[Wild Roses] first war
Title: old rumours, new use
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Arianhrod
Prompt: 59D "no way out"
Word Count: 889
Notes: this is sometime after the Bone Witch. Brief context:
1. the Trickwood, before Hernén, had half its year defined in disaster, first with flooding from the mountains, then with fires on the plains once everything dried out. Even with Hernén there's still a fair amount of trouble every year in spring and summer.
2. the Opposition in this war is trying to reduce the patterns and order that've maintained the status quo (so that when they have power there will be an immediate improvement in conditions); in the Trickwood, they're driving down bigger wilder manticore packs from the mountains into populated areas, and, it now appears, are setting fires.
The fire was getting closer. They lost the last of the possible escape routes half a day ago, and now all they could do was sit on the ridge, and wait.
They were going to die, and they all knew it. It would be an ugly way to go, if the fire did not suck the air away before the burning started.
They'd tried. There was even a half-wild half-pack of wolves shoved in with them, their territory burned and all their children sent on ahead with the last of the horses. None had returned, and they had to hope that meant they'd made it, before being cut off.
In the end, it was an old wolf, one of the ones with iron salted through her hair and a couple of crooked fingers from long-ago fights, who looked up suddenly, and said, very clearly, "Arianhrod Sabaey, I need your help."
It was no song, no chant to bring the sun home in winter, but there was the same sort of element of prayer in the words. The wolf--the pack-witch, he corrected himself, because there was no way she was anything else--repeated the phrase, over and over again, knowing she was going to die but unable to keep herself from trying one last desperate gambit.
Other voices joined hers, after a while. Some said 'we', instead of 'I', other names added to the chorus--mostly the hunt-lord's but sometimes the Prince Fintain's and once, the Sun Queen--but the tone was always the same.
In the end, he only said "Please," very softly, "I do not want to die like this."
And then there was someone in their midst, hissing something towards the sky and her own upraised arms, and they all froze.
"Say nothing," the new arrival commanded in an old trade tongue, her voice rough.
They watched, as something shimmered into place around the ridge, heat mirage or almost like the haze before rain, and then there was a whooph.
Ash rose into the air in place of flames, trees collapsed into piles of broken black sticks, and then, insanely, it was raining, where the fire had raged, all down the easiest slope and down towards what was a riverbed, in wetter seasons.
The pack-witch moved, then, shifted to four feet and inched towards the standing figure.
When the mage looked down, the pack-witch shifted back to her human shape, kneeling on the stone with her head bowed, smiling.
"No," the mage said, and the wolf lifted her head, smile beginning to fade. "Not that."
"Lady, I'd be dead if not for an old story being right--that you always do hear your name, whether or not you're meant to." The wolf held the mage's eye for a long moment, then dropped her head again. "You answered, when I called. May I not give the same?"
"I'm not a princess anymore," the mage hissed, and he saw, then, that she was exhausted, smudged with soot and her hair muzzy from sleeping on it. They must have dragged her from her bed--
Her head snapped around, met his eyes. "Yes," she said, and he dropped his eyes instantly, apologetic. "Yours was not the only fire."
"How many?" the wolf asked, drawing the mage's attention back to her, and it wasn't how many fires, and everyone knew it.
"More than there should have been," Arianhrod replied, suddenly sounding as tired as she looked. "Fewer than it might have been."
"Thank you," the pack-witch said, and Arianhrod was suddenly glaring.
"You can't count on this--on me--like this," she said, but the wolf growled, and the mage shut her mouth with a click of human teeth.
"I didn't count," the wolf said, rising, towering over the mage she'd called, her teeth showing just enough to be angry. "I'd tried everything else I knew, rumour or fact, and there was nothing left. I asked, and you answered, and if you wish to resent me being grateful so help me I will find a way to throw you in a river, lightnings or no. We are yours, lady, as much as we are our leaders', because we are alive, because of you. Send us away, as you like, give us back to what remains of our packs or our land or our commands, but if you ever ask--"
"Lady," he interrupted softly, and everyone's heads turned to him, Arianhrod's and the pack-witch's too, "thank you for our lives."
The mage coughed a wolfish laugh, shook her head, a little ruefully. "You're welcome. Forgive my manners."
"Forgive ours," he said, and opened his pack, snagged the last wrapped package inside it. He'd sent the others along with the horses, but saved a few, just in case they did live. He offered it to her, and after a long moment, she took it from him, unwrapped it, and took a massive bite.
She mumbled something around it that was probably 'thank you', and he laughed, first at her, then at the whole winter-kissed situation, and found he couldn't stop.
"If you call, lady," the pack-witch said softly to the eating mage, "we will answer, as you did when called."
Arianhrod cast a glance up at her, calculating something in her head, then waved one hand, and the rain fell, not just on the slope, but on them.
