Post by wordy on Jan 17, 2012 9:52:12 GMT 10
Title: can you read my mind
Rating: G
Summary: The only thing to do is keep climbing.
The vines are starting to burn his palms, the skin rubbed red and raw, but he’s at least halfway to the top; to turn back now would be unthinkable.
His shirt is clinging to his back, the afternoon sun behind him. He’s wondering if it would have been wiser to climb barefoot when a soft sound comes from above him; he looks up, and there she is.
“Briar Moss,” is all she says. From this angle it’s difficult to make out the expression on her face, but the fall of her hair is familiar. He readjusts his grip, a leaf tickling the inside of his wrist, and turns his face up to her again.
She doesn’t speak another word, and he finds himself suddenly out of breath—whether from the climb or from something else, he’s not certain—so the only thing to do is keep climbing.
The window has a wide ledge, he sees, when he finally comes up high enough to notice such things. He’s close, so close. But he stops again, for a brief moment, to catch his breath, and perhaps try and arrange his muddled thoughts into something more coherent. A breeze stirs the hairs on the back of his neck, and he’s reminded suddenly of Tris, and of the last time they spoke.
I was wondering when you’d come, she’d said, entirely matter-of-fact, as though he’d never had a single individual thought in his life. She hadn’t been wearing her spectacles, which he had thought was strange, and her grey-blue eyes seemed so much more far-reaching without the small, protective bit of glass between them.
And so he’d asked her, his sister the seer, since that was what he had come to do. Tris had smiled and told him the way. I think you’ve left it long enough.
He’d puzzled over that, he remembers, but now he can only agree.
He opens his eyes, almost startled to realise where he is, still hanging a hundred feet above the ground. The vines hold him anchored to the tower, wrapped carefully around his ankles.
He looks up.
A pale elbow rests on the window ledge, and a curl of gold-brown hair against her shoulder. Her chin is in her hand, the set of her rosy lips as stubborn and sweet as he recalls. The vines tighten in his hands; the back of his throat runs dry.
She tilts her head to the side. “Are you coming up?”
She helps him over the ledge. The touch of her skin against his sends his heart racing, but she distances herself, politely, almost, once he’s inside. He’s painfully aware of the state of his shirt and the roughness of his hands; he takes everything in while he catches his breath, and the tower room is so artfully disorganised—colourful and homely and completely pleasing in all its clutter—that he feels even more out of place.
Sandry is looking at him, watching him. The room is covered in her work, familiar patterns and designs, awash with blues and soft yellows, spindles dropped here and embroidery resting there. If he turns his head, minutely, the subtle flash of magic catches in the corner of his eye, still.
And he looks at her then. “You could have left at any time.” It’s only half-question, he realises. She smiles, but doesn’t close the space between them; he wants her to. Instead, he asks, “Why? If you could leave any moment you chose to, instead of staying here away from everything, then why not go?”
Her laugh is abrupt, cut short by the look of fondness that crosses her face. I think you’ve left it long enough, Tris had told him. Yes, he thinks, suddenly, as though a weight has lifted from his chest, a flower opening.
He looks at her, and she is still looking at him. “I was waiting for you.”
Rating: G
Summary: The only thing to do is keep climbing.
The vines are starting to burn his palms, the skin rubbed red and raw, but he’s at least halfway to the top; to turn back now would be unthinkable.
His shirt is clinging to his back, the afternoon sun behind him. He’s wondering if it would have been wiser to climb barefoot when a soft sound comes from above him; he looks up, and there she is.
“Briar Moss,” is all she says. From this angle it’s difficult to make out the expression on her face, but the fall of her hair is familiar. He readjusts his grip, a leaf tickling the inside of his wrist, and turns his face up to her again.
She doesn’t speak another word, and he finds himself suddenly out of breath—whether from the climb or from something else, he’s not certain—so the only thing to do is keep climbing.
The window has a wide ledge, he sees, when he finally comes up high enough to notice such things. He’s close, so close. But he stops again, for a brief moment, to catch his breath, and perhaps try and arrange his muddled thoughts into something more coherent. A breeze stirs the hairs on the back of his neck, and he’s reminded suddenly of Tris, and of the last time they spoke.
I was wondering when you’d come, she’d said, entirely matter-of-fact, as though he’d never had a single individual thought in his life. She hadn’t been wearing her spectacles, which he had thought was strange, and her grey-blue eyes seemed so much more far-reaching without the small, protective bit of glass between them.
And so he’d asked her, his sister the seer, since that was what he had come to do. Tris had smiled and told him the way. I think you’ve left it long enough.
He’d puzzled over that, he remembers, but now he can only agree.
He opens his eyes, almost startled to realise where he is, still hanging a hundred feet above the ground. The vines hold him anchored to the tower, wrapped carefully around his ankles.
He looks up.
A pale elbow rests on the window ledge, and a curl of gold-brown hair against her shoulder. Her chin is in her hand, the set of her rosy lips as stubborn and sweet as he recalls. The vines tighten in his hands; the back of his throat runs dry.
She tilts her head to the side. “Are you coming up?”
She helps him over the ledge. The touch of her skin against his sends his heart racing, but she distances herself, politely, almost, once he’s inside. He’s painfully aware of the state of his shirt and the roughness of his hands; he takes everything in while he catches his breath, and the tower room is so artfully disorganised—colourful and homely and completely pleasing in all its clutter—that he feels even more out of place.
Sandry is looking at him, watching him. The room is covered in her work, familiar patterns and designs, awash with blues and soft yellows, spindles dropped here and embroidery resting there. If he turns his head, minutely, the subtle flash of magic catches in the corner of his eye, still.
And he looks at her then. “You could have left at any time.” It’s only half-question, he realises. She smiles, but doesn’t close the space between them; he wants her to. Instead, he asks, “Why? If you could leave any moment you chose to, instead of staying here away from everything, then why not go?”
Her laugh is abrupt, cut short by the look of fondness that crosses her face. I think you’ve left it long enough, Tris had told him. Yes, he thinks, suddenly, as though a weight has lifted from his chest, a flower opening.
He looks at her, and she is still looking at him. “I was waiting for you.”