that WIP meme
Ok, I'll bite.
1.
Stand in line in your heaviest coat, one hand locked in the neck of Mutt's jacket so he doesn't squirm away like he did last week. After forty-five minutes (you think: your watch died last week and you haven't had time to get it repaired), reach the front of the line to discover that all the best cuts of meat are gone. You come away with two chicken wings, a rutabaga, and a pound of carrots.
Ox will be by for tea; you had hoped to feed him up, he's lost even more weight since he took on those "extra duties" he won't explain. Perhaps there will be something in the pamphlet that came this week, something less awful you can do with carrots and rutabaga. But you doubt it.
You're out of the high street now, and you let Mutt go so he can splash in the puddles. "Mother, look!" he cries, and points at something far overhead. Your shoulders tighten, but there have been no sirens, and it's just a single plane, far overhead.
Probably nothing.
You pass Mrs. Bourne, and smile as usual, but she sniffs and looks the other way. Ah. Word must have gotten out about Ox's visit last week. He'd brought a puzzle to work on, something using 17th Dynasty hieroglyphs but structured like something much later. Once you'd wrestled Mutt into bed (and Ox had told him yet another story about Colin as a boy, which had left you sniffling in the hallway), the two of you had sat up late working on it over cups of not-really-tea and a precious ounce of the ouzo Salah had sent you when Colin died. Ox slipped out quietly around midnight, but not quietly enough to evade June Harrowsmith's attention.
2.
"How long have they been gone?" she asks Bindle, and continues without waiting for an answer. "Did they leave any message, or was there a struggle?"
Bindle (a worthy Dwarf, although not always nimble of mind or feet) gapes at her. Talma, to her credit, merely snorts quietly. "Two days," he says at last. "They were hunting--a White Stag--and went into a copse in Lantern Waste. When the pack caught up with them, they found nothing but the horses, wandering loose. Even Swiftnose could find no trace of them past that point. It's about fifteen miles due West of here."
Rhea has never so disliked being right. "Scouts?" she asks, and starts walking stiffly towards the lodge. Inside there will be food, and something soft on which to rest her bones.
The Dwarf pulls off his helmet and rubs a hand over his bald pate. "I've sent them north, south, and west," he confirms. "Nothing sure, although Stormcoat says his people saw Harpies that day, flying into the sunset."
The steps up onto the porch of the lodge are steeper than any cliff. Rhea yawns so wide she feels her jaw might crack. "Well done," she says, and Bindle is too experienced a soldier to blush at a compliment, but he nods in acknowledgment. "Lock down the borders, if you haven't already. On my authority as Warden. Send to Torvus, Peridan, and the rest of the Council: no word is to leave Narnia. None, do you hear? And close the ports."
The blanket on the hearth is almost too far, and Rhea staggers as she nears it, but Talma catches her against her shoulder. "And find a Raven for me, someone reliable. We will need to send messages tomorrow."
"All shall be as you say, Sir Rhea," says Bindle, formally. He turns aside and waves at someone standing in the kitchen doorway, but before the tureen is laid before her, Rhea is deep asleep.
*
3. [This is a story I really would like to finish some day...]
The first time it happened, John Winchester was asleep on the cold floor of a summer shelter, his older son snoring on a pallet at the other side of the room. The nighthorses were outside--it was too close in the shelter to keep them indoors unless the weather demanded it--and there was no particular need to keep a watch.
John seldom remembered his dreams; when he did, they were usually unimportant, full of the petty business of the day: cooking bacon or mixing biscuits, picking parasites off Rock's hide, cantering slowly down an open road in the sunlight. He didn't dream about the day Mary died, or the day Sammy left, or the day Crash went down on the scree and broke Dean's leg. Those were the waking nightmares, and even in sleep, John kept them buried.
This dream, though, was about Mary. She sat next to him, smelling of horse and sweat and leather, and she put her hand on his face. He felt the warmth of her fingers against his cheek even in the fog of sleep. He opened his eyes--weren't they already open?--and saw her leaning over him. There was a shadow in the open doorway, the glint of an eye and a swinging head that John recognized as Frost.
"Mary." John struggled in the bedroll, managed to twist enough so he could get up on one elbow. She was still there, leaning over him, with her hair falling lose from that old grey hat she loved so much. She looked ... different. A little older than he remembered, the skin around her eyes thin and bruised. "I don't--" He looked across the room, and it seemed real: there was Dean, sprawled on the pallet as though on a bed in the finest hotel in Ellison. "Is this real?"
*Winter on the Lamarcke road* sent Mary, and Frost snorted, rubbing one shoulder against the doorpost. *John and Mary drinking whiskey next to the fire,* and *Dean and Crash on that summer day in Zettel*.
"But--" If it was real, it couldn't be her. If it was her, it couldn't be real. "Shit!" *Rock!* called John, desperate. Were the vermin in, was that what this was?
"No, John." She put her hand on his shoulder, rubbing her thumb against the bristles under his jaw. "It's coming back, John. You have to watch out for it. Protect my boys." And she leaned forward, brushing her lips against his.
And then she was gone. "Mary?" John whispered, but there was no mare in the doorway, no hand on his shoulder. Just a door closed against the vermin and his older son muttering his way into another dream, one arm outstretched on the floor as though reaching toward his father.
Must have been a dream, he decided.
But that was just the first time.
Crossposted from DW, where there are
comments; comment here or there.
