(no subject)
((Okay, I've cleared out cookies and everything, but my journal keeps telling me this is a private post. I am a wee bit frustrated. If anyone on my flist can see this, please let me know? *makes with the grr-faces* Visibility established. LJ does not like me lately.))
Courtney’s taken to wandering at the edges of the woods, places that are technically human property, but that no one works or claims or builds upon. Little Night Things will sometimes venture here, but the wilder sort never stray out of the forest depths. She walks here because the White Stag is free once again, and she doesn’t dare cross his path while she wears the form of a fae doe. It would be like sacrilege.
She is both closer to him and farther from him than ever before.
But the paths so close to civilization have their own risks.
“Mommy, there’s a deer, a white deer in the woods…”
“Honey, I saw the damnedest thing when I was jogging today…”
“White as…you know, like…a really white thing?”
“…little pink hooves…”
“…but it ran away when it spotted me.”
Most people just cluck their tongues thoughtfully and move on to their daily routines. That’s just the way Hillsborough reacts to the supernatural; it’s been among them since the town’s founding. But Blake Trianne overhears Mrs. Finch telling his stepmother about the white deer and does a double-take.
I’m going after the White Stag, Courtney had said.
He wants to see.
So it is that dusk finds him on the path that winds beneath the naked trees. The wind is bitter but intermittent. Snow flurries are predicted. For a long time he sees nothing except crows, and jays, and squirrels with their tails curled around them for warmth. Then there’s a soft crackling of underbrush, and a flash of white through the trees. He braces his hands on the trunk of an alder. The bark is rough and cold; he’s forgotten his gloves.
The deer is small, thin and fragile-looking, and it seems to be wandering aimlessly about the trees, not even grazing. It’s almost within reach of his arm when he speaks, belligerently. “Are you it? Are you what she left to look for? You don’t look so sp-”
‘Don’t look so special’ is what he means to say, but it turns to look at him before he can get the words out, and he can’t continue, because it does, in fact, look special. Very special. Its eyes are so dark against the white fur, and the pink ears are almost translucent. No longer fragile or too thin to his eyes, it looks unearthly, graceful. It stares at him and doesn’t move, like a statue carved out of ivory.
Blake rallies. “You-you don’t look worth dying over.”
The deer flicks an ear and turns in a slow circle as if to give him a better look. He’s reminded of the way his mother used to let her favorite strand of freshwater pearls trickle through her fingers into her jewelry box when she took them off after a meeting: liquid, sinuous, iridescent white. He hasn’t seen his mother, or her pearls, in almost two years.
“I don’t care!” he shouts suddenly, “You just stop it! Why can’t you leave her alone, all of you people? She doesn’t need you, she needs people here! Normal people she can talk to and borrow books from and get coffee with! You hurt her! Go away!”
The deer lays its ears back and takes a step away, alarmed, but doesn’t run. And Blake catches a glimpse of something familiar in its eyes, and finally notices that there are no antlers on its head. This is no stag. “…Courtney?”
“It’s temporary,” she whispers.
“How?”
“Nexus.”
Without thinking, without asking, he reaches out and places a hand on her neck. Soft…so soft and warm…
For just a moment, she leans into the touch, then she starts back in horror. He shouldn’t be touching her-how dare he touch her? How dare she let him get so close? “I…no. No!” She gasps, and turns to run as fast as her hooves can take her.
“Courtney? Courtney, wait! I’m sorry!” He calls after her desperately.
She’s not listening any more. Touch me, don’t touch me, love me but not too much, follow me but not so close…
Unfortunately, Blake doesn’t know enough to go after her.
She keeps running.
Courtney’s taken to wandering at the edges of the woods, places that are technically human property, but that no one works or claims or builds upon. Little Night Things will sometimes venture here, but the wilder sort never stray out of the forest depths. She walks here because the White Stag is free once again, and she doesn’t dare cross his path while she wears the form of a fae doe. It would be like sacrilege.
She is both closer to him and farther from him than ever before.
But the paths so close to civilization have their own risks.
“Mommy, there’s a deer, a white deer in the woods…”
“Honey, I saw the damnedest thing when I was jogging today…”
“White as…you know, like…a really white thing?”
“…little pink hooves…”
“…but it ran away when it spotted me.”
Most people just cluck their tongues thoughtfully and move on to their daily routines. That’s just the way Hillsborough reacts to the supernatural; it’s been among them since the town’s founding. But Blake Trianne overhears Mrs. Finch telling his stepmother about the white deer and does a double-take.
I’m going after the White Stag, Courtney had said.
He wants to see.
So it is that dusk finds him on the path that winds beneath the naked trees. The wind is bitter but intermittent. Snow flurries are predicted. For a long time he sees nothing except crows, and jays, and squirrels with their tails curled around them for warmth. Then there’s a soft crackling of underbrush, and a flash of white through the trees. He braces his hands on the trunk of an alder. The bark is rough and cold; he’s forgotten his gloves.
The deer is small, thin and fragile-looking, and it seems to be wandering aimlessly about the trees, not even grazing. It’s almost within reach of his arm when he speaks, belligerently. “Are you it? Are you what she left to look for? You don’t look so sp-”
‘Don’t look so special’ is what he means to say, but it turns to look at him before he can get the words out, and he can’t continue, because it does, in fact, look special. Very special. Its eyes are so dark against the white fur, and the pink ears are almost translucent. No longer fragile or too thin to his eyes, it looks unearthly, graceful. It stares at him and doesn’t move, like a statue carved out of ivory.
Blake rallies. “You-you don’t look worth dying over.”
The deer flicks an ear and turns in a slow circle as if to give him a better look. He’s reminded of the way his mother used to let her favorite strand of freshwater pearls trickle through her fingers into her jewelry box when she took them off after a meeting: liquid, sinuous, iridescent white. He hasn’t seen his mother, or her pearls, in almost two years.
“I don’t care!” he shouts suddenly, “You just stop it! Why can’t you leave her alone, all of you people? She doesn’t need you, she needs people here! Normal people she can talk to and borrow books from and get coffee with! You hurt her! Go away!”
The deer lays its ears back and takes a step away, alarmed, but doesn’t run. And Blake catches a glimpse of something familiar in its eyes, and finally notices that there are no antlers on its head. This is no stag. “…Courtney?”
“It’s temporary,” she whispers.
“How?”
“Nexus.”
Without thinking, without asking, he reaches out and places a hand on her neck. Soft…so soft and warm…
For just a moment, she leans into the touch, then she starts back in horror. He shouldn’t be touching her-how dare he touch her? How dare she let him get so close? “I…no. No!” She gasps, and turns to run as fast as her hooves can take her.
“Courtney? Courtney, wait! I’m sorry!” He calls after her desperately.
She’s not listening any more. Touch me, don’t touch me, love me but not too much, follow me but not so close…
Unfortunately, Blake doesn’t know enough to go after her.
She keeps running.