[Deaths] Julian De'Ath
Title: on the midnight tide
'Verse/characters: Deaths; Julian De'ath
Prompt: 16C "ocean"
Word Count: 802
Notes: expansion/revision of the very old sketch. I figured it was necessary. :)
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Someone down in the town was dying, or thought they were. They yanked her from a sound sleep, left her conscious enough to get dressed properly instead of just yanking on her boots and grabbing a belt knife.
For which she was quietly thankful--the ground hadn't thawed in weeks, maybe more, and it was a long path between her house on the hill and the town snuggled up to the deep-water harbour. She left her braid beneath the fisherman's sweater she pulled on over her night shirt, wrapped herself in the coat she'd had made at the beginning of the cold season from what wool they had available--blankets, mostly, tattered at the edges and pocked with wear marks from the strap of her scythe and her belt--pulled on gloves and a cowl before she went out into the night.
Her boots crunched through the uppermost layer of icy soil, the moon bright enough to see the white of frost along the road, and she saw that the post had come on the midnight tide.
Lights were burning on the dock and the cargo platform, a few more marking the streets nearby. She glanced at them only occasionally, saving her night vision for the space in front of her feet, until she hit the outskirts of town and was able to move faster, long ground-eating strides as she got closer to the source of what had awakened her, and coincidentally the lights.
She let power spiral out as she got closer, felt tentatively around, and her next step didn't echo on the pavement.
Exploration discovered it was the captain of the packet boat, worn and tired to his bones, but only thinking he was dying, not truly so. She borrowed a bit of energy from the seaweed glued to the breakwater, pressed it into the center of the man's back with her hand, knew he wouldn't feel anything but a sudden small burst of warmth, and that he'd likely blame the space heater he had tucked by his feet.
"Sir?" someone called, tapping at the door.
"Come in," the captain replied, setting down his pen, and she drew back instinctively, put her back to a wall and waited for the postmaster to finish his business with the captain. She'd follow the man out when he left, leave the door explicable by human cause.
"We've a misplaced letter," the postmaster said, laying down a beautiful old-fashioned envelope, linen paper and a dip-pen for ink.
She drew closer to admire it--most letters were cheap cotton or wood-pulp, especially the ones that came this far west. Hardly anyone wanted to risk the loss of a beautiful thing, but whoever sent this one had meant business.
The men had been talking while she was distracted, but she snapped back when the postmaster protested that there was no-one surnamed 'De'Ath', which he mispronounced 'Deeth', in the town or surrounding area.
She blinked, drew even closer, and recognised the handwriting on the envelope, her name with habitual flourishes and an address care of the post office.
Borrowing the captain's pen briefly, she added a subscript name in the corner, that of a midwife who kept a postbox in town, then put the pen back and tapped the letter, just loud enough to draw the eye.
"There's a second name here," the captain said, and after examining the envelope again the postmaster smote his forehead and apologised for bothering the man.
She followed him out and down to the post office, hopping the gate neatly and stealing the letter out of the postbox from the office side, not the customer's, as she didn't have a key.
It wasn't dawn, yet, wouldn't be for many hours, but she let out a small breath, feeling the post office's lamp warm her like the sun, as she slit the envelope and shook the letter free.
She read it four times before the words penetrated properly, instead of dwelling inanely on her uncle's unnervingly impeccable handwriting or his choice in paper and ink.
The gist was simple; her father was alive. Her uncle asked her to come home--as if she'd had any home but here for well over two centuries, despite brief visits back, the most recent a century ago--and help him gain her father's freedom.
The Councils had her father, and had had him from the time he was reported dead.
She waited until the post office officially opened for business, several hours later--she'd stolen tea and biscuits from the post office's kitchen, would repay it when she next had coins on her--and inquired after tickets on the soonest boat.
The packet was in town, she was informed, but it rarely took passengers--accommodations would be minimal.
"Fine," she said evenly, pasting a company smile onto her face. "That will be fine."
