Hector Ghosh
When she returns home from hunting elk Lola sees signs of another life inside the cabin she cannot claim to share with her mate because her mate has been gone near as often as he has been home. Yet he calls it home anyway. So long as Lola is here Hector will call this place home.
His boots are discarded by the back door and for all the walking and running he has done since June, for all the fights he has gotten into and missions he has gone on, he is going to need another pair before the baby arrives. One still upright but the other has fallen on its side. Laces splayed out like they're just as exhausted as he must be.
On the island countertop in the kitchen he has left his knapsack. A tall juice glass stands beside it. He filled it with water and drained it down at least once. Next to the juice glass sits a plate. At least he thought to grab a plate. Bread crumbs and small smears of whatever he'd found to slap between the slices still linger on its face.
The contents of his knapsack have spilled out onto the counter but Lola knows what he carries with him by now. Fresh socks and his cell phone and things he needs to bind spirits to make talens. A medicine bag and a hunting knife. A leather-bound journal he isn't embarrassed to have others read through because he likes to think himself unafraid to share anything in his past with those who know enough to ask and a tattered copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.
Hector did not bring The Hobbit with him. He left it here. Before he left he told Lola he intends to have the entire goddamn thing read aloud before Raksha is born. Most of him was joking when he said he doesn't trust her to make sure their child reads Tolkien but all of Hector's jokes come with a bit of truth anyway. He's probably the only Uktena this side of the Mississippi River who can't lie worth a damn.
Mostly he's just afraid he's going to die before he knows whether their baby's eyes are the colour of earth or whiskey. They might be green. Some of the women on his father's side have green eyes and Hector is still convinced their firstborn is a girl.
One of the last texts he sent said Tell Raksha I'm coming home. Also please tell me it's not snowing there.
The bathroom door is not closed. Lola can hear the shower running when she nears the hallway and she knows Hector is not slumped dejected in it like he was the last time he came home because he's singing as he rinses shampoo out of his hair.
Lola Hawkes
Sunday morning, before the sun had the chance to crest the horizon entirely, Lola was gone from the log house she called home. She had her bow and arrows with her, was dressed practically with flannel and a down vest and jeans. She was gone from the house all through the morning, so it was empty when Hector came home. When he returned he found The Hobbit on the nightstand on Lola's side of the bed with a shopping receipt serving the purpose of a bookmark partway through. Whether she'd been reading it aloud or not was difficult to say, but clearly she'd been reading it.
Around noon, when the sun was at its high point, a little less south in the sky than it had been last month, Lola was returning home. She had removed the down vest she was wearing and stuffed it into a traveling bag worn at her hip, supported by a strap across her back and chest both. The sleeves of her flannel shirt were rolled up, her hair was in a knot at the top of her hair, and flyaways stuck to her face thanks to the sweat that had been beading. She had ropes across her chest and shoulders and wrapped around her forearms and hands. She was dragging a young buck along on a sledge that was effective only because the unseasonably warm weather over the weekend had not yet managed to melt all of the snow down.
When she made it into the backyard of the property, she left the deer and the sledge near the outside of the shed for the moment. This, because she noticed the boots by the back door.
Hector was home.
Choosing to go inside and get a glass of water as an excuse to see him before before hanging and draining the deer, Lola kicked off her boots (crusted with mud and a little blood as well) and left them, as well as the bow and quiver of arrows by the back door as well. Clued in by the shower, Lola filled a glass of water from the tap before moving to the hallway and, from there, to the bathroom doorway.
"Oh," she started, sounding playfully remorseful from the doorway to announce her presence. "If only I weren't about to go drain the kill. I'd ask if there were room for one more in there."
Hector Ghosh
And he knows she's there before she's stepped into sight. Most times he comes home with his sight and hearing and olfaction still revving in the red from needing Gaia to get him through journeys without his pack or his woman. Still Hector waits until Lola has breached the doorway and lain down the last word of her lament before he pointedly takes hold of the curtain and shucks it back enough that she can see his face and upper body.
