YOU ARE LIKE A CLOUD SEEN BETWEEN BRANCHES
in your eyes the laughter and strangeness of a sky that is not yours.
I’d thought that she might be with child, but I didn’t want to presume. It is nearly a relief when she says it aloud.
“Your child…” I repeat, feeling a prickling of something half-wistful. It’s almost strange to consider it or even think of it, but I’ve never had one, not in any of my lives; in one equine lifetime or another, I’ve fallen in love a few times (I think), but I’ve always loved something else more, particularly as the Green Knight. I was the sword and shield of my king, and nothing and no one would or could come before him or my duties to him; I never expected to die of old age, and I never expected to settle enough to have a family. In my second lifetime, I had similar ambitions, but I died young – and the wind and trees and swords and fireflies are hardly romantic creatures. Regardless, I’ve had a younger sister, and, in my time as the Green Knight, I mentored more than a few squires, and there was the heir. I always thought, privately, that it might be nice to have something more stable, but I’ve never considered giving up on knighthood, or my devotion to my homeland, or, perhaps above all, my devotion to the person who made me care, really care about my home and my knighthood to begin with. Every time I thought of love, I knew that there were things that I loved more.
I look at the swell of her stomach, and I think that it will be good to have the child around the house; perhaps I can teach them to hold a blade. “Perhaps I can be the one to tell them what a crab is,” I say, with a soft laugh.
When I admit, however reluctant, to how my people need me, she tries to soothe me; tells me I have found that when your people need you and you them, you are always brought back together. Her comment makes my smile turn wistful. I cannot fail – if I do, then, when the current king dies, my people will be doomed to perish. Without their magic, we cannot persist.
“Thank you,” I say, and though I appreciate her optimism, for a moment I can only think of all the people that I have known and loved and never seen again, in one life or another. I think of my dearest friends, and my sisters, and my mother, and my father. We might still meet again, but it has been some time, and we haven’t yet.
Perhaps I have seen them, in one form or another. A lark, or a fish in the river, or a blooming rose. I’d like to believe that I’ve crossed paths with them again, but that is another kind of melancholy, because I am no longer myself and neither are they.
She must have noticed my hesitation. She tells me that she could use help with her plants, and asks me to stay for the evening, at least; but she adds that caring for her home has been more difficult, in her current state. I have the distinct feeling that she is trying to coerce me, but I find myself wondering if she is going through this alone. Pregnancy is difficult. Regardless of how sincere her need is, I think that I could help her, even keep her safe if she needs it-
She adds that she has an extra bedroom, tells me to stay just until the child is born. (Her tone implies that I could stay longer.) I nod my concession, finally, and say, “I don't have too much experience with gardening, but I’ll do my best to learn.” For what it’s worth, I’ve been a plant before, so I think – hope – that I could pick up on it quickly. Besides – most of my learning has been by the blade. It would be good to acquire some new skills, for once. The priestesses insist on a sort of repetition.
Sunflowers, Elena says, as she starts to walk, I must see her sunflowers. I follow after her without really thinking about it.
Sunflowers in late autumn, she says, and she laughs. Do you believe it?
“Oh,” I say, a faint stumbling breath in my voice, “I’ve never seen a sunflower before-“ Never even heard of one, before she mentioned them, “-so I suppose I’ll believe it when I see it?” I smile broadly, give a half-wild laugh, and follow her home.
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"Speech!"
EVERYTHING IS RISK, SHE WHISPERED.if you doubt, it becomes sand trickling through skeletal fingers.☙❧please tag Nic! contact is encouraged, short of violence
