Solitary Resolve

Solitary Resolve

Postby Selestia » Sat Apr 04, 2015 7:17 am

Much Madness is divinest Sense -
To a discerning Eye -
Much Sense - the starkest Madness -
’Tis the Majority
In this, as all, prevail -
Assent - and you are sane -
Demur - you’re straightway dangerous -
And handled with a Chain -



Three weeks.

Three weeks ago, the missive—the letter—had been sent. The Jerno girl had told her to mail the letter following the painful night of fitful sleep, and she had known what she had meant. And so she had mailed it, because wake and other both said to. Three weeks ago.

You're a murderer's accomplice. A monster. Like -- like you never wanted to be.

Three very long, very tense weeks.

I'll protect her from you.

Sweat makes the tunic stick to her thin back as she tugs and pulls and groans, the calloused fingers growing blisters, splinters digging deep in the softer parts of her hands. Mekarie would not cut down trees or tear things asunder; that was part of the bargain with the Shepard, that she would do no harm in the Woods. A lack of tools and proper planning on her part—for what mad person plans more than moments ahead of whimsy?—has left her with two horses and no shelter. Part of her wishes to relent and go for her home, the little cave in the long system of tunnels, but the rest of her denies it. Having the Shepard so near would be a wondrous welcome, but her friend was not in the fittest of states to having the madwoman larking about. She had asked for privacy as the Spring has overwhelmed the land, and Mekarie can do nothing but respect that wish.

I'll make you lie still if -- if you don't answer me! I'll cut your throat, you bitch, you slave--

“A robin red-breast in a cage puts all of heaven in a rage,” she sings softly to herself. Her head cranes until she is looking upward, squinting at the light between the trees, and stops to point upward with a rueful wag of finger. “You’re not-you’re not going to catch it-catch it tonight,” she admonishes, then returns to her work, hair falling about her face, loose from the knot she had put it in when she had first began. She will not have help in this endeavor; no one would enter the Woods, and those she had counted amongst vinr—friends—have turned against her with violence and vicious tongues.

So here she is, the tiny madwoman pulling on a large, fallen branch, brought from the might oak by winter storms, digging her thin shoes into the dead leaves of the underbrush as she pulls and strains. She is no builder, no thatcher, but she has an idea of what she should do, could do.

Would do.

You all will make me choke on promises.

“I am-I am finding myself.” The words are a surprise to her, and she stops to ponder this thought a moment, letting the idea, the words swirl in her mind as she thinks it through. Why? Why now? Why would she remember after this long--

The two mares were tethered, and that was her first priority, to have them a place to be let loose; to keep them leashed to a low branch beneath the shade of a tree was almost as cruel as leaving them locked in tiny stalls day in and day out. Early morning had seen her awake, having simply drawn her arms beneath her and slept aback the mare like a monkey on a dog’s back, but the sleep had been short and dreamless, and for that she would be grateful. Just blissful, black sleep. And in that early, dead morning, she had started this fruitless project.

Y-...You ever show your face to me without an answer, slave, rat'vak, and -- and I'll carve you--

If she had had foresight she would have gotten rope and a blade. Among other things, and had the horses help her with the heavy pulling, but no. Not only did she lack that foresight, the madwoman would not risk the tiny foals growing in their bellies.

You have been told. She is
safe.

Her grip slips, the tip of a protruding knob that once was a smaller branch sliding over the palm of her hand as she jerks, and breath sucks in through her teeth as she drops to the forest floor without preamble to hold the offended hand with the other, thumb pressing into the bone just above her wrist where it met the palm. Blood oozed from around the fair-sized splinter, and Mekarie squeezes the offending spot gently, watching the small pool form, then the long fingers dig and pluck out the shard of wood and cast it aside. More blood, more glimmer of ruby under the light filtering through new leaves, and she shoves her hand into the soft soil beneath the leaves, rubbing it soundly. Fresh soil, fresh earth; it would stop the bleeding, pack it, and she was on her feet again, grabbing the large branch with renewed determination.

But not here and not with you.
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Selestia
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