He hasn't shaved since the hiking incident that had her so afraid of him he'd thought deforesting his face would help her lie easier next to him. The growth on his jaws has lost its razor bluntness and reached a state of fur-softness. That mane he calls hair is no longer than when she last saw him but it has grown several inches since he returned from Winnipeg and damp as it is it curls along his shoulders.
That weariness come into his bones and his eyes just before he left is gone now. It would be easy to blame it on the moon. Luna blazing full has a way of sparking energy in even the tricksters. But the lifting of his mood has nothing to do with the moon.
"Well shit," he says as he turns off the water. Goes on to grab a towel and wrap it around his waist and step out onto the mat. He takes care to hold the towel shut with his hands strategically placed but there's only so much he can do to camouflage his current predicament. "Good thing deer meat won't go bad if you leave it for five minutes, huh?"
Lola Hawkes
When Hector shucked back the curtain, he'd find Lola standing leaned sides against the doorframe, supported by her right shoulder and upper arm. Her ankles were crossed, and the flannel shirt she was wearing was something she'd owned previous to the pregnancy, so it had to be left unbuttoned in the front to accommodate for a stomach that already seemed bigger from when he'd seen her last. This was the stage where growth came rapidly, and that wouldn't stop until the baby was born. A gray T-shirt was stretched across her front instead, and she was splashed with a little bit of blood across the chest and forearms. She was sweaty still, and had the glass of water to her lips so she could drink full.
Her eyes were dark, much like her mother's, and they soaked up the sight of him with a small light of pride. She watched quietly as he stepped out and placed his hands over the towel in front of him, and smirked a little at what they failed to hide despite his efforts. There's the flavor of a chuckle that didn't bloom to full when she spoke next.
"That's true. But fuck it, may as well anyway. I'm already wearing the filthy clothes."
With that said she straightened up and stepped into the bathroom to walk to him and greet him more properly. She didn't put arms around him or press her body close to his-- he was clean from the shower and she even smelled of the salt of exertion. But she did lean forward to kiss his mouth anyways.
"Welcome home. How was it?"
Hector Ghosh
A week is not so long a time for humans maybe but the only reason her mate stays back from her at first is he's marveling over how much more pregnant she is than when he last saw her. That same glowing pride and pleasure in his eyes as hers.
Last time they spoke he'd said he was going to just stay home once he finally got back. It had sounded like a joke and it had made Lola laugh for how frightened and confused she had been moments earlier but for all either of them know he isn't joking.
That kiss would have kept on if it weren't for her pulling back to ask a question. She hasn't touched him yet but Hector puts an arm behind her and tugs her in nearer anyway.
"It..."
The hand not on her back comes to rest against the side of her neck and face. He's breathing hard for the effort of controlling himself. But he is controlling himself. Staring up at the ceiling as he searches for a word to answer her question quick so they can get the deer dressed. When words fail him Hector laughs a laugh bereft of air and flashing teeth.
He looks back down to meet her gaze and then he swallows his wonderment. His thumb is tracing her cheekbone again and again. Lola knows she has about five seconds before he tries to pin her against the sink.
"It's a long story."
Lola Hawkes
She had a feeling going in that Hector would loop arms and entrap her anyways, despite her best efforts to keep sweat and blood from marring the work that his shower had done. So she doesn't seem surprised at all when an arm at her back prevents her from leaning or stepping away. She didn't wrench herself away from him, but stayed close while he touched her face and rediscovered its details after his time away. It was only a week, but Garou lived lives much faster than humans did. A lot happens in a week to make it seem longer even.
He expressed that it was a long story and was leaning subtly nearer still to her. She knew the look he wore, and where it led. Often times that look led to hastily discarded clothing and hungry mouths and demanding hands. Sometimes they'd make it to the bedroom if Lola was assertive on the matter, but other times, more often these days than before, she wouldn't even try to dissuade him.
