by Tolleson » Sun Oct 26, 2014 7:49 pm
Thunder rolled, summoned by Elliot and allowed by Genny and perhaps the Fae too. But the bells… No.
They were something different, their sweet tinkling song was not choice. It was compulsory, embedded far below the careful barrier she had built. Elliot had asked for her willingness, he sought out the root of her troubles, he meant to find her heart. And so she lay bare, her defense as dissolved as the projection of her body. Zilliah’s hand upon the ground that had become her, he might feel the thin but powerful membrane slip away – it was protection for her, protection for them and a sign of her trust. His gesture was kind, but there is not much that can settle the unease of opening the passages of her mind. Surely they could enter now, the passage as clear as a wide road on a bright day, the door open, freely, but how would they find their way?
They rode. They flew. They shot like an arrow through her, tearing past blood and death, Niall, Rhaena, her mother, her father, retrospective moments of guilt and self-pity, isolation, anger, fears and tears, some perhaps distractingly similar to the boy’s plight. There was Orvere, the beach, the battle, the difficult road to Myrken and the many terrifying nights since. Some memories carried more weight, they moved slower and had tendrils like hands that reached out. They grasped for remembering, they fought to hold the attentions of her mind, or in this case, of those that traveled through it. These are perils as they pass by. But even these are fleeting wisps whipping by with incredible speed. There were moments of brightness that reached out, mismatched in time with strange combinations of people and places, half remembered things, embellished stories, and the same several faces and voices of exact pinpoints, like magnets around major events. And then there are some memories of her. Not from her, but of her; impossible perspectives through the eyes of others and conflicting vantage points with muddled emotions. These are the heaviest, the slowest to pass, the most dense for all the information and memory they carried, the weight of the load inflicts it’s own sort of gravity. The heaviest yet appears before the riders, a nearly still image from the perspective of the crowd, of Genny upon the stage, defending a weak and weary Glenn. The outrage of several dozen minds, the mental and vocal scolding a muted cacophony, a drone of ambient noise.
“I forgive you,” Genny’s voice whispered loud enough to overcome them, the sound of the little bell no longer small. It was loud and bright, it was the lightning itself. But after striking the blinding light did not dissipate.
‘You're just a scared little farm-girl, Agnieszka. I forgive you.’
And then... do you remember yourself? You are Genny.
You are sitting on a comfortable couch, in a bright parlor. Your eyes are closed but you can still smell the tea on the table before you, feel the fabric under your fingers as your hands rest on your thighs. You feel the soft touch of a woman’s hand as it grazes your ear and you feel a gentle tug, you know she is braiding your hair.
Tiny bells chime so cheerfully, they are light and sweet, tangible to the tongue like sweet, little cakes and hot chocolate. You taste the sugar on your lips from the cake as she slips into you. Her gentleness is a lover’s kiss, and with ease she shared with you, her memories flick though your mind. But these are not still images or meaningless frames, you feel her heart and her happiness in the memories, you see the light as if you were there, you feel the fabric, smell the air. You love her. You love Glenn. It is not just a simple passing of words from one mind to another; in the sand of your mind she has left footprints. The passage through which she came is hers alone, and along it are the rooms filled with the memories she has shared. She is a part of you, a piece living within you; her life is now a part of yours.
And she is not the only one.