Clare (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
demisemidemon) wrote2012-08-01 12:36 am
demisemidemon) wrote2012-08-01 12:36 am
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In this part of the world, there are a few main types of habitat you'll see. Mostly, it's forest: dense, ancient, populated only by animals and bandits. Clare likes the forest; it's quiet, and she has good memories there. There are mountains, too, high bald peaks where the trees give way to scrubby growth and humped granite; their sides are covered with trees and moss and steep perilous cliffs.
Down in the valleys, there are sometimes lakes. They're just as quiet, just as lonely, just as wild; it's only the plants that are different. And there aren't so many bandits around lakes. Fewer places to hide. Fewer merchants, too; the roads get boggy.
And then there are the dead spots. Clare wonders why, occasionally, but she never bothers to think about it for long. It's just the way the world works. Might as well wonder why this tree grows here or that one there. The dead areas cover acres and acres, sometimes miles at a stretch. In the mountains, they're barren slopes and ridges of tumbled rock. In the flatter lands, they're more often great bowls of sand. Either way, there's little water and even less life there.
And there are the human villages, of course, with their walls and their fields. But those are small and isolated, precious and fragile. It's not the same thing.
Clare is crossing one of the sandy wastes. Human travelers almost never do, but it's easy for one of the organization's warriors. They don't need much food or water, and they don't overheat. All she has to do is keep walking, and she'll reach the far edge long before she tires.
Sometimes it's easy to see why humans call them after their swords. A claymore is a weapon, unbreakable and untiring. A Claymore is too, to human eyes. They don't see the weak points; they wouldn't survive anything that would tire a warrior.
The waste she's crossing is a little lonely, but so is most of Clare's life. She doesn't mind. And this is the straightest path to her destination.
She crests a dune, and pauses for an instant in surprise. There's a dark lump below her -- a human, dead or unconscious. She'd thought the circling vultures were after a lizard or perhaps a bird, but no, they must be watching this fellow.
Clare turns downhill.
When she reaches the body, she drops to one knee. Clare isn't very good at caring for human hurts, but she can at least assess if the person's beyond help. She rolls him over, and tugs down the scarves swathing most of his face to check if he's breathing.
To her shock -- and Clare's rarely truly shocked -- what she realizes first is that she recognizes this face. It's the boy from Narasen. Raki.
He's not dead. But he's unconscious, and she thinks maybe he's close.
Clare spends a moment staring down at Raki's sunburned, slack face. She left him safe.
He called her big sister. He wanted to know her name.
He's just a boy, young and earnest and alone in the world, and he'll never be a warrior who can avenge himself. And here he is, facedown and dying in the dead sands, with only his own footprints weaving behind him.
Clare doesn't know what she's feeling.
She pushes the scarves back across his face. Then she gathers him up into her arms, and starts walking again.
She can't take care of him. But a human town can.
She leaves Raki at the first inn she comes to. It's the only inn there is; Egon, like most villages, is too small for much choice. But the innkeeper seems honest. Clare pays him for Raki's board and care, and for food once he wakes.
She overpays, but that's fine. It'll make the innkeeper want to treat Raki well. And Clare has no use for money.
She makes the arrangements, and then she leaves. She has a job to finish.
Down in the valleys, there are sometimes lakes. They're just as quiet, just as lonely, just as wild; it's only the plants that are different. And there aren't so many bandits around lakes. Fewer places to hide. Fewer merchants, too; the roads get boggy.
And then there are the dead spots. Clare wonders why, occasionally, but she never bothers to think about it for long. It's just the way the world works. Might as well wonder why this tree grows here or that one there. The dead areas cover acres and acres, sometimes miles at a stretch. In the mountains, they're barren slopes and ridges of tumbled rock. In the flatter lands, they're more often great bowls of sand. Either way, there's little water and even less life there.
And there are the human villages, of course, with their walls and their fields. But those are small and isolated, precious and fragile. It's not the same thing.
Clare is crossing one of the sandy wastes. Human travelers almost never do, but it's easy for one of the organization's warriors. They don't need much food or water, and they don't overheat. All she has to do is keep walking, and she'll reach the far edge long before she tires.
Sometimes it's easy to see why humans call them after their swords. A claymore is a weapon, unbreakable and untiring. A Claymore is too, to human eyes. They don't see the weak points; they wouldn't survive anything that would tire a warrior.
The waste she's crossing is a little lonely, but so is most of Clare's life. She doesn't mind. And this is the straightest path to her destination.
She crests a dune, and pauses for an instant in surprise. There's a dark lump below her -- a human, dead or unconscious. She'd thought the circling vultures were after a lizard or perhaps a bird, but no, they must be watching this fellow.
Clare turns downhill.
When she reaches the body, she drops to one knee. Clare isn't very good at caring for human hurts, but she can at least assess if the person's beyond help. She rolls him over, and tugs down the scarves swathing most of his face to check if he's breathing.
To her shock -- and Clare's rarely truly shocked -- what she realizes first is that she recognizes this face. It's the boy from Narasen. Raki.
He's not dead. But he's unconscious, and she thinks maybe he's close.
Clare spends a moment staring down at Raki's sunburned, slack face. She left him safe.
He called her big sister. He wanted to know her name.
He's just a boy, young and earnest and alone in the world, and he'll never be a warrior who can avenge himself. And here he is, facedown and dying in the dead sands, with only his own footprints weaving behind him.
Clare doesn't know what she's feeling.
She pushes the scarves back across his face. Then she gathers him up into her arms, and starts walking again.
She can't take care of him. But a human town can.
She leaves Raki at the first inn she comes to. It's the only inn there is; Egon, like most villages, is too small for much choice. But the innkeeper seems honest. Clare pays him for Raki's board and care, and for food once he wakes.
She overpays, but that's fine. It'll make the innkeeper want to treat Raki well. And Clare has no use for money.
She makes the arrangements, and then she leaves. She has a job to finish.