(no subject)
Come back soon, Nick had asked, and she had murmured something innocuous and left as soon as she could.
She hasn't returned.
As the passing days stretch into weeks and the weeks to months, the woman known elsewhere as Blodwen Rowlands and here as Anghared North walks the shore of the cold dark sea near her own small cottage, and wonders.
Many there are that would call her foolish, she knows; who would scoff at the very idea that Nick Carraway could ever be a danger.
And yet.
And yet, she also knows all too well how it is that a person might be able to seem nothing more than sweet and kind for years upon years, and still ever waiting for the moment in which to strike. Of course she knows how it could be done, this woman who was once the wife of John Rowlands as well as the White Rider, and who helped to raise the boy Bran Davies from an infant, all the while plotting his downfall and that of the Light entire.
Certainly she knows. Who better?
And after reading the story pressed upon her, Blodwen finds it all too easy to believe that Nick Carraway -- who despite his easy manner and sweet smiles, is evidently well-acquainted with secrets, madness, and death -- might well be more than he outwardly appears.
Puck thought we should meet. Puck, who bears her no affection at all-- and with good reason, oh yes, and who she despises in turn. Could it be some trick by the fae?
Why would I be talking to a bird - unless it's ... a parrot. A parrot. Like (Lleu Llaw Gyffes) Peach, perhaps.
What do you think of the name Arthur? A rock goes flying into the water as she hisses a bitter curse against the name of Arthur Pendragon -- and his son Bran as well, for good measure.
I'm getting a sentient wolf pup. Such clever creatures, oh yes -- including the one known as Bleiddwn, Gwydion's son.
Too many coincidences, and she likes them not at all.
We both have complicated pasts... I'm willing to help you move on.
But to what?
She hasn't returned.
As the passing days stretch into weeks and the weeks to months, the woman known elsewhere as Blodwen Rowlands and here as Anghared North walks the shore of the cold dark sea near her own small cottage, and wonders.
Many there are that would call her foolish, she knows; who would scoff at the very idea that Nick Carraway could ever be a danger.
And yet.
And yet, she also knows all too well how it is that a person might be able to seem nothing more than sweet and kind for years upon years, and still ever waiting for the moment in which to strike. Of course she knows how it could be done, this woman who was once the wife of John Rowlands as well as the White Rider, and who helped to raise the boy Bran Davies from an infant, all the while plotting his downfall and that of the Light entire.
Certainly she knows. Who better?
And after reading the story pressed upon her, Blodwen finds it all too easy to believe that Nick Carraway -- who despite his easy manner and sweet smiles, is evidently well-acquainted with secrets, madness, and death -- might well be more than he outwardly appears.
Puck thought we should meet. Puck, who bears her no affection at all-- and with good reason, oh yes, and who she despises in turn. Could it be some trick by the fae?
Why would I be talking to a bird - unless it's ... a parrot. A parrot. Like (Lleu Llaw Gyffes) Peach, perhaps.
What do you think of the name Arthur? A rock goes flying into the water as she hisses a bitter curse against the name of Arthur Pendragon -- and his son Bran as well, for good measure.
I'm getting a sentient wolf pup. Such clever creatures, oh yes -- including the one known as Bleiddwn, Gwydion's son.
Too many coincidences, and she likes them not at all.
We both have complicated pasts... I'm willing to help you move on.
But to what?