The Sorceress and the Rain
The rain beat against the roof of the inn. It was not the gentle pitter-patter of a sun shower, but the roaring of a vengeful storm. Wind lashed the exterior of the small building while the rain beat the windows. The the darkness outside was complete, the thick clouds blacking out even the faintest of lights from above. The occasional brilliant flash of lightning lit the room, far more effective than the few lanterns placed around the room, but brief. The flames in the lanterns burned meekly and their flickering light produced shadows that danced along the floor, though the few inhabitants of the inn were still as statues. All in all, the room housed five people. There was the innkeeper, an older woman who stood behind the bar looking worriedly out the window. The shook her head the whole time, serving up an ale when beckoned by one of those sitting at the bar. Three individuals were perched on the old wooden stools, a young couple bundled in traveling cloaks, smiling at each other with shining eyes as the storm continued to rage outside, and a man clearly trying to drown himself in his ale. He stared down into his mug, sickened by the pair beside him. Any other day, he may have smiled at them. He may have taken delight in observing their bliss. He suspected that the woman was with child. Her lover's hand was conspicuously placed on her belly, which bulged tellingly in spite of her small frame. Any other day he may have congratulated the couple, perhaps spared a coin or two for them, but not that night. The storm outside seemed to the man a pale reflection of the storm that brewed within himself.
The fifth sat apart. Sitting by the window, staring into the rain with an envious eye, was a figure clad in shimmering robes of dark blue. She had white-blond curls that stopped just shy of her hips, and she had not moved in hours. She had entered the inn before the storm began, and so she was warm and dry while the downtrodden man at the bar suffered, soaking wet and shivering. He thought of another curly-haired woman who was warm and dry, which was enough to drive him away from the happy couple. He clutched his mug in both his hands as he turned away. The lovers took no notice. They were far too occupied in the act of staring into each others eyes. Not knowing where else to go, the man brought his mug to the small table by the window and sat beside the blond. He kept his head down. He didn't want the woman to think he was looking for a conversation. From what he could tell, however, the woman did not acknowledge his presence. That was alright with him.
He lifted his head after a moment, looking out the window as she was to observe the tempest. He could perceive dark shapes in the distance that he knew were trees bending in the wind. The shapes whipped back and forth madly, being pushed hard one way for a moment, righting themselves for an instant, then once again being forced down by the gusts. He began to worry that the trees might snap. Lightning flashed, startling him, and leaving an afterimage in his eyes long after it had left. He could barely see the rain fall in the darkness, though it was impossible not to know it was there. The man watched the trees, allowing a few minutes to pass without event. No one in the inn spoke. Occasionally the innkeeper would cough, or the pregnant woman would giggle. The woman next to him didn't utter a sound, and neither did she move a muscle. He couldn't even hear her breathing over the din of the driving downpour. Though he was initially grateful for the woman's silence, it began to bother him. His curiosity got the better of him before long, and finally he glanced at her.
She did not react. He assumed that meant she didn't notice him looking. Her eyes remained fixed on the rain. They were bright blue, unnaturally so. They were the same shade of blue, he observed, as lightning. Slightly disturbed by the unsettling color of her eyes, the man swiftly averted his gaze. He had seen enough of his face to know that she was beautiful. She had fair skin, completely flawless. Good bone structure, he'd noted. High cheekbones. The gentle curve of her jawline came to a dainty pointed chin. He thought he had caught a glimpse of elven ears beneath her curls, but he couldn't be sure. A lovely face, no doubt. But her eyes.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her turn to face him. He bowed his head to stare down at his ale once again, silently denying having looked at her. Though he couldn't see her, he was sure he felt those eyes burning his flesh. He shivered, and told himself it was from the cold. Seconds felt like minutes. It wasn't possible for her to still be staring, was it? He took a breath and slowly turned his gaze toward her. She was staring right into his eyes.
He looked away quickly, grateful that he had managed not to jump from how badly she had startled him. He coughed. He adjusted his collar. He took a long drink from his mug. He coughed again. This woman was deeply unsettling. He dared to look again, and there she was still, electric blue eyes wide and on him, and a smile that didn't reach her eyes. He recognized it instantly as a fake smile, one that he had seen so often from his wife. Yet the smile from the blond seemed far more controlled than those he was accustomed to. It was measured, practiced. That along with her wide eyes created a picture of madness that chilled him far more than his wet clothes. Once more he turned away, eyes on the storm. "Gloomy weather," he mumbled quietly, wishing that the woman would just go away.
"Why?" The woman had a high, cheerful voice that was not unpleasant, but did nothing to calm the man.