'Verse/characters: Deaths; Julian De'ath
Prompt: 16C "ocean"
Word Count: 802
Notes: expansion/revision of the very old sketch. I figured it was necessary. :)
---------
Someone down in the town was dying, or thought they were. They yanked her from a sound sleep, left her conscious enough to get dressed properly instead of just yanking on her boots and grabbing a belt knife.
For which she was quietly thankful--the ground hadn't thawed in weeks, maybe more, and it was a long path between her house on the hill and the town snuggled up to the deep-water harbour. She left her braid beneath the fisherman's sweater she pulled on over her night shirt, wrapped herself in the coat she'd had made at the beginning of the cold season from what wool they had available--blankets, mostly, tattered at the edges and pocked with wear marks from the strap of her scythe and her belt--pulled on gloves and a cowl before she went out into the night.
Her boots crunched through the uppermost layer of icy soil, the moon bright enough to see the white of frost along the road, and she saw that the post had come on the midnight tide.
Lights were burning on the dock and the cargo platform, a few more marking the streets nearby. She glanced at them only occasionally, saving her night vision for the space in front of her feet, until she hit the outskirts of town and was able to move faster, long ground-eating strides as she got closer to the source of what had awakened her, and coincidentally the lights.
She let power spiral out as she got closer, felt tentatively around, and her next step didn't echo on the pavement.
Exploration discovered it was the captain of the packet boat, worn and tired to his bones, but only thinking he was dying, not truly so. She borrowed a bit of energy from the seaweed glued to the breakwater, pressed it into the center of the man's back with her hand, knew he wouldn't feel anything but a sudden small burst of warmth, and that he'd likely blame the space heater he had tucked by his feet.
"Sir?" someone called, tapping at the door.
"Come in," the captain replied, setting down his pen, and she drew back instinctively, put her back to a wall and waited for the postmaster to finish his business with the captain. She'd follow the man out when he left, leave the door explicable by human cause.
"We've a misplaced letter," the postmaster said, laying down a beautiful old-fashioned envelope, linen paper and a dip-pen for ink.
She drew closer to admire it--most letters were cheap cotton or wood-pulp, especially the ones that came this far west. Hardly anyone wanted to risk the loss of a beautiful thing, but whoever sent this one had meant business.
The men had been talking while she was distracted, but she snapped back when the postmaster protested that there was no-one surnamed 'De'Ath', which he mispronounced 'Deeth', in the town or surrounding area.
She blinked, drew even closer, and recognised the handwriting on the envelope, her name with habitual flourishes and an address care of the post office.
Borrowing the captain's pen briefly, she added a subscript name in the corner, that of a midwife who kept a postbox in town, then put the pen back and tapped the letter, just loud enough to draw the eye.
"There's a second name here," the captain said, and after examining the envelope again the postmaster smote his forehead and apologised for bothering the man.
She followed him out and down to the post office, hopping the gate neatly and stealing the letter out of the postbox from the office side, not the customer's, as she didn't have a key.
It wasn't dawn, yet, wouldn't be for many hours, but she let out a small breath, feeling the post office's lamp warm her like the sun, as she slit the envelope and shook the letter free.
She read it four times before the words penetrated properly, instead of dwelling inanely on her uncle's unnervingly impeccable handwriting or his choice in paper and ink.
The gist was simple; her father was alive. Her uncle asked her to come home--as if she'd had any home but here for well over two centuries, despite brief visits back, the most recent a century ago--and help him gain her father's freedom.
The Councils had her father, and had had him from the time he was reported dead.
She waited until the post office officially opened for business, several hours later--she'd stolen tea and biscuits from the post office's kitchen, would repay it when she next had coins on her--and inquired after tickets on the soonest boat.
The packet was in town, she was informed, but it rarely took passengers--accommodations would be minimal.
"Fine," she said evenly, pasting a company smile onto her face. "That will be fine."