Apr 02, 2006 22:03
He dreams of her, sometimes. Often.
Tonight he dreams of watching her in the fire, as he used to do. The flames are warm and respond softly to his guiding fingers; the words are smooth and familiar on his lips. He kneels by the hearth and stirs the fire.
In the desert she seems harder than he remembers. Not desperate, not cruel, not unhappy.
Just --
Hard.
Tonight he dreams of being unable to find her, of knowing where she is, why she is there, but not how she is. He assumes that she is all right because to him she is constant, indestructible, stronger than anything but the gods. Perhaps stronger; the gods have never been tested, have they? The gods are no one's tool.
The fire darkens. He doesn't know if she is beyond his range -- he can hardly fathom this, although he knows that she is very far away -- or if the problem lies with him, with the foul dried-blood rust of his magic.
She will be unhappy, he knows; she hates the cold.
They hate the cold.
A hand on his shoulder lures him gently to his feet; Thom turns, and forgets.
oom: writing