It chafed where even the metal of their collar and the leather of the saddle did not — the familiarity of this place. Part wist, part resentment, each plodding step forward lived somewhere between the petting of fur backwards and the pulling of teeth: all painful, unwieldy friction, the oil and water of memory-meet-reckoning.
They could still turn back. Pretend they were waylaid somewhere in the fortnight’s travel that had brought them back to what was, however briefly, a second home. Send a missive saying as much from the nearest tavern, before fleeing in the morning. Make another excuse in another few phases of the moon, and another in the lunation after that. Not for the first time Micaiah cursed themself for responding at all; but when would they have another excuse to return?
They only had the one sister to bury.
And questions to be answered before they could consider her truly laid to rest. There was an undertone to the letter, an insinuation therein, which had seen them travel with haste every bit of the way. Only in this last stretch had their pace slowed to near stopping, dread cleaving to hoof, channeled unwittingly through the uneasy, listless fingers that loosened about the reins. They were walking alongside their steed by the time they reached the main thrust of the estate, slowing even further — if less than they might, had they less leg to their stride — and wondering, far too late, whether they might wait to darken this doorstep until there was at least the morning light to brighten spirits and keep the real specters at bay. That they were expected did not make their presence less of an imposition. Had Laric even informed his father of their impending arrival?
They continued to wonder as much from inside the fine foyer, the warm light of dusk barred entry by the heavy doors that swung shut behind them, fingers twitching at their sides in absence of weapon or weave, uncanny chill running the length of their spine. Still imposing, still resplendent, it did not seem so cavernous as it had when they were still a child of House Chamizin, looking up at labyrinthine marble and gilded portrait with wide, wondering eyes. There was nothing of that wonder to the glint of their gaze now, as they squinted through the candlelight towards the figure that came to stand upon the stairs. If anything, their eye darkened as it met the floor, proud posture lowered in a bow.
That chafed, too.
“Lord Delirien,” A foreign address on their tongue, when dealing with this man — but friendlier greetings were reserved for reunions on the road. Here, the servants would expect deference. They were no nobleman, no knight; not anymore. “Pray forgive the late hour."
They could still turn back. Pretend they were waylaid somewhere in the fortnight’s travel that had brought them back to what was, however briefly, a second home. Send a missive saying as much from the nearest tavern, before fleeing in the morning. Make another excuse in another few phases of the moon, and another in the lunation after that. Not for the first time Micaiah cursed themself for responding at all; but when would they have another excuse to return?
They only had the one sister to bury.
And questions to be answered before they could consider her truly laid to rest. There was an undertone to the letter, an insinuation therein, which had seen them travel with haste every bit of the way. Only in this last stretch had their pace slowed to near stopping, dread cleaving to hoof, channeled unwittingly through the uneasy, listless fingers that loosened about the reins. They were walking alongside their steed by the time they reached the main thrust of the estate, slowing even further — if less than they might, had they less leg to their stride — and wondering, far too late, whether they might wait to darken this doorstep until there was at least the morning light to brighten spirits and keep the real specters at bay. That they were expected did not make their presence less of an imposition. Had Laric even informed his father of their impending arrival?
They continued to wonder as much from inside the fine foyer, the warm light of dusk barred entry by the heavy doors that swung shut behind them, fingers twitching at their sides in absence of weapon or weave, uncanny chill running the length of their spine. Still imposing, still resplendent, it did not seem so cavernous as it had when they were still a child of House Chamizin, looking up at labyrinthine marble and gilded portrait with wide, wondering eyes. There was nothing of that wonder to the glint of their gaze now, as they squinted through the candlelight towards the figure that came to stand upon the stairs. If anything, their eye darkened as it met the floor, proud posture lowered in a bow.
That chafed, too.
“Lord Delirien,” A foreign address on their tongue, when dealing with this man — but friendlier greetings were reserved for reunions on the road. Here, the servants would expect deference. They were no nobleman, no knight; not anymore. “Pray forgive the late hour."
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