[ Some time ago, ink was put to parchment. Rolled and sealed, it was affixed to the foot of a raven, one of sixteen sent off with care and purpose to bear a heavier burden than paper and twine. Through the thick summer canopy of the Planasene Forest and the leveling tail of the Vimmarks, one wound its way down the banks of the Minanter and found its roost in Hunter Fell. Parchment passed from rookery keeper to errand boy to the paper-skinned hands of a woman who had nearly forgotten there were still things in this world from which one might flinch.
(Expectation is not the same as acceptance. It is easy to imagine, to plan for an inevitability, to hold a certain collection of words in hand and tell yourself they were always going to come to rest there, and it is a blessing the Maker kept them at bay for so long. It still feels like robbery.)
Days pass. Weeks. No personal effects find their way down the Minanter. No letter follows the raven's path.
And so tonight, when Isaac's shift at the infirmary begins, he'll find the room — and more specifically, the stool at his station — less empty than usual. Perched upon it, soft shoed feet braced against one spoke, is a young woman of no more than twenty, dressed in traveling silks of enough drape and gather to suggest her origins before the tidy syllables of her accent confirm them: Nevarran, noble.
Presently twirling a little stalk of embrium between her fingers. The rest of his desk is undisturbed, as if to do otherwise might be beneath her, though perhaps not beneath the man at the far side of the room, a head taller and broader and better armed than the young lady but keeping a substantial distance.
Never mind him. ]
Enchanter Isaac, is that correct? [ Her smile is warm and her eyes bright to see him — brighter than her cousin's, though a similar shade. ] Of Monsimmard?
a visit; backdated sometime a little bit closer to Surprise We're Alive
(Expectation is not the same as acceptance. It is easy to imagine, to plan for an inevitability, to hold a certain collection of words in hand and tell yourself they were always going to come to rest there, and it is a blessing the Maker kept them at bay for so long. It still feels like robbery.)
Days pass. Weeks. No personal effects find their way down the Minanter. No letter follows the raven's path.
And so tonight, when Isaac's shift at the infirmary begins, he'll find the room — and more specifically, the stool at his station — less empty than usual. Perched upon it, soft shoed feet braced against one spoke, is a young woman of no more than twenty, dressed in traveling silks of enough drape and gather to suggest her origins before the tidy syllables of her accent confirm them: Nevarran, noble.
Presently twirling a little stalk of embrium between her fingers. The rest of his desk is undisturbed, as if to do otherwise might be beneath her, though perhaps not beneath the man at the far side of the room, a head taller and broader and better armed than the young lady but keeping a substantial distance.
Never mind him. ]
Enchanter Isaac, is that correct? [ Her smile is warm and her eyes bright to see him — brighter than her cousin's, though a similar shade. ] Of Monsimmard?