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Arianhrod
Prompt: 59D "no way out"
Word Count: 889
Notes: this is sometime after the Bone Witch. Brief context:
1. the Trickwood, before Hernén, had half its year defined in disaster, first with flooding from the mountains, then with fires on the plains once everything dried out. Even with Hernén there's still a fair amount of trouble every year in spring and summer.
2. the Opposition in this war is trying to reduce the patterns and order that've maintained the status quo (so that when they have power there will be an immediate improvement in conditions); in the Trickwood, they're driving down bigger wilder manticore packs from the mountains into populated areas, and, it now appears, are setting fires.
The fire was getting closer. They lost the last of the possible escape routes half a day ago, and now all they could do was sit on the ridge, and wait.
They were going to die, and they all knew it. It would be an ugly way to go, if the fire did not suck the air away before the burning started.
They'd tried. There was even a half-wild half-pack of wolves shoved in with them, their territory burned and all their children sent on ahead with the last of the horses. None had returned, and they had to hope that meant they'd made it, before being cut off.
In the end, it was an old wolf, one of the ones with iron salted through her hair and a couple of crooked fingers from long-ago fights, who looked up suddenly, and said, very clearly, "Arianhrod Sabaey, I need your help."
It was no song, no chant to bring the sun home in winter, but there was the same sort of element of prayer in the words. The wolf--the pack-witch, he corrected himself, because there was no way she was anything else--repeated the phrase, over and over again, knowing she was going to die but unable to keep herself from trying one last desperate gambit.
Other voices joined hers, after a while. Some said 'we', instead of 'I', other names added to the chorus--mostly the hunt-lord's but sometimes the Prince Fintain's and once, the Sun Queen--but the tone was always the same.
In the end, he only said "Please," very softly, "I do not want to die like this."
And then there was someone in their midst, hissing something towards the sky and her own upraised arms, and they all froze.
"Say nothing," the new arrival commanded in an old trade tongue, her voice rough.
They watched, as something shimmered into place around the ridge, heat mirage or almost like the haze before rain, and then there was a whooph.
Ash rose into the air in place of flames, trees collapsed into piles of broken black sticks, and then, insanely, it was raining, where the fire had raged, all down the easiest slope and down towards what was a riverbed, in wetter seasons.
The pack-witch moved, then, shifted to four feet and inched towards the standing figure.
When the mage looked down, the pack-witch shifted back to her human shape, kneeling on the stone with her head bowed, smiling.
"No," the mage said, and the wolf lifted her head, smile beginning to fade. "Not that."
"Lady, I'd be dead if not for an old story being right--that you always do hear your name, whether or not you're meant to." The wolf held the mage's eye for a long moment, then dropped her head again. "You answered, when I called. May I not give the same?"
"I'm not a princess anymore," the mage hissed, and he saw, then, that she was exhausted, smudged with soot and her hair muzzy from sleeping on it. They must have dragged her from her bed--
Her head snapped around, met his eyes. "Yes," she said, and he dropped his eyes instantly, apologetic. "Yours was not the only fire."
"How many?" the wolf asked, drawing the mage's attention back to her, and it wasn't how many fires, and everyone knew it.
"More than there should have been," Arianhrod replied, suddenly sounding as tired as she looked. "Fewer than it might have been."
"Thank you," the pack-witch said, and Arianhrod was suddenly glaring.
"You can't count on this--on me--like this," she said, but the wolf growled, and the mage shut her mouth with a click of human teeth.
"I didn't count," the wolf said, rising, towering over the mage she'd called, her teeth showing just enough to be angry. "I'd tried everything else I knew, rumour or fact, and there was nothing left. I asked, and you answered, and if you wish to resent me being grateful so help me I will find a way to throw you in a river, lightnings or no. We are yours, lady, as much as we are our leaders', because we are alive, because of you. Send us away, as you like, give us back to what remains of our packs or our land or our commands, but if you ever ask--"
"Lady," he interrupted softly, and everyone's heads turned to him, Arianhrod's and the pack-witch's too, "thank you for our lives."
The mage coughed a wolfish laugh, shook her head, a little ruefully. "You're welcome. Forgive my manners."
"Forgive ours," he said, and opened his pack, snagged the last wrapped package inside it. He'd sent the others along with the horses, but saved a few, just in case they did live. He offered it to her, and after a long moment, she took it from him, unwrapped it, and took a massive bite.
She mumbled something around it that was probably 'thank you', and he laughed, first at her, then at the whole winter-kissed situation, and found he couldn't stop.
"If you call, lady," the pack-witch said softly to the eating mage, "we will answer, as you did when called."
Arianhrod cast a glance up at her, calculating something in her head, then waved one hand, and the rain fell, not just on the slope, but on them.