Jan. 8th, 2012

Of Weddings

Jan. 8th, 2012 02:10 am
thulcandran: (Default)
I didn't quite do it justice, but we shall see later. And many thanks to the fair Dann, for his prompt of Raven, Wedding, Sword, which took me far too long to reach.

David stared at the woods behind them, his banner snapping quietly at his heels, not quite in the lee provided by his mount. It was important, he told himself. It was important, it was the turning point of their lives; it was... beyond his mind, beyond all he wanted to think about, after all he'd seen-- it was, simply put, too much.

"C'mon," Alec told him, cantering by. "We don't have time for this lollygagging if we're to make it to the glen by tomorrow morning; the moon's already rising, look."

He shrugged, spurred his mare, and followed his companion North, into the hills. Behind them, behind the woods, the moon rose over a field that had seen more blood than ground ever should. The carrion birds had already gone; they never lingered anymore, knowing a battle would soon come on to give them a newer, better respite.

The company rode on, rode hard, over dale and through vale and mainly around fords, where they could; it had been a bad spring, for rains and for flooding. They did not need to take unnecessary risks, as David was reminded constantly. The glen awaited, somewhere ahead, some time in the morrow.

And somewhere on the other side of those hills, a quieter night was spent, as Rhia and her sister left the camp, their dresses turned in for easier clothes, their hair bound, their knives sharpened and secured to their waists. It was far from perfect, and they knew it, but the ash on their skin would hide the moon's searching rays, and as far as these things went, it could have been far worse.

"The stars in the West are brighter," Dana told her as they ducked beneath the boughs of a snaggled willow. "I don't remember if that's a good sign or not."

Rhia shrugged. "It hardly matters. We're on our way, he's on his, and the night isn't a bad one; I'm not going to ask for signposts from the heavens, not anymore."

Somewhere between their road and the other, an owl sang softly on the wing; Dana winced.

But when the moon was overhead, and the roads crossed, the glen was nowhere near silent, and the knife was left in the bark of a long-dead apple tree, and the horses were tethered on the outskirts, and the ravens were silent somewhere else, and all that mattered was the song beneath the trees - quietly, even with Dana's flute, for sound carried, on these clear nights. And in the morning, with a day as long as years between their nights, the ravens could not seem a bad omen, even on the wing in mass.

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