milliways_bar | (no subject)

He isn't going to stop her, for three reasons:

First, it would likely violate some aspect of the 'no business' rule.

Second, it would serve no purpose.

And finally, he knows that if she has returned to the bar looking as battered as this, then the person she fought....

He crosses the remaining distance between the door and the lake at a speed that belies his age.

There is very little to find outside on this evening; very few signs of the struggle that just took place.

Here there is a tree-branch, there a young tree, bent and cracked as if from a storm; further on, frost-killed flowers lie flattened.

By the lake, there is a smoldering circle on the grass.

There is little to see, but the residual magic assaults his senses. The Dark and a very near equivalent of the Wild Magic, an echo of bone-cracking cold and skin-searing heat mingled with the remnants of fear and rage and pain and the noxious, almost tangible stench of a desperate struggle.

The scent of blood in the air, but no blood on the ground.

A battlefield where the combatants were uncommonly thoughtful when it came to cleaning up after themselves.

He advances toward the charred circle, one arm involuntarily raised as if to block a blow that may or may not fall. Five paces from it, he stops, and lowers his arm.

Heat is still rising from the burning circle. Not the White Rider's work; this destruction is not the Dark's doing. But the circle is large enough to have encompassed a human-sized form...and there is no sign, hide nor hair no ash, of the other participant in the altercation.

No sign of anyone's remains, but as a light breeze from over the lake dissipates some of the waves of heat, a slight depression in the spring-soft earth can be seen.

Not well defined, and hard to discern if not looking closely, it is a place where the earth is compressed as though by some blow.

And it is the right size to fit a human form.

He is still a handful of paces away, but to come any closer would disturb the residual magic. So he half-kneels, half-crouches where he stands, and holds out a hand with all five fingers spread. His hand quivers faintly, feeling the shifting currents of magic lingering in the air.

Not Raven's magic, not here. He knows that well enough, from his work to dispel the last of the White Rider's trap-spell some time before. Different but still similar, as memories surface and just as quickly recede.

A vague, blurry picture of the battle begins to take shape in his mind, ghost-figures dancing on the edges of his vision as his senses process what little remains of the eddying flow of magic. Strike and counter-strike, slash and bite and claw, turn and whirl and bleed and soar and fall and scream and blaze and

(fire to burn away the Dark)

burn.

His hand goes utterly still.

A form appears in the doorway. Will (http://community.livejournal.com/milliways_bar/12873336.html).

One look at the circle of destruction and at Merriman's face, and he's hurrying over, breaking into a run within a few steps. His own face is set and expressionlessly intent, and sight is far from the only sense he has thrown open right now.

He slows as he nears the charred area, his lips pressed tight together.

Merriman is just getting to his feet as Will nears. He knows that Will is there, without needing to turn or look round.

And so he does neither, keeping his gaze fixed on the charred grass.

Fire, he says silently, after a long moment. Fire to burn away the Dark.

Will is silent, too, staring at the ground.

Fire and frost, flames and wind and a mad howling laughter swirl at the edge of his senses, tilting crazily and full of rage and hate. The grass is charred black, spring flowers charred to cinders. His memory throws up an image sudden and unbidden -- Cafall snarling, teeth bared and silver eyes flashing. It's gone a bare instant later, leaving Will to realize his fists are clenched.

Who?

Not Raven.

He knows this, confirmed by the fading ghost-images of the struggle that continue to repeat themselves in the periphery of his mind. These, too, he sends to Will, a flurry of manic movement and frenzied emotion.

Coyote. The fire came from within, not without.

Will nods. It doesn't matter if Merriman sees the movement; the agreement and understanding are in his mind.

I never met her. It's an absent comment. The feel of her savage burning rage, like Raven the Wild Magic tinged faintly with deserts and high mountains and wind scouring sage-scrub, is clear anyway.

An observer would see only two figures, an old man and a young, standing by a circle of charred grass. A more perceptive observer would see the likeness beneath: the tension in their postures, and the blankness of their faces, as if they were listening to something just beyond hearing, and the icy, implacable fury in their eyes.

Will says nothing, for a long moment, aloud or between minds.

Then, What now, Merriman?

Gradually, the residual heat is fading from the circle, in the May breeze. To the outside senses.

What indeed. A flat, emotionless statement. The situation has gone beyond the appropriateness of irony. We report this, of course, to start. And afterwards....

There is really nothing more the Old Ones can do out here. There is no trace of either combatant, save the charred area of earth that will be left undisturbed. And once word of this spreads -- as it doubtless already has -- the Wild Magic will not be inclined to let the matter drop.

Neither will the Light, for that matter, but that goes without saying. Or thinking.

And afterwards, he continues, with a finality that rings like a chisel striking in stone, we attempt to prevent anyone else from thinking to take matters into their own hands. This cannot be allowed to continue.

He tilts his head back, eyes half-closed and unseeing.

Or we will have a war of attrition on our hands.

And the battlefield here is everyone.

Most of the measures an Old One might take to prevent that are curtailed by the bar's rules against outside business. The bitter irony does not escape Will.