Today, though, after he expresses that the story is long and leaves it there for now, Lola touched the clean(ish) edge of one hand to Hector's face, mirroring the affection he showed her, before leaning back and making the effort to pull away from him. As she did, she smirked.
"Alright, alright, we'll reunite after work's done. You can tell the story while we work. Or later." She added the 'or later' as an afterthought, deciding that a 'long story' might also be an 'exhausting story', and he may want to wait to tell it. Of course, she had stories of her own to tell for him-- tales of adventure, backstory to explain the phone call she'd made to him about blank faces and suits. This, too, could wait for later.
For now, Lola brushed hair stuck to her brow back from her face and leaned back from Hector, against his arm, to encourage him to release her, be that to assist with the deer or to simply allow her to complete the work she was taking a break from.
"Ya missed the Moot," she told him matter of factly to switch the topic.
Hector Ghosh
Maybe when he was a teenager he would jerk away from fetid bodily fluids and cringe at the sight of blood or the mangled monstrous corpses left behind after a confrontation between their side and the Wyrm's but that softness to him went away long before Willow and Glen and Maria found him wandering dehydration-blind and lost in the desert in the middle of winter.
The Nation knows the Galliard to be a brave fighter. He is more known for his conquests in battle than he is for the soundness of his judgment. And yet his cohorts do argue that is judgment is sound. They just don't always understand or agree with it.
More is misunderstood or disagreed upon between the tribes that make up the Nation and the Garou and Kinfolk who make up those tribes than is ever truly grasped or settled but their culture and their history would be terrible and more bloody than it already is if everyone got along all the time.
So: Lola disengages from the embrace and Hector draws a deep breath to calm himself down. He's home now. He's not going out again today. She isn't going to disappear if he doesn't wrestle her down right this second.
He can tell the story while they work. Or later.
"Pants," he says, snapping his fingers several times as he looks around the bathroom to find the pair he'd discarded.
The jeans he finds and steps back into need washing but that can wait until after they've strung up and dressed the deer. Even a month ago he would have let her go ahead and do it by herself but they're venturing into the premature labor chapters of the books Anthony gave them. Lola is strong and resilient but Hector has an overactive imagination. It won't kill either of them to have him do more heavy lifting around here than she's used to the next few months.
As for the Moot:
"Yeah, but I got to go to the one at Painted Sands and perform an hourlong rendition--" Oh good. There's his shirt. He performs a quick sniff test before pulling it back on. "--of The Tale of Beloved Horror versus Cold Crescent."
Okay. Out they go.
"Their Adrens told these amazing stories, and the Revel was... I almost shit myself. They let a spirit-talker do the whole thing and she summoned a fucking engling that messed up like twelve people before it took off. I thought I was going to die. Their Cracking of the Bone was probably way more boring than Forgotten Question's though."
It's so warm outside compared to the winter they've weathered that Hector decides he doesn't feel like putting his boots back on and leaves them by the back door. It isn't like he's going to get frostbite if he walks barefoot over some unmelted snow.
Lola Hawkes
While Hector spoke, stepping into pants and guiding them back outside, his woman was quiet. Her hands were busy with taking her dense mane of semi-waved dark hair out of its bun, only so she could rake it back up with her fingers and bind it in a new (more secure and complete) bun once again. She listened and walked beside him, depositing her glass of water on the kitchen island after taking a last drink from it.
When he spoke of the Revel, in particular, a pang of envy struck in the Kinswoman strong enough for Hector to be able to sense it. Her expression flinched its way into a jealous scowl for less than a second before she smoothed it back out to neutral. The fact that her neutral expression always seemed closer to a frown than a smile helped her to try and play off the moment, at least.
