[Witches' Horses] Falcons' Feathers
Title: to grandmother's house
'Verse/characters: Falcons' Feathers; sometimes-Khenbish
Prompt: 23A "forgotten roads"
Word Count: 779
Notes: The elder wasn't kidding when he muttered that the kid probably changed names as often as he changed shirts, and that habit hasn't changed as an adult.
The path was overgrown, and he let his horse stray more than he ever would in company, allowed it mouthfuls of spun-out micrometeorites and the shattered remains of dead comets as they went.
But he was alone--he always came alone to the camps the elders burned away on the maps for fear of what they held--and there was no one to mock him for lazy riding, or plan repairs, or sabotage.
Well, he was without human company. The elders would have smacked him if they'd known, but they didn't, and it hadn't mattered yet.
Her voice was old but not yet cracked, and if he were the sort to decide how a woman looked by her voice he'd have called her pretty--he did anyway, for all she had no face as he knew faces. She was crooning a work-song in his ear, and had been since he was halfway down the path to her.
He wondered, again, what it would be like to ride down this path in company, the road swept clear of dust and ice by opportunistic horses and the brooms of the camp's keepers, lit by blazes of welcome-homes and go-aways in other clans' trade-languages, warnings for those who meant them ill and well-mets for those who came for brides or trading.
As it was the path was eerie at best, too-wide for one except where it narrowed from neglect and broken brooms to just wide enough for two to pass one another by in safety. His horse ducked beneath a spinning stone, carved out like carbonation bubbles by long-ago searchers, and bent to his hand as he brought it up, leveled it out.
"Hello, Grandmother," he said aloud as the horse reached the clearing, tried to shy a little at the tangle of mined-out stones around the campsite. Knee pressure settled the horse easily--no one called him a bad rider, even in jest--and he went for the last remaining hut as the singing stopped and the hut's outer door slid open.
Anchor-points burst into fire as he curved past them, made themselves obvious, far more than enough for an entire raiding party to hobble horses to, even a raiding party the size his great uncle had fielded, back in the day. The horse shivered under him as a coil fired up, and he nudged it gently away from the rotating arm of anchor-points.
"Careful, Grandmother," he murmured, and the coil cracked, went out in a shudder of old, cold parts.
He tethered his horse at the new magnetic post he'd put in the last time he was here, exactly by her door, collected the sack of things he meant to give into her keeping, and stood up. Patted the console, told it he'd be back soon, and went forth into the space between the doors, closed the outer door behind him.
"Grandmother," he said, careful to sound happy to be there, "I wish to borrow your fire, drink your kvass, give things into your keeping, listen to your stories and share mine--"
"Oh, hush, grandson," she replied, slid her inner door's lock aside. "How went your hunting?"
He grinned at the mask above the door, knew she could see him through it. Holding the bag aloft, "Well enough. We won't starve yet--" because for all the things the elders would beat him for if they ever found out he'd stolen old maps, it wouldn't be bragging so loud something took an interest "--and I brought you a gift or three."
"Come in, then, and show me your prizes," she invited from within the dark interior, and he ducked down to enter, laughing in the privacy of his own head. If they could see him now--
She opened her chests for him, gave him far more places than he needed to disguise the things he'd brought to her, the map he'd copied from the archive and then to his horse, the golden framed icons, a beautiful antique sword, bracelets, hair combs, a wooden box that held something metallic inside it but had no visible latches or hinges to find out what.
As he finished, she sighed, sent a small flurry of dust past his knees that disappeared into a fine-meshed grill as soon as it had.
"I am lonely, grandson," she said softly, and he brushed a gloved hand against a wall apologetically, much as he'd soothe a nervous horse and for much the same reason.
"I'm sorry, Grandmother," he replied, leaned forward and let his cheek brush the panel he'd pet. "We are fewer than we once were--we wouldn't even fill your garden, let alone your field. Give me time, Grandmother. I'll do my best."
'Verse/characters: Falcons' Feathers; sometimes-Khenbish
Prompt: 23A "forgotten roads"
Word Count: 779
Notes: The elder wasn't kidding when he muttered that the kid probably changed names as often as he changed shirts, and that habit hasn't changed as an adult.
The path was overgrown, and he let his horse stray more than he ever would in company, allowed it mouthfuls of spun-out micrometeorites and the shattered remains of dead comets as they went.
But he was alone--he always came alone to the camps the elders burned away on the maps for fear of what they held--and there was no one to mock him for lazy riding, or plan repairs, or sabotage.
Well, he was without human company. The elders would have smacked him if they'd known, but they didn't, and it hadn't mattered yet.
Her voice was old but not yet cracked, and if he were the sort to decide how a woman looked by her voice he'd have called her pretty--he did anyway, for all she had no face as he knew faces. She was crooning a work-song in his ear, and had been since he was halfway down the path to her.
He wondered, again, what it would be like to ride down this path in company, the road swept clear of dust and ice by opportunistic horses and the brooms of the camp's keepers, lit by blazes of welcome-homes and go-aways in other clans' trade-languages, warnings for those who meant them ill and well-mets for those who came for brides or trading.
As it was the path was eerie at best, too-wide for one except where it narrowed from neglect and broken brooms to just wide enough for two to pass one another by in safety. His horse ducked beneath a spinning stone, carved out like carbonation bubbles by long-ago searchers, and bent to his hand as he brought it up, leveled it out.
"Hello, Grandmother," he said aloud as the horse reached the clearing, tried to shy a little at the tangle of mined-out stones around the campsite. Knee pressure settled the horse easily--no one called him a bad rider, even in jest--and he went for the last remaining hut as the singing stopped and the hut's outer door slid open.
Anchor-points burst into fire as he curved past them, made themselves obvious, far more than enough for an entire raiding party to hobble horses to, even a raiding party the size his great uncle had fielded, back in the day. The horse shivered under him as a coil fired up, and he nudged it gently away from the rotating arm of anchor-points.
"Careful, Grandmother," he murmured, and the coil cracked, went out in a shudder of old, cold parts.
He tethered his horse at the new magnetic post he'd put in the last time he was here, exactly by her door, collected the sack of things he meant to give into her keeping, and stood up. Patted the console, told it he'd be back soon, and went forth into the space between the doors, closed the outer door behind him.
"Grandmother," he said, careful to sound happy to be there, "I wish to borrow your fire, drink your kvass, give things into your keeping, listen to your stories and share mine--"
"Oh, hush, grandson," she replied, slid her inner door's lock aside. "How went your hunting?"
He grinned at the mask above the door, knew she could see him through it. Holding the bag aloft, "Well enough. We won't starve yet--" because for all the things the elders would beat him for if they ever found out he'd stolen old maps, it wouldn't be bragging so loud something took an interest "--and I brought you a gift or three."
"Come in, then, and show me your prizes," she invited from within the dark interior, and he ducked down to enter, laughing in the privacy of his own head. If they could see him now--
She opened her chests for him, gave him far more places than he needed to disguise the things he'd brought to her, the map he'd copied from the archive and then to his horse, the golden framed icons, a beautiful antique sword, bracelets, hair combs, a wooden box that held something metallic inside it but had no visible latches or hinges to find out what.
As he finished, she sighed, sent a small flurry of dust past his knees that disappeared into a fine-meshed grill as soon as it had.
"I am lonely, grandson," she said softly, and he brushed a gloved hand against a wall apologetically, much as he'd soothe a nervous horse and for much the same reason.
"I'm sorry, Grandmother," he replied, leaned forward and let his cheek brush the panel he'd pet. "We are fewer than we once were--we wouldn't even fill your garden, let alone your field. Give me time, Grandmother. I'll do my best."