Post by Kypriotha on Jan 3, 2019 16:29:43 GMT 10
Title: The day after Rosethorn died
Rating: PG
Summary: Five times Rosethorn didn’t die and one time she did (The Healing in the Vine).
Warnings: Mentions of death.
*
The day after Rosethorn died, she felt better than she had for a long time. Ironic, she thought, with a twist to her mouth that was not entirely connected to her current feeling.
Of course, feeling better didn’t mean she was, in fact, better. She was still weak from the pox and she couldn’t talk. That had been the most frightening realisation after she’d woken up, the words choking in her throat the way her breath used to.
At least that pesky cough has finally gone away.
Despite that, Rosethorn had a terrible feeling deep down that perhaps more was gone than just her voice and her cough, a feeling she couldn’t express yet to anyone, even if she had been able to talk. That fear twinned and wrapped around her other fear – that, perhaps, as well as taking something from her, that final garden had taken something from her boy. After all, it was a garden for the dead, and he had never been dead.
All she could do was pray that the miracle that had enabled him and the girls to bring her back had protected them as well.
*
The day after Rosethorn died, Crane slept in his own bed for the first time in weeks. There was still a lot to be done to perfect the cure and to distribute to all those who needed it, some more desperately than others. But after the previous day’s events, Crane thought he could take one short rest in his own bed, to recover from the shock more than anything else.
They shouldn’t have been able to do it, those strange mage children from Discipline. At any other time, Crane would have been worried about that much power being in the hands of such young, undisciplined hands. He probably would have brought them before the temple council himself, regardless of any assertions made by Niklaren Goldeye. It wasn’t the first time their combined powers had taken them beyond the realms of normal mage craft and there was nothing to guarantee that a future such display of power wouldn’t result in serious consequences, for themselves and those around them.
But, right now, Crane couldn’t bring himself to care. Rosethorn was alive, and mostly well, and at this point, that was all that mattered.
*
The day after Rosethorn died, Niko sat at his desk at Winding Circle, his mage journal open at a blank page in front of him, the ink in his ink well long since dried up. For the first time in his life, Niklaren Goldeye was at a loss for words.
*
The day after Rosethorn died, Lark sat at her loom in her workroom, making more magicked bandages for the Water Temple and alternating between crying and smiling. Every now and then, she got up and tiptoed across the main room to Rosie’s door and quietly peered in, just to reassure herself that it hadn’t all been a dream and that Rosie was, in fact, still there and still breathing and still staring crossly at Lark whenever she caught her at it.
Lark just smiled back and fetched her another pillow or a cup of tea or whatever else Rosie asked for by writing it down on the slate Briar had given her for that purpose. Sometimes Lark would sit with her for a bit, holding her hand, both of them just content to look at each other, until eventually Rosie’s head drooped and she slept again. Then Lark would gently place her hand on the cover and slip back to her workroom, quietly humming as she went back to work.
*
The day after Rosethorn died, Little Bear slept at the foot of her bed, allowed in her room for the first time ever. He had accepted the privilege gracefully, taking care not to bump into anything in her room, lest he be banished. He didn’t know what had made his humans so anxious recently, but today he sensed a lifting of the mood, a dissipation of tensions. He was determined to do his duty to his house and give his energetic, doggish life force to the room he sensed it was needed most.
*
Briar wandered the gardens behind Discipline, at a loss for what to do next. He could see weeds starting to grow between the plants, brought on early by all the recent rain, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t know how there could be any plants left in this garden, even weeds, now; how they could keep on growing now her great, green magic had been extinguished.
He paused by the well she had often threatened to hang him in, his mind filled with images of a different garden, with different weeds; of rough hands holding a basket and shears; of those same hands slipping from his grasp no matter how hard he tried to hang on.
To have come so close and to have still failed, right at the end, when he’d had her in his arms – that was what hurt the most, what had kept him awake all night, pacing the same garden he was in now, face firmly averted from the windows to her workroom. He didn’t know where it had gone wrong. His tether to the girls and his shakkan had seemed so strong, strong enough to pull him in against his will after she’d slipped from his grasp and he’d fought to go back to her.
The girls were leaving him alone for now, even silent in their mind link, although sending a low but steady feeling of love and reassurance that he wasn’t letting himself open up to just yet. He didn’t blame them for continuing to haul him in and had let them feel that, before cutting himself off again. He knew they would understand; would know that he would want to be left alone on the day after Rosethorn died.