Once back outside, Lola kept her flannel shirt sleeves rolled up and didn't bother with the down vest again. The deer left on the sledge was a young adult, a four-pointer, but it would make plenty of food for two and was less difficult to drag across the landscape than a larger animal would be. She didn't hesitate to grab one sledge robe and toss the other to Hector so he could help her pull the animal around to the shed door. If Hector insisted on pulling the sledge himself she would allow it. She read the books like she did, and though she was far more convinced of her own hardiness and less worried about throwing herself into premature labor with some manual labor, she complied with his need to help mitigate risks.
"I don't know," Lola was answering about the Cracking of the Bone here at Forgotten Questions. She paused to push open the manual shed door (the sort that slid on a horizontal track, not like a garage door). "Eddie said that they talked about leadership at Cold Crescent. That's about all that he had to say on it."
Then, with the door open, she'd help and/or direct to bring the deer over to where a heavy metal chain and hook were hanging from a support beam in the ceiling of the shed.
Hector Ghosh
Hector lets Lola take one of the ropes. Like they have to slowly acclimate to the idea that one day he's going to stop letting her pick up boxes or move furniture. It isn't a matter of his being overprotective as much as the young man does possess a latent sense of honor that could one day blossom into overprotectiveness. It's more a matter of wanting to avoid human civilization as much as possible. If the baby comes early they'd have to concede defeat and find someone to help them.
They're both too proud to do that.
So he lets her take the rope but Hector is the one who crouches down and grabs the carcass by its hind legs and drags it over to the meat hook. Lanky as he looks fully clothed Lola knows he's just cut of lean cloth. When he spears its lower legs and hoists the rope to clear its head from the floor the action requires little effort.
"Oh," he says to the matter of Eddie the Skald giving Lola few words on the night's discussion. "That's..."
He doesn't say not good but he doesn't really have to. He clears his throat instead. The two of them will be able to dress and butcher this deer in under an hour. Hector isn't the most experienced hunter Lola is ever going to meet but he learns quickly and has fast sure hands. She's seen what he can do with a knife and enough patience.
"Cold Crescent still doesn't have a Great Alpha. That's probably what they were--" No. Don't say arguing. "--talking about."
Lola Hawkes
"If you ask me...,"
This was how Lola often started commentary on how the politics of the Garou Nation should function. She participated actively in them, as much as a Kinfolk was allowed, for she grew up viewing and understanding the social dynamic and political structure of the Garou world as though she herself was going to be taking place in it. She always believed that she would stand at a Warmoot and spit venom fire and experience around these politics to drive change and victory. So, of course, she had an opinion when she heard things like Septs not having Great Alphas.
"That Sept needs to be rebuilt from the goddamn ground up if it wants to be one at all."
Hey, it was a better start than shouldn't exist.
"New building entirely. New location. One that doesn't have so many regular people walking in and out, without that Pit in the basement. Maybe somewhere nearby, maybe not, but elsewhere." While Hector strung the deer up by its ankles, Lola fetched a 10-gallon plastic bucket from where it was propped against the wall. The thing smelled heavily of bleach. She dragged it across the floor and slid it under the deer's head. A hunting knife that she was wearing strapped onto her thigh for the morning hunt was taken to the animal's throat, and soon it was hanging and draining out. It would need to stay this way for a while before they began to butcher it.
Lola stood back and put her hands on her lower back to stretch it while looking at their work. She seemed content with what she saw.
"And, of course, it needs a leader goddamn quick. That place would blow the fuck over if a strong Wyrm Wind hit it as it is right now. If it's gonna be a fucking Sept--" the gall of that group of Wolves, wanting to be a society on their own, "--then it has to start standing like one."
Hector Ghosh
Plenty of them agree that it shouldn't have been built as a Sept in the first place. For all the arguing Hector has done that he can understand the rationale behind erecting a defense around an entity they cannot understand and is known to be of value to and used by their enemy he also has done nothing to conceal the fact that he is frustrated and sometimes angered by their lack of progress.
And then he had to go and stand up at the Moot and say he'd help get the goddamned building operating as a Sept again.
