the_lioness | (no subject)

(no subject)

A few days after Alanna and Adam told the triplets the truth about their family, the steady stream of questions slowed to a trickle. The children went on with their days, but did so in a thoughtful fashion. Jamie was quieter, Grace spent more time alone and Thom was buried in books the usual amount of time, but the books themselves had changed. In the evenings, he shared what he'd learned with his siblings.

Alanna hadn't yet decided when to make good on her promise to take Grace to England. Too soon might be dangerous; too late more so.

This afternoon she is putting her new gelding through his paces on the trails in the woods. Ostensibly. If she also happens to check in on Grace from time to time, well, hopefully her daughter won't notice.

She does.

After Alanna's third pass, Grace moves further into the woods, twirling Raven's feather in one hand and holding her skirts with the other.

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There's a light breeze. A particular edge of it catches at Grace's hair, tugging more than idly at the strands.

And then there is laughter and a loud thump from behind her, as someone tall and far too skinny leans over and snags the feather from her hand.

"That, I am thinking, is very itchy. So."

The breeze tickles her face and plays with her hair, enough so that she assumes she's caught a chunk on a branch. It's a mild irritation, and she smoothes it down without too much notice. There are other, larger irritations occupying her thoughts.

The feather, however, is another matter entirely. Grace was fond of the way she'd arranged her hair this morning, but hairstyles can be fixed. The feather is irreplaceable, precious even. She whirls around, fire in her eyes and a harsh No! dying on her lips, for there stands someone she hadn't expected to meet on this path, or anywhere in these woods.

"It's not itchy at all," she tells him, considering this latest unexpected development.

"Possibly not for you."

He makes a face, reaching out to tug her now-loosened hair.

He still has the feather in his hand.

"It is, I think, a thing."

"Probably."

Grace is staring, possibly unaware of the way her fingers slowly curl in and stretch out, missing the feel of the feather.

"If you find it so itchy, why did you take it back?"

He snorts.

"It is the tugging that itches, yes? When I am for paying attention."

Raven flicks the feather back to her.

"Some things, I think, are more than they seem."

His grin is sudden and very bright.

"Like you. So."

Catching the feather, Grace turns it over and cradles it like she might hold water in her palms until another breeze threatens to blow it away again.

"Oh."

Her brow furrows.

"I didn't tug. Or at least I didn't mean to."

Soon enough, she forces her gaze upward to meet his.

Raven laughs, ruffling her hair.

"That is what you think, yes?"

He is a very irritating bird.

Especially when he puts his back into it.

"Not my hair!" Grace exclaims, trying to duck away.

She's happy to see him. Interested, as well, because she's never seen him here.

Still, some things are not to be tolerated.

"Did Mother send you?"

Tugging on feathers or not, it is the most reasonable explanation.

(Grace fervently hopes it's not the correct one.)

There's a flicker in his gaze, something vast and old moving in the bright black depths.

"I go where I will."

Then it is gone.

"And also you were calling. So."

The look in his eyes makes her breath catch; whether from uncertainty or fascination she couldn't -- or wouldn't -- say.

"Oh," she repeats, softly.

Suddenly she flings her arms around his too-thin waist and clings for a moment before letting go and stepping away as if she'd hadn't just done something so needy as that.

"I've twirled the feather before and you haven't come."

Curiosity, not accusation.

"Twirling is not so much calling, I do not think."

He hugs her back, tight and warm.

And then he shifts, keeping her tucked against his side.

"It is tricky. And, perhaps, it is not the only thing that is."

Surprise!

"So."

Grace would say 'oh' again, but even once more would put her in danger of sounding like a fool, so instead she nods and looks to the path ahead.

"Lots of things are. I don't mind tricky."

"And that, I think, is why I like you."

He starts walking, at that point.

And dragging Grace with him.

"It is not so bad."

Being dragged is undignified. She soon follows along willingly.

"Being tricky?"

If he can't see the frown on her face, it's evident enough in her voice.

"It's not. Tricks aren't the same as lies. Or at least they are only harmless lies others should be able to see, if they looked."

Beat.

"I don't like the big kind of lies that matter."

"Harmless is not, so much. That, too, is a tricky thing."

Raven wrinkles his nose, looking over (and down) at Grace.

"Which lie are you not so much fond of, this time?"

Grace watches the path and walks in silence for several steps before replying.

"They told us the truth. About Da."

Not soon enough goes unsaid.

"That he's the Anti... Antichrist?"

The word is still unfamiliar on her tongue.

"Is. Was."

Raven snorts.

"That is a story that repeats, I am thinking. So."

He makes a face, turning to hop lightly into the lower branches of a tree and (by way of cheating) pull Grace up after him.

"You are not so familiar with devils, perhaps?"

While Grace is no stranger to climbing trees, she doesn't usually choose to do so while wearing a dress. There's no gasp or other outward sign of distress, but she takes her time ensuring her blue skirt is not caught on anything that might tear it when she moves.

The fact that this affords her a moment to think is a side benefit.

"Not that type. Not one. We've got lots of gods and goddesses. There's the Dark God, and people speak of demons when bad things happen. But one god?"

Grace shakes her head.

"Is he selfish?"

Raven snorts, loudly and derisively.

"He is not so much for caring, I think."

Raven makes a face.

"Or doing."

His contempt for that modus operandi is clear.

"Mostly I would like to eat his eyes."

"Yuck."

For all the trouble she gives him, Grace loves her father. She would also say she loves Raven, though she couldn't exactly explain why. After all, this is only the second time she has spoken with him.

Of course, the feather has been in her keeping all her life.

Grace thinks of Adam, then looks at Raven; her gaze is sharp, weighing what he's telling her with what she's already been told and what she feels.

Thus far, God is coming up short in Grace's opinion.

"Do you know my grandfather?"

"We have met, I think."

Raven's grin is sharp. Bright.

Vicious.

And then he laughs.

"He is perhaps not so bad, when he is not playing games your parents are not very good at, yes? Coyote is more prickly by far."

Edited 2010-03-19 04:14 (UTC)

Grace draws back and then leans forward, unconsciously.

"They are not always so good at games," she informs him. "Who is Coyote?"

"She is like me, I am thinking. But not as pretty."

Raven is a very vain bird. It shows.

"Also she has fur. And four legs. And no wings."

He wrinkles his nose.

"But the motorcycle is not so bad."

"I don't know what a motorcycle is," she says, annoyance coloring her tone. She doesn't know, but now she feels as if she should. "Does she always have fur?"

Raven doesn't always have wings, after all.

Grace starts to gently swing her legs back and forth.

"Yes and no."

Raven sees her swinging legs and matching them.

He is kind enough not to add extra just in order to win.

"It is part of the definition, yes? Even when we are for looking human."

This statement is punctuated with a finger-flick to Grace's forehead.

"Absolutes are boring."