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Aug. 11th, 2005 10:01 amAlone in her quarters, Alanna thinks. It really is rather amusing how things work out.
Just under a year ago, she had dressed in formal court attire and interviewed with Bernard. The night before her interview, she found a bundle of coins and a note from George. Despairing of ever seeing him again, she had curled up before a fire and cried tears of frustration. The coins had been given to Bernard, and she had answered his questions as frankly as possible, eager to please. She had never looked back. Not really.
Now here she is, surrounded by notes on the various patrons she had interviewed over the last few days, and she is unsure what to do. Everything suddenly seems so black and white at home, so easy to understand. Good versus evil, friends versus enemies, honor and honesty versus... people like Roger. As she studies yet another list of skills recommending an applicant, she sighs. There tends to be too much gray here, clouding the path ahead. It can be distressingly hard to see clearly.
After another night spent staring at the fire and thinking, she stands slowly, stretching stiff muscles and growling in irritation. I am a warrior, not a bureaucrat. Grabbing her sword, she unsheathes it and swings it around a few times, eyes closed. Magic, no magic, guns... always guns. Don't like guns. Before she realizes what she's doing, her sword slashes through the air in an old drill, the carefully polished blade catching the firelight and throwing it into the shadows. I should open my eyes and try to see.
But Alanna likes to live dangerously. Mouth set in a grim line, she keeps her eyes shut and moves by memory alone, one foot crossing over the other, spinning on her back heel and tilting her head in concentration. Even without sight, she knows her sword is nothing more than a blur. Sometimes even I can be graceful.
She backs into the table.
Swearing, she lowers her blade and rubs her sore hip. Several books and papers hover on the edge of the table, finally falling to the floor. She sighs and scoops them up, blinking as she spies a notebook she wasn't expecting to see. Biting her lip, she rests her sword against the table and opens the notebook. As if in a trance, she skims the first few lines and swallows around the lump in her throat, slowly crossing to the couch.
She reads the notebook from cover to cover, ignoring the tears that slowly, finally fall.
Goddess, I wish I could see what he becomes.
Hugging the notebook to her chest, she stretches out on the couch and stares at the fire, hot (angry, sad, futile) tears on her face and soaking the pillow. For well over an hour, she cries silently, thinking. When the tears are gone, leaving behind only a stiff and salty residue, she feels remarkably calm.
Finally. Final.
In fact, she is far less numb than she thought she would be once the storm passed. The only question remaining is why.
Just under a year ago, she had dressed in formal court attire and interviewed with Bernard. The night before her interview, she found a bundle of coins and a note from George. Despairing of ever seeing him again, she had curled up before a fire and cried tears of frustration. The coins had been given to Bernard, and she had answered his questions as frankly as possible, eager to please. She had never looked back. Not really.
Now here she is, surrounded by notes on the various patrons she had interviewed over the last few days, and she is unsure what to do. Everything suddenly seems so black and white at home, so easy to understand. Good versus evil, friends versus enemies, honor and honesty versus... people like Roger. As she studies yet another list of skills recommending an applicant, she sighs. There tends to be too much gray here, clouding the path ahead. It can be distressingly hard to see clearly.
After another night spent staring at the fire and thinking, she stands slowly, stretching stiff muscles and growling in irritation. I am a warrior, not a bureaucrat. Grabbing her sword, she unsheathes it and swings it around a few times, eyes closed. Magic, no magic, guns... always guns. Don't like guns. Before she realizes what she's doing, her sword slashes through the air in an old drill, the carefully polished blade catching the firelight and throwing it into the shadows. I should open my eyes and try to see.
But Alanna likes to live dangerously. Mouth set in a grim line, she keeps her eyes shut and moves by memory alone, one foot crossing over the other, spinning on her back heel and tilting her head in concentration. Even without sight, she knows her sword is nothing more than a blur. Sometimes even I can be graceful.
She backs into the table.
Swearing, she lowers her blade and rubs her sore hip. Several books and papers hover on the edge of the table, finally falling to the floor. She sighs and scoops them up, blinking as she spies a notebook she wasn't expecting to see. Biting her lip, she rests her sword against the table and opens the notebook. As if in a trance, she skims the first few lines and swallows around the lump in her throat, slowly crossing to the couch.
She reads the notebook from cover to cover, ignoring the tears that slowly, finally fall.
Goddess, I wish I could see what he becomes.
Hugging the notebook to her chest, she stretches out on the couch and stares at the fire, hot (angry, sad, futile) tears on her face and soaking the pillow. For well over an hour, she cries silently, thinking. When the tears are gone, leaving behind only a stiff and salty residue, she feels remarkably calm.
Finally. Final.
In fact, she is far less numb than she thought she would be once the storm passed. The only question remaining is why.