With the deer hung and the blood draining from its neck Hector stands back with Lola. The movement and the stretching catches his attention and he moves behind her to knead the muscles in her neck and shoulders as they settle in to talking politics. It's a poor choice on his part. His attention keeps drifting onto other things the nearer to her he gets but he doesn't interrupt her as she talks of his comrades' gall.
He sighs at the task she's just described and works at the muscles between her shoulder blades. For nearly a minute he doesn't speak. She can tell he's thinking. Thinking tends to have him falling silent for the effort he puts into it. Too many arguments and too many past conversations rattling around. In the end he abandons the effort.
"Yeah, well," he says. His lips find her neck. His hands start wandering. "That's their problem."
Lola Hawkes
The Uktena that blew into town a surly Cliath now came to stand behind Lola as a Fostern that was more tempered and experienced. He was a Wolf whose word was listened to at the Septs-- both Forgotten Questions and at Cold Crescent. Words of his deeds carried. Of his Glory and Prowess and Honor. So he thought hard on what Lola had to say, and contemplated the topic of rebuilding the Cold Crescent. He had to take his time with his thought, for the other Wolves valued his word. Whether he admitted it or not, people valued his input.
While he was quiet and thoughtful, he rubbed her neck and shoulders. He'd find the muscles there tight, with the small starts of knots working back up in his absence. She rolled her head forward to stretch her neck and give Hector's hands room. To show that she appreciated the attention and to encourage it to continue.
When he finally spoke, words were uttered near to her neck.
That's their problem.
Lola's eyes had been closed while thumbs worked at her neck, but they opened to hear those words. He'd moved on, was kissing her neck and moving hands down from her shoulders, down her arms, gravitating to more gratifying places. Lola blinked and tipped her head to the side, making room for him, not stopping him. Instead, she curled her arm up and over so she could cradle the side and back of Hector's head and asked: "Their problem, huh?"
Hector Ghosh
When her arm comes up to hold Hector against her his face is against Lola's neck. He breathes in deep from the corner of her jaw and leans flush against her back. His hands have traveled her hips and moved down to her thighs and he doesn't have any interest in discussing politics or Septs without hearts. Nothing to say except he thinks he made a mistake standing with those of them who said they'd defend the place with their lives.
He has no idea what they're defending. Only that what they're defending is of significant value to Beloved Horror. Maturity and advancing rank have tried to rein in Hector's curiosity and his recklessness but it's the rapid approach of fatherhood that has him wanting less to do with that place than he did before.
Fatherhood and blood-drenched nightmares and nearly dying in a dark place he still didn't understand even after he went down into it.
"Uh huh," he says in answer to her question. His respirations are not ragged yet but his voice has gone husky. He sets his teeth into the lobe of her ear and breathes out a hard hot breath and puts his hands back on her hips to turn her away from the deer. To urge her out of the shed where the blood splashes into itself. They aren't going to make it into the house at this rate. "They can handle it without me."
Lola Hawkes
His body curled in and around hers. Hands slid down from hips to thighs and she felt his breathing hitch and change, just a little. For the moment Lola was happy to revel in it. She arched her body into his, stretched so her spine curved and the rest of her pressed nearer. It was at about the same time that Hector guided her to turn by firm hands at her hips that Lola was realizing she didn't want to continue down this path here. Not that she objected to love-making in the shed, but to do so while the deer was draining just seemed disrespectful to the kill.
So, it didn't take much urging for Hector to get her to move. Lola started to unroll the sleeves of her flannel overshirt and took her place walking beside Hector. She would be receptive to his hands staying on her, his face near hers so he could kiss at her neck and cheek, but there's a certain determination to her steps that made it clear she was seeing to it that they did make it to the house.
"....Good," she said after a moment of thought on the topic, and lifted a hand (once finished with her sleeves) to brush at Hector's hair. She smirked at him some. "And how do Tamsin and Thomas feel about that? Ain't that Reese guy a Glass Walker?"
