the morning after

[hermia-sophia.livejournal.com]

[The morning after the dream of Nanshe]

Dear Ms. Thorn,

I apologize for the suddenness of this letter, and hope that you will understand that I would not write so abruptly if it were not a very urgent matter.

I need your help - or, rather, I know that we need to work together - on something vitally important. It is related to what we did together three years ago, at the water's edge. The need is even greater now than it is then.

Please meet me at your earliest convenience in the garden behind the Whitechapel on Silk Road. I will be there working.

Yours,

Hermia Stephanides

--
The letter was the fourth thing that I did after I awoke, with the taste of seafoam on my lips. The first was to curl myself close to Valmont, embracing him so tightly that he awoke too. I told him everything as I held him close, listening to the steady beat of his heart and feeling his warm presence next to me.

The second was to hug the children. (It is still a marvel, to think 'children' and not 'child.') For once, Luc stayed asleep - he murmured and squirmed in his dreams, his little mind working hard even in slumber, but he did not wake.

The third was to send a message to Chester, a tiny flare of magic sent into the ether. I know he will answer when he can, and I hope that it is soon, for I will need his help. I will need everyone's help.

The fourth was the letter, sent off with Adam as he finished the night's cleaning to head home. He was startled to see me awake, and even more so to see me sending a note to the Carnival, but he agreed to do what I asked.

And the fifth was to get to work.

I stay in the garden all morning, Marie sleeping beside me as the pale-purple stillness of dawn brightens into full day. Sorting herbs and sketching diagrams, plucking at the threads of Power to see what shapes I can weave them into, trying to find the sparks of divinity that Nanshe left behind.

Working and waiting.

[Open to Syl]

Comments

[syl-thorn.livejournal.com]

Three fuckin' years. Three fuckin' years away from'is town, 'way from th'psyho monster, an', fer me, 'way from Tez. More grey'n m'hair, more wrinkles 'round m'mouth, an' lately m'monthlies 've been skippin' months. Th'witch act's movin' from slinky older lady t'bent ol' crone, which frankly I think'll be eas'er fer me t'pull off. But bizness' still good, I c'n still dance wit' th'best ovvem, an' th'magic still comes t'm'hand like a huntin' hawk.

Still, when I find a note at m'door'is mornin' when I stepped out fer m'first cig, had t'raise 'n eyebrow. Most folks knock on m'door, 'r come t'm'tent, not leave notes written all pretty'n sealed wit' wax. Takes me some time t'place th'name. Hermia...yeah, we worked t'gether, we took Nanshe from'er skin an' back inta th'town. All I really know 'bout'er other'n at's she wuzzat chick't th'lib'rary, th'one't'd rather watch'er man risk death 'n tell'er ex t'fuck off. Might be inclined t'let't go...but Nanshe knew'er, Nanshe liked'er, an' she did have power. I might not like'er allat much, but she worked wit' me, annat makes'er a sister.

So, I swig some coffee, wander inta town, trailin' cigarette smoke b'hind me. Th'Whitechapel ain't m'fav'rite place, but seems like't's cleaned up'n th'past three years. Even a nice garden'n the back; I smell herbs'n flowers. An'ere she is, hands workin' th'earth, green under'er nails, fat baby onna blanket b'side'er an'I can hear'er power singin'n th'wind. She's gotten better.

Crone'n mother, jes' missin' a maid now.

Wait for'er power t'ebb...y'don't never interrupt a caster, not never...An'en stub m'cig out 'gainst th'wall. "So, said y'needed help?"