1.
Stand in line in your heaviest coat, one hand locked in the neck of Mutt's jacket so he doesn't squirm away like he did last week. After forty-five minutes (you think: your watch died last week and you haven't had time to get it repaired), reach the front of the line to discover that all the best cuts of meat are gone. You come away with two chicken wings, a rutabaga, and a pound of carrots.
Ox will be by for tea; you had hoped to feed him up, he's lost even more weight since he took on those "extra duties" he won't explain. Perhaps there will be something in the pamphlet that came this week, something less awful you can do with carrots and rutabaga. But you doubt it.
You're out of the high street now, and you let Mutt go so he can splash in the puddles. "Mother, look!" he cries, and points at something far overhead. Your shoulders tighten, but there have been no sirens, and it's just a single plane, far overhead.
Probably nothing.
You pass Mrs. Bourne, and smile as usual, but she sniffs and looks the other way. Ah. Word must have gotten out about Ox's visit last week. He'd brought a puzzle to work on, something using 17th Dynasty hieroglyphs but structured like something much later. Once you'd wrestled Mutt into bed (and Ox had told him yet another story about Colin as a boy, which had left you sniffling in the hallway), the two of you had sat up late working on it over cups of not-really-tea and a precious ounce of the ouzo Salah had sent you when Colin died. Ox slipped out quietly around midnight, but not quietly enough to evade June Harrowsmith's attention.
2.
"How long have they been gone?" she asks Bindle, and continues without waiting for an answer. "Did they leave any message, or was there a struggle?"
Bindle (a worthy Dwarf, although not always nimble of mind or feet) gapes at her. Talma, to her credit, merely snorts quietly. "Two days," he says at last. "They were hunting--a White Stag--and went into a copse in Lantern Waste. When the pack caught up with them, they found nothing but the horses, wandering loose. Even Swiftnose could find no trace of them past that point. It's about fifteen miles due West of here."
Rhea has never so disliked being right. "Scouts?" she asks, and starts walking stiffly towards the lodge. Inside there will be food, and something soft on which to rest her bones.
The Dwarf pulls off his helmet and rubs a hand over his bald pate. "I've sent them north, south, and west," he confirms. "Nothing sure, although Stormcoat says his people saw Harpies that day, flying into the sunset."
The steps up onto the porch of the lodge are steeper than any cliff. Rhea yawns so wide she feels her jaw might crack. "Well done," she says, and Bindle is too experienced a soldier to blush at a compliment, but he nods in acknowledgment. "Lock down the borders, if you haven't already. On my authority as Warden. Send to Torvus, Peridan, and the rest of the Council: no word is to leave Narnia. None, do you hear? And close the ports."
The blanket on the hearth is almost too far, and Rhea staggers as she nears it, but Talma catches her against her shoulder. "And find a Raven for me, someone reliable. We will need to send messages tomorrow."
"All shall be as you say, Sir Rhea," says Bindle, formally. He turns aside and waves at someone standing in the kitchen doorway, but before the tureen is laid before her, Rhea is deep asleep.
*
3. [This is a story I really would like to finish some day...]
The first time it happened, John Winchester was asleep on the cold floor of a summer shelter, his older son snoring on a pallet at the other side of the room. The nighthorses were outside--it was too close in the shelter to keep them indoors unless the weather demanded it--and there was no particular need to keep a watch.
John seldom remembered his dreams; when he did, they were usually unimportant, full of the petty business of the day: cooking bacon or mixing biscuits, picking parasites off Rock's hide, cantering slowly down an open road in the sunlight. He didn't dream about the day Mary died, or the day Sammy left, or the day Crash went down on the scree and broke Dean's leg. Those were the waking nightmares, and even in sleep, John kept them buried.
This dream, though, was about Mary. She sat next to him, smelling of horse and sweat and leather, and she put her hand on his face. He felt the warmth of her fingers against his cheek even in the fog of sleep. He opened his eyes--weren't they already open?--and saw her leaning over him. There was a shadow in the open doorway, the glint of an eye and a swinging head that John recognized as Frost.
"Mary." John struggled in the bedroll, managed to twist enough so he could get up on one elbow. She was still there, leaning over him, with her hair falling lose from that old grey hat she loved so much. She looked ... different. A little older than he remembered, the skin around her eyes thin and bruised. "I don't--" He looked across the room, and it seemed real: there was Dean, sprawled on the pallet as though on a bed in the finest hotel in Ellison. "Is this real?"
*Winter on the Lamarcke road* sent Mary, and Frost snorted, rubbing one shoulder against the doorpost. *John and Mary drinking whiskey next to the fire,* and *Dean and Crash on that summer day in Zettel*.
"But--" If it was real, it couldn't be her. If it was her, it couldn't be real. "Shit!" *Rock!* called John, desperate. Were the vermin in, was that what this was?
"No, John." She put her hand on his shoulder, rubbing her thumb against the bristles under his jaw. "It's coming back, John. You have to watch out for it. Protect my boys." And she leaned forward, brushing her lips against his.
And then she was gone. "Mary?" John whispered, but there was no mare in the doorway, no hand on his shoulder. Just a door closed against the vermin and his older son muttering his way into another dream, one arm outstretched on the floor as though reaching toward his father.
Must have been a dream, he decided.
But that was just the first time.
Crossposted from DW, where there are
comments; comment here or there.