Post by Shade on Jan 4, 2011 14:39:48 GMT -8
In a field of snow and pine, under the fading sunlight, Explains-the-Plot was learning to be patient.
A deer stood in the clearing, chewing bark from a fir tree. It was not the first deer she'd stalked today. They kept getting away; she would move too soon, or too late, and the deer would flee. She didn't chase them. Chasing them wasn't the point.
She was crouched low against the ground, downwind (though this could change, and she'd lost one deer that way), obscured by a holly bush. The deer stomped restlessly, steam rising from his muzzle as he breathed.
A quick gust tossed some snow off a leaf and into her eye. She blinked slowly, just the one, until it melted. It stung, burned a little, but she did not move.
She had lost the chess game because she had thrown herself too eagerly into the fray, throwing away her pieces – her friends – for results now, and forgetting victory later. Shawn had made the same mistake, setting up his defense and sacrificing its components rather than letting them come against it and be destroyed. So she would learn patience. She was Rat's child and a follower of Bear, and she would strike at absolutely the most correct moment, not before.
Watch. And wait. Patience. Consider the board.
Who did she threaten? House Wyrmfoe. Who threatened her? House Wyrmfoe again, and its enemies. (not enough, she needed names, she needed to be calm so that the words wouldn't swell and choke her and she could say what she had to say). But she didn't know about these enemies, so she had to leave that space blank for now.
Consider Wyrmfoe's options.
They could ignore her entirely. Right now the secret was still secret, and she had made it clear that she'd like it to stay that way. That would be nice. Not likely; not her and Wilhelm both, and not with the klaive, and the curse. And secrets have a terrible way of coming out, especially if all that keeps them hidden is a bright red coat.
She could die, accidentally or on purpose or accidentally-on-purpose. Not an optimal outcome as far as she was concerned, but the easiest for them. Especially if she died without the secret coming out. Quite likely, in her opinion, though she could just see the moon catching fire in Wilhelm's eyes if she ever suggested it.
Or they could try to convince or coerce her into repudiating Rat and joining another, more respectable tribe. If they had real honor, as Wilhelm seemed to think they did, this would be their only option if they deemed ignoring her too risky. They'd think it was the right story: the little lost princess can never rejoin her family because of the wicked sorcerer's curse, but she can still find honor elsewhere now that she knows the thief-lord lied to her. And maybe one day – who knows? – the curse will be broken, and all will be as it should.
Except she wasn't a princess and she'd never been lost, and she had chosen Rat. The Children of Gaia had been suggested and duly pursued, and she had not been able to stand the pity in their faces. The Glasswalkers had put themselves forward (she still wasn't sure why) and she had said no, politely, because they were altogether too shiny. A visiting Black Fury, hearing the story of her mother and her mother's killer and what she had done about it, had asked her to consider visiting their sept before she made her choice. But in the end Rat had spoken to her in her heart, and she had come when he called, and she would dance the spiral before she disowned him.
After all, she'd lived on his streets since she was twelve.
The deer stamped restlessly, tossing his head. Explains-the-Plot tensed, forebrain screaming go go go NOW –
and she did nothing –
the deer settled again. Patience. When the moment is absolutely right, and not before.
What were her options?
To walk away. Might work for a while – she could vanish into another city, far away – but eventually events would find her. The story had them in its grasp, and all they could do was ride it. But it would make a good delaying tactic.
To go along with whatever plan Wyrmfoe concocted. Yeah, right. As if they'd have her best interests at heart. There was no shame in their selfishness, in protecting your gang, but she wasn't one of theirs and she never would be, so she was expendable to them. And remembering that, always, would keep her safe.
To make the secret known. Bad idea; that would change the board entirely, and she only barely understood it the way it was now. Maybe later, when she could see the board more clearly, if there was great need (if they decided to kill her, perhaps)... she could use making it known as a threat, but that would only work once and it would have to be under just the right circumstances. Set that aside, for now, but remember that it's there.