Hector Ghosh
It takes her physically leading him into the house for him to decide not to divest her of clothing the second they've left the shed but Hector is just as receptive to guidance as Lola is to his advances now. As infrequent as they receive visitors it does still happen. They don't need someone from the Sept stumbling on them rutting outside like a couple of animals.
His hair is still damp from the shower. He had bound it back to help with dragging and hanging the deer but big chunks have fallen loose as he's reacquainted himself with her neck.
Then she wants to know about how his pack feels about this. Hector links his fingers with hers to walk the rest of the way back to the house. Kisses her knuckles and wrist as they go.
"Who?" he asks. Thomas's boyfriend, Hector. Focus. "Oh, yeah. I think so."
As soon as they're through the door and inside the kitchen Hector sets upon her like a spring wound too tight too long. Unspoken compromise here. He'll go inside but that's as far as he's willing to behave himself.
The wall in the kitchen is just as good as the bed all the way across the house anyway.
---
Afterwards he lets her shower if she wants to shower. Wherever she ends up he's sitting not too far away. Sated but not spent. He's fiddling with the mala bead bracelet he found stashed in his pocket and considering the conversation they abandoned earlier.
"I've never thought we should reopen Cold Crescent as a Sept," he says. "I don't know why I stood up and said I'd die defending it if that's what needed to happen. I mean... I almost have once already. Like I know it's the most glorious honorable thing in the world to die defending a Caern but it's not a Caern, it's just a building. And I'm no good to anyone at all if I'm dead. You know?"
Lola Hawkes
Inside the house was just fine for Lola. Clothes were pushed aside, abandoned on the floor, and the wall served its purpose as a steadying surface. When all was said and done, Lola would treat herself to a shower and wash her hair and skin of the sweat and blood of the hunt. When she was finished she dressed herself in a skirt and T-shirt.
When they came to rest for the afternoon, Lola had settled onto the couch. She was against Hector's side, content to be near him while she read. It wasn't a baby book or any of the Tolkein novels that Hector and Tamsin both insisted that she just fucking get through reading already. Instead, she was reading some small hardcover with illustrations on every other page. An instructional on 'practical gardening'.
When the subject of leaving Cold Crescent came back up, Lola blinked the text on the pages out of her eyes and closed the book over to let it rest in her lap. Her legs were stretched out in front of her, bare heels propped up on the coffee table. She drew in a deep breath, like one does when they're about to rise from being settled. But, rather than moving away from Hector and climbing to her feet, she exhaled slow and smooth and added thoughtfully:
"It makes sense to want to be there with the Pit. No one knows what it is, really, and if anyone would be driven to find out it'd be Uktena. He loves this shit, and so we do as well. But, yeah, the whole thing about making it a Sept again just seems... politically murky, you know? It's all fuckin' haphazard."
He's not worth much to anyone dead, and this is true. Lola nodded her head to show her agreement, and pressed a hand into the side of her stomach-- the gesture suggesting discomfort and response rather than thoughtless touch.
"A lot of us are probably going to die to the fight. That's just how we live. It's what we're here for-- The War. But, y'know, I'd rather that not be too soon. Not for us."
Hector Ghosh
When Lola reacts to something Hector can neither see nor feel he still flinches with the registering of the movement of her hand to her belly so he can read her face. That she keeps talking means it's not worth further ratcheting of his alarm but Hector still abandons the bracelet he'd been worrying and splays his palm and fingers overtop hers. The arm nearer to her slides itself out from between them and he inches closer so he can tug her in against his side and holds her nearer as they talk.
The War is why any of them are here in the first place. It's going to be the War that takes them.
Nearly four years he's been Garou and Hector still has difficulty wrapping his head around the fact that he was somehow born to a race of warriors. That it's his duty to fight. It's a duty he does not shirk or shy away from and yet every time he realizes how easily this war could snuff out his life it hits him a little harder than the time before.
"I don't know if you'd call it an epiphany," he says. Sounds like a non sequitur at first. "I think I actually had more than one epiphany, while I was at Painted Sands. But one of them... this is going to sound really corny, and I apologize... but I never really understood what all this means until..."