He shoves his hands in his trouser pockets, frowning at the charred patch of ground.

You have been talking to Bernard, you said. Word can be spread, though people will not all listen to it. And Security will have to act on this.

What Will does not say, but they both know, is that getting around Security seems to be very easy indeed.

Will they, though. It isn't quite a rhetorical question, and doesn't try to be. They will at least have to be informed that we will keep to the rules -- with regard for our position here. But if others insist on making things more difficult for all concerned...that position may, after due consideration, have to be re-evaluated.

He looks down at the ground again, and the next thought that drifts between them carries a good deal of frustration, and more than a hint of rueful reflection.

Never before have I looked back with any real measure of fondness for the days of the old battles.

(no subject)

sign-seeker.livejournal.com - 2006-05-23 04:53 (UTC) - Expand

He sees Blodwen, he felt Coyote die, and there is really only one thing Raven can do--only one thing he will choose to do.

His chair topples to the floor when he stands.

He doesn't hear it.

His ears are full of the memory of laughter, sweet and musical and mocking, and his hands can still feel the scratchy silk of Coyote's fur.

He wonders if there was blood on it before she died.

And then all thought ceases, and there is only action.

He slams into Blodwen, hands grabbing at her white cloak and shoving her backwards, hard.

Fire fills his eyes, and his voice is low and rough when he speaks.

"You fucking bitch. You stupid, fucking bitch."

She hisses in pain as she is jolted backwards, but the glare in the ice-bright eyes is full of defiant-- and oddly triumphant.

"Oh, and so you know it? But it was not I who attacked, pretty bird."

"Raven."

The Aes Sedai's tone is rigidly controlled as she approaches the two of them.

"Do not let her use you so. Not here."

He doesn't even spare Moiraine a glance.

"There is nowhere else, I do not think."

Not for either of them.

He leans into Blodwen, cheek pressing lightly against hers.

"I have little care for rules, White Rider of the Dark. Still less for promises. But it is time I make you one, I think."

His mouth is right by her ear.

"I will end you. And you will scream for me before you die."

The set is uneven with only three players. There's fire and ice, they complement.

And now there is wildness to counter calm.

She only went upstairs to fetch some of the supplies she still kept up there, and the bits (stray wires, a tiny screwdriver, a packet of jellybabies) clatter and crunch as they hit the landing.

"Raven?"

She takes her hand from over the wound in her side and wipes her fingers clean on her cloak, removing every trace-- deliberately.

Otherwise remaining still in his grasp, Blodwen raises her fingers to touch his face, stroking her thumb possessively over his cheekbone.

"She said much the same," the Rider murmurs, sweet malice clear. "I told her then that it was you who had screamed, before, and that she would as well."

A beat.

"She did, at the end."

Raven leans into her hand, the gesture deliberate, but his face is cold and hard as stone.

There is a shriek rising in his throat, but he will not give voice to it here.

He will not.

No.

No.

He darts forward, mouth pressed tight to hers, teeth digging into her lower lip, hard.

Sometimes a price can be paid in blood. But not for this.

Not here.

Even her heart's blood would not be enough for this.

"So will you, in the end."

He licks his lips, tongue wiping away the last of her blood.

"Twice as long."

Raven shoves her away from him, fingers letting go of her cloak as he turns toward the front door.

There is a quick flash of darkness, and light, and the end of the universe.

The door closes behind him with an oddly quiet click, and Raven is gone.

He bolts, too quickly for her to stop him, even if she had been able to move in time. The Aes Sedai stands frozen in shock for the barest instant, and then she herself is moving, toward the White Rider.

"May Light burn you and blind you, searing the flesh from your bones," she says, keeping her own temper by the thinnest of margins. Fury is clear in her tone. "Were that you had been destroyed, and not merely wounded. Light willing, it may yet be so."

He left.

He just... left.

She tries to think of something else, focus on anything else besides the quiet closing of the door and the blood on the white bitch's cloak and the fury and loss and shock tearing through her veins but it all circles back again to that one fact, again and again.

He left.

So perhaps she cannot be blamed, when she can focus again, that everything seems a bit red, and nothing is loud as the sound of the blood in her veins, nothing is as strong as the fury-fueled hunger.

"Blodwen?" Her voice is calm, so very, very calm. "How fast can you run?"

And then she smiles, as bright as her gold eyes.

She tears her glance from the front door and the glowing woman before her, and turns a sweet, warm smile on Ace.

"Why, cariad." The high light voice is softly amused. "I have no intention of running."

The situation is escalating swiftly, and Moiraine buries her own fury under layers of rigid, hard-won control.

Three swift steps, and she is in a position nearly between Ace and the White Rider, without turning her back on either.

"Ace. Do not give her the satisfaction."

One step closer, prowling, crouched and coiled and quiveringly tense. She cannot hear Moiraine, cannot understand. It doesn't matter, nothing matters except the hunger and the hunt and the firmly closed door.

"Run or stay, it is your choice, of course. A last choice. There's always choices, even in the hunt." She answers in a voice that is more of a growl that rumbles and snarls blinding pain.