To repudiate Falcon, and ask him to do the same to her. Burn that bridge, forever, removing herself from the board without actually dying. This was... it would make a good endgame, if they cornered her, if she had no other choice. But Wilhelm had said “Maybe that's your destiny, to be a bridge between the two worlds.” And Maya had said “She is Garou, without forgetting that she is also a Changing Breed. She can be both.” And there was something there, the trailing shadow of a story that needed to be told.
Besides, she couldn't tell if she thought it was a good solution or only thought it was a way to hurt the man who was and wasn't her father, and one should never make choices in anger. Repudiating Falcon would lose her more than she would gain.
Patience, again.
For her own safety, she had to resist Wyrmfoe and its machinations. She had to be free to choose, for the safety of her body and the integrity of her soul. How does one protect the king? Have pieces – allies – to stand between the king and the other side of the board. Develop value. Develop worth. Be friendly and open and kind and useful, so that when the white wolf comes howling people will be on your side, not only out of duty (because surely pressuring someone to repudiate their tribe and totem, however lightly, was a terrible evil) but out of true affection.
Follow the yellow brick road, Twisted Tail had told her. Go to the Emerald City. Make friends. Become wise. And discover that the Great and Terrible is just a little old man behind a curtain.
Just a lonely, frightened man.
Could she forgive him? Forgive his fear? Forgive all he had done, and all he had failed to do?
Could she ever forgive him?
Did she want to?
The wind was changing. The tops of the trees rustled, but below them all was still. The last sliver of the clear, cold winter sun was shimmering on the horizon, behind the mountains, and the dying light was red as a suicide's last bath.
The deer raised his head and snorted, steam rising in his face like a dragon. She crouched still as a statute, a snow-wolf carved of concrete and bloodstains that fade without ever disappearing.
Silence. Patience. And the correct moment. Her haunches tensed. The deer lowered his head. And in that moment, she understood.
A flurry of snow; a blur of red-on-white and the deer knew only half a heartbeat of pain and fear before her jaws clamped down and cracked his spine, and then it was over. She crouched over her kill for a second, still furred and four-legged, then blurred up into homid. There was a knife in her hand.
She turned the deer on its back and worked the tip of the knife through the skin and the membrane below. Draw it down, chest to crotch – it was a good knife, sharp and smooth, and the stories whispered their approval. It was right to blood it here, in this manner, on prey's flesh meant to feed and nourish. Because she was Bear's follower, and Bear protects and nurtures, and kills only to preserve the things worth keeping.
Peel back the skin – the fading life was warm on her hands, warm as the blood that rushed out of the first man she'd ever killed – but she didn't think of that, no, because that was in another life when she'd had a different name.
Pierce the body, now, and take the guts. They were mostly empty; deer ate little in the winter. Puncture the diaphram, get out of the way – nope, not quite fast enough, and now she'd have to get the blood off her pants somehow. That was always a pain.
Pull the guts out, sever the membranes holding them back, watch the blood spill and pool in the shimmering night-snow.
Compassion. Compassion asked (compassion never demanded) that she forgive him, now and later and again and again until her heart was clean and clear. Compassion and her moon-nature asked that she listen to his story without thinking of her own and honor it. It was a sad story, a Silver Fang story, of a man who loved well but not wisely and who made a terrible choice. Honor – Silver Fang honor – required that he leave her mother, because there was nothing he could give her except pain. Noble and tragic. Tristan and Isolde. Duty and desire.
But he had already given her pain, broken-heart-pain, and a small life growing inside her. And that was a Bone Gnawer story, that maybe only Bone Gnawers could fully understand: the father who left, the mother who died, and the child cast out into the cold to survive as best she could.
In the Silver Fang story, the returning child is the hero's tragic flaw, the weakened post that brings the castle crashing down. Because the child must be dealt with, either subsumed or destroyed, but the child is still his child, and whether he chooses love or duty his honor will suffer and his kingdom will fall.