Despite the fact that he composes his own songs and tells such animated stories at the moot and has no trouble commanding the attention of a room anymore Hector has never been one to wax poetic if the poetry would come anywhere near his feelings.
"When I was fostering, you know, it really felt like I'd been plucked off the sidewalk and told I had to go to Afghanistan or Vietnam or something. Some really long drawn-out stupid war that was never going to end no matter how many of us died. It used to make me angry all the time. Even when I met Willow, and your sister and Glen, I was just... I'm sure the Rage didn't help, but it took me a long time to accept that this is what I am and I can't just... ignore it. You know? I can't just be normal. And that sucked for a while, probably up until really recently."
She knows. She has had the most exposure to Hector and his maturation of anyone on Earth.
"Some days it felt like there was no point to even trying. Is what I'm trying to say. Like... so many of us have died already, and I used to think 'Well why'd they have to die, it didn't change anything, we're not winning this thing anyway,' but... surviving, you know, even just holding a line that they can't get through... I really didn't understand that until I met you, and started staying here and getting ready for the baby. And I don't think I even really got it until..."
Just spit it out Hector. Jesus.
"I had this... vision, I guess. Or maybe I was dreaming. I don't know, it was really vivid. Of this place thriving. Like it might have hundreds of years ago before the Wyrmbringer showed up. The people who lived here had just about everything they needed to survive, they got it from the land or they traded with their neighbors. And I thought it was a throwback at first because it was so... I don't know, they just seemed really happy. It was our kids. That I saw. All this worrying and fixating on the oh-my-god-I-don't-know-what-I'm-doing... it's pointless. Even if I die, or you die, or we never figure out what that thing in the basement is... whatever. It's going to work out alright."
Lola Hawkes
Their bodies shifted so that Lola was leaned more against Hector, and his arm looped about her. A hand splayed on top of hers, and she let slip a small and content smile at just he bare corners of her mouth and settled back. The book on practical gardening was left on the farther cushion of the couch. Her legs pulled back onto the sofa, curled instead of stretched now.
She listened to the story that he had to tell-- the vision that he had experienced while down at Painted Sands, the land of his Ancestors. He spoke his sentiments on the futile flavor of the war on his young tongue, and though Lola's brow flexed into something thoughtful but not disapproving. He took a while to round his way back to the point, back to the tale, but Lola listened and was patient. She had nowhere to go, and the deer would only become better the longer they allowed it to hang. If this warm weather kept up for long she'd have to take it down soon, for a cool dry place was better than baking in a shed drenched in sun. That wouldn't become a concern for another few hours, though, so for now she simply rested.
He assures her that it'll all work out, even after he and she were both dead and gone it would be fine. She chewed on this for a moment, and found herself gently and thoughtlessly nodding in reflexive agreement or consent of some sort while she pondered.
When she spoke, she did so in an almost plodding way, for she contemplated the words even as they were voiced.
"I can't say for sure everything will work out. I can't go Across. Can't see the Red Star myself-- can't judge if it really is a sign, or if that's just superstitious bullshit." A pause, and a new and different beginning followed close behind.
"I'm not one to say that we're losing the war either. Not really. Think of it like countries. In Europe. The numbers of wars that England and France and Germany and Spain and god so many fuckin' others have won and lost against each other-- it's not been the end for any of them. They adjust. They adapt. They fuckin' learn and they make alliances and they change their tactics and they keep on."
There's a passion to her voice, that of one born for and dedicated to War. He could see it easily, were she born true she would have been a goddamn general, and this would be the way she sounded when she presented a plan to a Sept, hair wild and fire in her eyes. Instead of that, though, she was a woman, no Rage in her breast but a knowledge and instinct in her bones none the less.
"You figured it out, though. Provided we keep diligence and we don't fuck it all up, it'll work out alright."
No comments:
Post a Comment