Tristran Thorn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tristranthorn) wrote2007-08-05 11:48 pm
tristranthorn) wrote2007-08-05 11:48 pm
Entry tags:
[021] OOM - Wall - are we there yet?
It goes on for weeks.
In a bone-jarring, rattling sort of way, the caravan continues its path towards Wall, and towards the market fair. Any passersby whom they see -- which occurs very infrequently -- are met with confusing circumstances. While they can see Yvaine, the witch (as she is a witch) calling herself Madame Semele cannot, and shortly it becomes clear to anyone, including the star, that Semele could never perceive Yvaine's presence or even hear anything pertaining to her existence. (Which, really, would explain quite a lot.)
The sun is low in the western sky when they approach the little village of Wall many weeks later. It shines in their eyes, bathing everything in its light, turning the world around them into liquid gold. It is when they find a rather empty lot -- a grassy meadow -- that Madame Semele reins her mules in, and unhitches them.
Already there are others like her setting up their stalls and tents on the grassy area in preparation for the fair that occurs every nine years, hanging draperies from trees and hammering planks of wood together. There is an excitement in the air that seems to reach everyone, even the sour old witch (but it is very fleeting).
She returns to the caravan after hitching her mules to a nearby tree, and unhooks the cage from its chain. Then, carrying it to the meadow, she puts it down on a hillock of grass and opens the door.
"Out you come," she says, picking the sleeping dormouse up with bony fingers. She settles him down to the ground.
Tristran rubs his liquid-black eyes with his forepaws and blinks sleepily. The witch reaches into her apron and pulls out what appears to be a glass daffodil. With it, she touches his head. Where once was a mouse, there is now an 18-year-old man, blinking and yawning with sleep. He runs a hand through his unruly brown hair, then appears to snap back into reality as he stares down at the witch angrily.
"Why, you evil old crone--" he begins, reaching for his sword. But he is sleepy and weak, and he finds his legs too unsteady to support him. He falls to the ground ungraciously.
"Hush your silly mouth," the witch retorts sharply -- and not without the slightest bit of amusement. "I got you here, safely and soundly, and in the same condition I found you. I gave you board and I gave you lodging -- and if neither of them were to your liking or expectation, well, what is it to me? Now, be off with you, before I change you into a wiggling worm and bite off your head, if it is not your tail. Go! Shoo! Shoo!"
With that, she returns to building up her tent.
In a bone-jarring, rattling sort of way, the caravan continues its path towards Wall, and towards the market fair. Any passersby whom they see -- which occurs very infrequently -- are met with confusing circumstances. While they can see Yvaine, the witch (as she is a witch) calling herself Madame Semele cannot, and shortly it becomes clear to anyone, including the star, that Semele could never perceive Yvaine's presence or even hear anything pertaining to her existence. (Which, really, would explain quite a lot.)
The sun is low in the western sky when they approach the little village of Wall many weeks later. It shines in their eyes, bathing everything in its light, turning the world around them into liquid gold. It is when they find a rather empty lot -- a grassy meadow -- that Madame Semele reins her mules in, and unhitches them.
Already there are others like her setting up their stalls and tents on the grassy area in preparation for the fair that occurs every nine years, hanging draperies from trees and hammering planks of wood together. There is an excitement in the air that seems to reach everyone, even the sour old witch (but it is very fleeting).
She returns to the caravan after hitching her mules to a nearby tree, and unhooks the cage from its chain. Then, carrying it to the meadow, she puts it down on a hillock of grass and opens the door.
"Out you come," she says, picking the sleeping dormouse up with bony fingers. She settles him down to the ground.
Tristran rubs his liquid-black eyes with his forepaws and blinks sleepily. The witch reaches into her apron and pulls out what appears to be a glass daffodil. With it, she touches his head. Where once was a mouse, there is now an 18-year-old man, blinking and yawning with sleep. He runs a hand through his unruly brown hair, then appears to snap back into reality as he stares down at the witch angrily.
"Why, you evil old crone--" he begins, reaching for his sword. But he is sleepy and weak, and he finds his legs too unsteady to support him. He falls to the ground ungraciously.
"Hush your silly mouth," the witch retorts sharply -- and not without the slightest bit of amusement. "I got you here, safely and soundly, and in the same condition I found you. I gave you board and I gave you lodging -- and if neither of them were to your liking or expectation, well, what is it to me? Now, be off with you, before I change you into a wiggling worm and bite off your head, if it is not your tail. Go! Shoo! Shoo!"
With that, she returns to building up her tent.
no subject
It isn't very clear, of course, but ...
he remembers bits of something he's certain he can ask the star (without sounding like he dreamed the whole thing up).
"By the way," Tristran starts, turning back to face her. "I ... remember something. Something like a song...that perhaps you sang to me while we were traveling with that old witch?"
And a warmth. He definitely remembers warmth.
no subject
Drowning herself is quickly becoming a preferable option.
"To sleep," she squeaks guiltily. "I sang sometimes to help you sleep? Not that you particularly needed help just - it was quiet anyhow and -"
no subject
He smiles at her, then ... and perhaps its a slightly different smile from the ones she might be used to.
"You have a beautiful voice."
no subject
"You're welcome, I -" she stammers, stepping backward with a bit less care than she probably should and knocking her back into the door with a solid thunk. She quickly fumbles for the doorknob - nearly losing grip on the top of her towel in the process. "I should let you get in if you still want the water to be warm."
And if she wants to have any hope of not making any more of an ass of herself.
no subject
"Right," he says, snapping out of his own little ... whatever that was.
What is wrong with him, anyway? He shouldn't be doing this, not when they are only steps away from his village, and he is almost finished with his quest.
Of course, he doesn't think he can give Yvaine over to Victoria any longer. The idea of passing her like some object seems more and more inconceivable. She is not a thing to be passed from hand to hand, but a person.
"I won't be long."
no subject
Lovely, Yvaine.
Just lovely.
no subject
That...he doesn't know if he can keep it up any longer, truth be told. This confusion, this odd feeling in his chest, every time he sees her. It doesn't make any sense, and yet it does.
He begins to take his shirt off. Never mind that. He is finally home (well, he will be very soon) and soon everything will make perfectly clear sense.