In the Bone Gnawer story, the returning father is an interloper who must be overcome; a challenge and an obstacle to be got around or destroyed. Because Bone Gnawers have no kingdoms and hold no courts and are only people, trying not to die. Because Bone Gnawers see the false faces and it makes them bitter, they see the cracks in the foundations and it makes them laugh because otherwise there would be no end to weeping. Because every Bone Gnawer knows that we are born alone and in pain and we die alone and disappointed and the time between is spent in suffering, and the only relief we have of it is those rare moments when hand meets hand across the void to warm and strengthen, and those moments never last. No mercy, no honor, no duty. No justice. Just us.
And both stories are true. The old Fianna had said that, laughing, filling his long pipe with tobacco (he was like a bard from a tale of long ago, dressed in bright rags and trailing Irish burr). There is no one truth, or if there is it's too vast for us to comprehend. There's only stories, overlapping. Understand the stories, and you understand everything.
Honor his story. Honor your own. But can you forgive him, little gibbous moon, little marrow-sucker?
The crack of the deer's pelvic bone fracturing and giving way resounded like a gunshot, and she could hear birds complaining in the distance. The stars were just beginning to wink the sleep from their eyes, and the air had chilled. Steam and scent rose from the darkening blood on the glittering snow. She pulled the last of the guts out, then went back up the cavity to detach the heart and liver, setting them aside. She packed a thin layer of snow in the body cavity, then tucked the heart and liver inside and packed more snow around them.
He hadn't known. She believed that. There had been a pain and a horror in him that had not been a lie, and she tried to remember that as far as he was concerned he had found his own flesh and blood degraded and dishonored, ignorant of her heritage and rolling happily in filth. She tried to remember that he was ignorant, that he didn't know any better, just like every other Garou who looked at her and saw a mangy, staving mongrel. She tried to remember that this ignorance was her tribe's best defense and greatest weapon.
But it hurt. Because it came from a man who claimed to be her father. Because he was her... because... and he had just judged and assumed without knowing her, without trying to understand her, and tried to blame her for doing the best she could with the hand she had been dealt because of his actions!
He had tried to take her pride from her.
But he didn't understand how much she had to be proud of.
And if he had just been a Silver Fang, if he wasn't... it wouldn't hurt so much, if he was just another Silver Fang to bow and scrape to and secretly mock.
She had to stop, then, had to kneel in the snow and clench her fists as the tears rose hot and furious and her throat dried and swelled.
I don't want to. I don't want to!
But can you?
I don't know!
She hugged herself tightly, blood and snow staining her sweater, and rocked back and forth. Family. No family. Worth. No worth. What are you, little gibbous moon? What do you want? What will you choose?
You're Rat's child. You give everything you have and never get what you want, which is fine, because it's not healthy to want things you can actually have.
What did he want from her?
What was she to him?
So many questions screaming behind her eyes, jockeying for position, and she could never get a single one out. Except why? Why me, why him, why this, why all of it, why this terrible, wicked, cruel joke? She wasn't marked as a Silver Fang was but Gaia had called her anyway, and sent Rat's most beloved daughter to lead her home.
Why?
The wind blew hard against her neck. And slowly, remember the clarity of the killing blow, she breathed deep of the crisp winter night and let it all go. There would be time and time and more time to understand, to pick apart this knot. And if it never was? Well, then it never was. You are Rat's child. Be patient, wait, and watch, and learn. You are Bear's follower. Find what is good in this, what is worth keeping, and fight for that. Then, with kindness, let everything else go.
Be who you are, who your choices have lead you to be, and do it as hard as you possibly can. Because Gaia called you for a reason. Trust in the story. Be clear water flowing, and always stop to watch the stones grow.
She unfolded herself and stood, picking up the deer and slinging it over her shoulders. The thin sliver of moon smiled down and guided her home, while the stars whispered secrets to the trees.