He sighed, glaring at the trees as they flailed in the wind. "Why what?" He sounded impatient, hoping she would take a hint. He wanted her gone. He wanted the woman with eyes of lightning and curls like his wife's to get swept in the storm and go far, far away. Somewhere he would never have to see her again. His wife had probably wished the same fate on him when she kicked him out.
The woman laughed softly at his lack of understanding. "Why is the weather gloomy?"
The man looked at her again, barely believing his ears. Incredulously, he gestured to the window and the dramatic view of the storm. "It's raining," he answered simply, annoyance clear in his tone.
She only laughed again. "And what's so sad about rain?" At last, she turned away and focused on the scene outside. Lightning lit up the sky again, curling over the trees but never touching the ground.
He narrowed his eyes at the woman. He couldn't begin to grasp the point to all of her questions. Her questions, they were so stupid, so obvious...and yet he struggled for an answer. He, too, looked back out at the rain. He studied it, sensing her mocking smile as the seconds ticked by. The answer was so plain that it was difficult to see. The fault of her, not his perception, he told himself to protect his pride.
"It's the dark," he finally said. "The gloom, clearly."
The woman hummed at his response, a little "Mmm-hmmm" as if she was considering his answer. She tapped the window. "But nights are dark, too. Do you find all nights to be gloomy-as-in-sad, not just gloomy-as-in-dark?" She didn't turn, but instead gave the man a sideways glance and a smirk.
Not all his nights were sad. Some of them had been filled with wonder; star-gazing in his boyhood. Some had been adventurous; the antics of his teenaged years. Some had been perfect...He recalled nights spent with his wife back when their love was new. The scent of her hair, the soft caress of her skin against his, the hushed sounds of her excited breaths. He shook his head.
The woman's hand fell, tapping the table. She beat a definite rhythm, one that was familiar to the man, though he could not name it. "So what is it, then? What is it about rain?" Thunder rumbled, shaking the walls of the inn. The beat she was tapping did not falter. The man focused. He forced himself to see the nearly invisible raindrops. Millions of them, all dropping to the earth together, flooding the streams and fields. He looked up the the clouds. It was a long way for the water to fall. All the raindrops plummeting down from the heavens. He nodded. As he spoke again, he lowered his voice. "It's the fall," he said, pronouncing the words slowly. "Rain falls out of grace. It falls from the heavens."
"Ah..." She said, nodding. A moment of silence passed, then she hummed again. The man felt sure he had discovered the tragedy. There was nothing more devastating than a fall. Falling out of trust. Falling out of love. Sailing down only to crash hard to the ground. Indeed, he thought, there could be nothing sadder. He watched the woman shake her head. "No," she said simply, "not quite."
The man shut his eyes. "Excuse me?" He put his hand on the table, producing a sound that was a bit louder than her tapping. Her finger stopped, floating above the table, frozen. She turned to him and cocked her head to the side, blinking in confusion like a dog would do.
She laughed. "It's okay that the rain falls," she chirped optimistically. "When the sun comes out, the rain rises. So," she grinned, "it's okay in the end, you see?"
The man could not help but notice once more the falseness of he expressions. Her positive attitude was forced, faked from the tone of her voice to the disarming, innocent smile. He was reminded of why he was so disturbed by her in the first place. Her eyes were again aimed in his direction. He thought about her words, and in spite of the lies her expression told, he found that he words rang true. Rain fell. Yet the flooded streams and the puddles on the ground, they would warm and disappear. The water would be brought back to the clouds. "Redemption," he mumbled to himself.
The blond chimed in softly, "Forgiveness," and she sighed. Her lightning-colored eyes left him, going back to the window just as lightning struck somewhere beyond the trees. The color lit up her face for a moment, and reflected in her eyes. In that instant, the man swore he saw her smile fall. In the blink of an eye it returned, just as if it had never left. "No, the rain is happy," she affirmed. "It always gets forgiven."
The man took a drink from his mug as he contemplated it. "Storms aren't all that gloomy after all, are they?"
She stood, still staring into the night. "Oh, they are," she said. "It's the lightning that's sad," she crossed behind him and by the time the man lifted his head to look at her, she was walking out the door. He stared for a moment, even considered going after her, but ultimately decided against it. He swallowed the last of his ale. Perhaps he would go home after the storm calmed. He gazed out the window. It seemed that the storm was beginning to pass. Out in the field, he saw what appeared to be a redheaded woman in bright green robes, out walking in the rain. As strange as the sight was, stranger still was that, as he looked closer, he saw that her robes and hair were not disturbed by the wind. He watched her vanish into the trees. He caught his last glimpse of her by the flash of a lightning strike.
