[identity profile] lanfykins.livejournal.com
It's called living.


I know before he tells me. It's the kind of thing you do know, when you've done this job for as long as I have. Some things about you - they don't change.

And... it's OK. We've had longer than I ever dared hope for. Three months - an entire season - spring into summer. Riches undreamed-of. A day would have been enough. An hour. One kiss.

Dancing's done. Time to pay the piper.

I put aside my distaff and I pick up my spear again. And I turn to face the man who I've loved, and lost, and left to fall into despair and drink, and at the last, impossibly, incredibly, loved again; and I can see it in his face too, the foreknowledge of both our deaths.

"Orders?" I ask.


Apr. 9th, 2009 08:42 pm
[identity profile] lanfykins.livejournal.com
(Apologies to those whose characters I have used without permission. This appears to be becoming a bad habit of mine; I really should stop it.)


"Visitors are always welcome," Caragh's voice came cheerily over the phone. "Will you be wishing access to the moonbridge, or will you travel by mundane means?"

"Oh, don't worry, I'll get the tr..." And then Katrina's thoughts caught up with her unthinking response, and she reconsidered. "Actually, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, would Uncle Keston mind if I used the moonbridge?"

"I'm sure that'll be fine. I'll let Robin know - that's my husband, he's Warder - and you can just come on in."

Small decisions have long shadows. )
[identity profile] lanfykins.livejournal.com
I have been a woman
I have been a wife to wolves
I have been a warrior with a bloody spear
And struck down my foes
And my friends alike
I have wept with dry eyes
I have been the stone beneath the sward
And the sword that broke on stone
I have been a stag's daughter with a falcon's eyes
I have lived and I have died
I have been a wolf
I have been a wife to wolves
I have always been a woman...
[identity profile] lanfykins.livejournal.com
Dawn is breaking, the black sky lightening slowly to grey over the landscapes that flash past my window. This train ticket cost me the last of my money; I flip it in my fingers, feeling the hole where it was punched. I could only afford one way. That's all right.

Already London is far, far behind me. The landscape outside the window is rising into low hills, greyish grass over occasional outcrops of granite. I grew up on that rolling moor. Here I lived both the best and the worst of my life; I never thought I would be coming back. Through the metal and diesel of the train I can smell wet grass and peat, and for a moment the long years amidst concrete and petrol fumes are no more than a dream.

This morning I feel like no more than a dream myself.

I still don't know exactly what I am. It doesn't matter. I know who I am. I know where I'm going.

I'm Sulien Tremilin, and I'm coming home.


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