Rating: PG
Summary: Five times Rosethorn didn’t die and one time she did (The Healing in the Vine).
Warnings: Mentions of death.
*
The day after Rosethorn died, she felt better than she had for a long time. Ironic, she thought, with a twist to her mouth that was not entirely connected to her current feeling.
Of course, feeling better didn’t mean she was, in fact, better. She was still weak from the pox and she couldn’t talk. That had been the most frightening realisation after she’d woken up, the words choking in her throat the way her breath used to.
At least that pesky cough has finally gone away.
Despite that, Rosethorn had a terrible feeling deep down that perhaps more was gone than just her voice and her cough, a feeling she couldn’t express yet to anyone, even if she had been able to talk. That fear twinned and wrapped around her other fear – that, perhaps, as well as taking something from her, that final garden had taken something from her boy. After all, it was a garden for the dead, and he had never been dead.
All she could do was pray that the miracle that had enabled him and the girls to bring her back had protected them as well.
*
The day after Rosethorn died, Crane slept in his own bed for the first time in weeks. There was still a lot to be done to perfect the cure and to distribute to all those who needed it, some more desperately than others. But after the previous day’s events, Crane thought he could take one short rest in his own bed, to recover from the shock more than anything else.
They shouldn’t have been able to do it, those strange mage children from Discipline. At any other time, Crane would have been worried about that much power being in the hands of such young, undisciplined hands. He probably would have brought them before the temple council himself, regardless of any assertions made by Niklaren Goldeye. It wasn’t the first time their combined powers had taken them beyond the realms of normal mage craft and there was nothing to guarantee that a future such display of power wouldn’t result in serious consequences, for themselves and those around them.
But, right now, Crane couldn’t bring himself to care. Rosethorn was alive, and mostly well, and at this point, that was all that mattered.
*
The day after Rosethorn died, Niko sat at his desk at Winding Circle, his mage journal open at a blank page in front of him, the ink in his ink well long since dried up. For the first time in his life, Niklaren Goldeye was at a loss for words.
*
The day after Rosethorn died, Lark sat at her loom in her workroom, making more magicked bandages for the Water Temple and alternating between crying and smiling. Every now and then, she got up and tiptoed across the main room to Rosie’s door and quietly peered in, just to reassure herself that it hadn’t all been a dream and that Rosie was, in fact, still there and still breathing and still staring crossly at Lark whenever she caught her at it.
Lark just smiled back and fetched her another pillow or a cup of tea or whatever else Rosie asked for by writing it down on the slate Briar had given her for that purpose. Sometimes Lark would sit with her for a bit, holding her hand, both of them just content to look at each other, until eventually Rosie’s head drooped and she slept again. Then Lark would gently place her hand on the cover and slip back to her workroom, quietly humming as she went back to work.
*
The day after Rosethorn died, Little Bear slept at the foot of her bed, allowed in her room for the first time ever. He had accepted the privilege gracefully, taking care not to bump into anything in her room, lest he be banished. He didn’t know what had made his humans so anxious recently, but today he sensed a lifting of the mood, a dissipation of tensions. He was determined to do his duty to his house and give his energetic, doggish life force to the room he sensed it was needed most.
*
Briar wandered the gardens behind Discipline, at a loss for what to do next. He could see weeds starting to grow between the plants, brought on early by all the recent rain, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He didn’t know how there could be any plants left in this garden, even weeds, now; how they could keep on growing now her great, green magic had been extinguished.
He paused by the well she had often threatened to hang him in, his mind filled with images of a different garden, with different weeds; of rough hands holding a basket and shears; of those same hands slipping from his grasp no matter how hard he tried to hang on.
To have come so close and to have still failed, right at the end, when he’d had her in his arms – that was what hurt the most, what had kept him awake all night, pacing the same garden he was in now, face firmly averted from the windows to her workroom. He didn’t know where it had gone wrong. His tether to the girls and his shakkan had seemed so strong, strong enough to pull him in against his will after she’d slipped from his grasp and he’d fought to go back to her.
The girls were leaving him alone for now, even silent in their mind link, although sending a low but steady feeling of love and reassurance that he wasn’t letting himself open up to just yet. He didn’t blame them for continuing to haul him in and had let them feel that, before cutting himself off again. He knew they would understand; would know that he would want to be left alone on the day after Rosethorn died.