Raven stays crouched a moment more, head tilted. Perhaps he is watching Blodwen. Perhaps he is watching something else.
But at length he, too, stands and moves closer, black eyes fixed on what used to be the White Rider of the Dark.
There is another moment or two of silence--silence broken only by that same quiet gasping--and then Raven nudges Blodwen's calf with the toe of his boot.
She is still kneeling, head bowed and hands clenched tightly in the green grass. At his touch, however, she jerks away, nearly falling-- and then scrambles to her feet, taking a shaky step back away from the two of them.
"What -- what have you--"
The voice is the same, soft and light and musical, but with nothing of chill to it, even in her fright and anger. Blue eyes are welling with tears.
"-- what have you done to me?"
Everything is warm around them -- especially because of Coyote's fire, perhaps. It is a beautiful summer evening, really.
"Go ahead then, finish the job he started," she spits vehemently at Coyote. "Do you think I care?"
She will not cry, not in front of them, she tells herself-- her weak, mortal powerless self, now once more everything that she had sought the Dark to avoid, so long ago.
So long ago--
(he beat and beat and beat with his wings)
--with horror, she realizes that she cannot even remember that time clearly, now. Only the sense of someone -- herself? --looking up at the night sky once, and seeing (black feathers?) no stars anywhere.
Life sucks! The little jay agrees with Coyote in an emphatic warble, looking as sulky as a small little jay can look. It has not been a good day. It's only looking to get worse, since the little boy that's carrying her - Dickon, she remembers him, if she tries - is going closer to the evil bitch, rather than farther.
"I'm terribly sorry to disappoint you, dear," Blodwen says flatly to Mary.
She doesn't sound it, really, but someone who is particularly perceptive might notice that anger is being employed to hide fear and a growing wild grief.
In the wake of the searing, blindingly pure white Light, it takes some time for vision to be restored.
Everything is quiet, save for the soft ragged sounds of someone quietly gasping, as though for air -- or to stifle sobs.
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The sun is setting. But the Dark is gone. Ah, irony.
She laughs. Looking down at Blodwen, it lengthens to another howl. This one is triumphant.
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But at length he, too, stands and moves closer, black eyes fixed on what used to be the White Rider of the Dark.
There is another moment or two of silence--silence broken only by that same quiet gasping--and then Raven nudges Blodwen's calf with the toe of his boot.
"All debts are paid now, I think."
Perhaps this is meant to be a comfort.
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"What -- what have you--"
The voice is the same, soft and light and musical, but with nothing of chill to it, even in her fright and anger. Blue eyes are welling with tears.
"-- what have you done to me?"
Everything is warm around them -- especially because of Coyote's fire, perhaps. It is a beautiful summer evening, really.
For some.
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Raven grins, sharp and bright.
"Also a curse. It is interesting how they are often much the same."
This is accompanied by another headtilt, and a slight broadening of his smile.
"Particularly, perhaps, when one is mortal."
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Coyote chuckles.
"Not all debts are paid. You owe me a death, Blodwen Rowlands."
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She will not cry, not in front of them, she tells herself-- her weak, mortal powerless self, now once more everything that she had sought the Dark to avoid, so long ago.
So long ago--
(he beat and beat and beat with his wings)
--with horror, she realizes that she cannot even remember that time clearly, now. Only the sense of someone -- herself? --looking up at the night sky once, and seeing (black feathers?) no stars anywhere.
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Blink, and it's easy enough to miss.
"You are thinking either of us will make this easy?"
He sounds both startled and amused, black eyes bright with laughter and something else.
"Time will, I think, serve us more than well enough, yes?"
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"Mortal. I think you care very much. I think you will live."
Coyote crosses her arms and grins. "I think I will watch."
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Her gaze swings back to Raven, then, and the soft musical voice is low and shaking.
"You have done worse to me than ever I did to you. I will never forgive you for it. Never."
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He shrugs, the gesture quick and almost careless.
"It is, I think, your choice."
As much of the rest of it was.
And he is not thinking of cages. Not at all.
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"What goes around comes around? Life sucks and then you die." She snickers again.
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Mary's following close behind, looking anxious and a bit angry, and there's a bird--a jay--cupped in one of his hands.
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Some people just have no sense.
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It must be remembered that Mary is a literalist.
"She ought to be dead already," she says fiercely; the words are loud, and clearly aimed at Blodwen.
A house fell on Blodwen once already, after all. It's only fair.
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She doesn't sound it, really, but someone who is particularly perceptive might notice that anger is being employed to hide fear and a growing wild grief.
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