gareth will smile, and he'll say, "Where have you wandered while we feasted and sang, Miss Rachel?" She grasped the handle and turned it easily, pushing to open the way to him.

The light hit her palpably, and there was no manor house, no Gareth, no Mother and Father to greet her as she stood alone in the glow of the Moon, so near she could touch Her, and feel Her seas and mountains rough beneath her fingertips. The breath burst from her chest as Rachel screamed again, now in surprise. Sprouting from the glare before her was a huge white rose, and she extended a withered hand to grasp it, heedless of the pain as its great thorns pierced her.

Roughly, she was thrown-- or pulled --back to lie stunned on the firm sand, and the door eclipsed the moon as it banged shut in an invisible frame. No wind roared, not even a breeze from over the water. She rested for a time, sniffling back tears, clutching the dead white flower to her breast. As her eyes adjusted to the shadow, she saw that on the door was the ducal eagle in relief, its wings spread in defiance. Its single eye stared into her, proud and terrifying, and the male voice that was not the Goddess' stole upon her yet again.

"Child, have you the heart to follow the eagle, wherever it might lead you? Dare you to take the thirty-nine steps, and restore the balance to the land? Will you go to war? For war is coming indeed, and your nameless village will merit no footnote in whatever histories will be written, an you be not stronger than you appear." Lightning flashed somewhere in the distance, quiet summer lightning, and the girl was left in peace again.

Hours, maybe, she lay unmoving, for if she stirred, surely everyone she knew would be dead again. From time to time, she shook with remembered tears, and her throat ached with the loss. Never more can I be what I was, came the thought, and yet I know not what else to be. A doorway indeed casts its shadow on me, and here I lie, afraid to go and more afraid to stay. A fine daughter--and friend--am I.

So the morning sun found her, suddenly awake and back in the stink of the ruined stable. A great thirst took her, and she fumbled for the water-skin that had saved her, for which she'd been a-bargaining in Hampton when the Slavers rode upon her home. From the hills to the west they'd come at sunset, goblin horns blaring carelessly, and before the moon was above the trees, Rachel's world lay in ruins, ‘most everyone she’d ever known dead or taken. Mother, Father and Master Gareth gone, too, for the charred cape she wore she knew to be his, now hideously stained with blood. Wildly, she threw it from her, the dawn already warming around her.

Where does one go when one is suddenly free to do as one pleases? her thoughts whirled. To a cloister, or on some mad, blind vendetta? Spend the day counting the dead, or spend it elsewhere, doing what? Goddess--

That single holy thought intruded, prodding her toward some action. Staff in hand, she stood shakily, trying to catch the faint breeze from the north. There are pilgrims aplenty on the road in this season, all seeking answers to their questions. She enjoyed a moment's guilty pride. Few in such dire straits as I, 'tis certain. Many wanting to know whom they'll marry, and when, and for how much of a dowry. Midsummer is the time for the whining of old maids, and for the men, ever wanting what they do not have. The Elf-Queen, it's said, will speak to those whose dreams disturb them, so perhaps I'll see what she makes of my doors and eagles, and of the oceans I've never seen. A week to Midsummer's Eve, then. How far to Waymeet, and to the mountain where the Faerie folk visit in peace? More than thirty-nine steps, I’ll be bound!

Here on the chapel stairs she had once skinned a knee as a child, but today far more blood covered the stone steps, which yet served well to scrape the mud and pain from her sturdiest boots. They faced the road that wound eastward, and agreeably did not chide her for running away. Quickening her pace, she offered a silent prayer for the dead as the village slipped away behind her.