Rejam
Petra stands on the crest of a little hill, her back to the estate whose fences she had hopped, and she holds a coarse hand against her forehead, shielding her eyes against the sun. She is watching her dozen-or-so goats, brown-and-white spotted, grazing the neglected hillside that slopes toward the wood under the watchful eye of an enormously ugly but competent-looking freckled dog. There is a coil of rope in her hand, and a pack slung over her back, and a stick lying on the ground nearby that might be for walking and might be for prodding unruly livestock.
It is a thoroughly beautiful day. The hillside is impossibly bucolic, the breeze whipping ragged skirts around Petra’s bare brown legs and making a further mess of her shock of loose hair. Clouds scuttle picturesquely over the shepherd—or, well, goatherd—and the resulting scene would delight any painter who stumbled on it, obligated though he may be to erase the scabs and scars and mud from the little girl’s limbs and clothes.
The one thing that would require no retouching, however—that might possibly elude the imaginary painter’s talents altogether, in fact—is the creature at the girl’s side. Elegant, pale, clean; the doe stands much taller than the little girl, and her milk-white body seems nearly spectral, even when she lowers her head to tear at a mouthful of grass. Every line of the deer’s body is relaxed, and Petra’s rigid attentiveness is directed solely at her little herd, which is perhaps why the approach goes unnoticed.
It is a thoroughly beautiful day. The hillside is impossibly bucolic, the breeze whipping ragged skirts around Petra’s bare brown legs and making a further mess of her shock of loose hair. Clouds scuttle picturesquely over the shepherd—or, well, goatherd—and the resulting scene would delight any painter who stumbled on it, obligated though he may be to erase the scabs and scars and mud from the little girl’s limbs and clothes.
The one thing that would require no retouching, however—that might possibly elude the imaginary painter’s talents altogether, in fact—is the creature at the girl’s side. Elegant, pale, clean; the doe stands much taller than the little girl, and her milk-white body seems nearly spectral, even when she lowers her head to tear at a mouthful of grass. Every line of the deer’s body is relaxed, and Petra’s rigid attentiveness is directed solely at her little herd, which is perhaps why the approach goes unnoticed.
and be blue
It's understandable why the child would have no hesitation about leaping the fence and taking over the edge of the Blair estates; though his groundskeeper works hard, he is only one man, and with his master frequently absent, it is too much work for one man to handle on his own. So. The fence has halfway fallen down, in places. Out of the view of the building itself, the grass has grown up high and wild, the walking paths lined with the bobbing yellow faces of weeds, and animals have dug up what once were likely charming flower patches.
Paul himself almost never ventures out this far, and when he does, he is usually distracted by the niggling sensation of his growing bond with his Guardian, with the brief bursts of sound or color or taste that come creeping across. Today he pauses at the base of the hill, the elegant sweep of his jacket whipping around him, wind tousling his hair back off of his cheeks, and he actually takes in the wreck that was his childhood home: the darkened windows, the battered grounds, and the glimmering light of his village in the distance.
He is a terrible estate manager, and he takes a moment to mourn this fact. Just a moment. Then he's moving on; up the hill, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, the now-steadier yearling trotting along behind him with an angry flash in his eyes. Samael has never found anything half so frustrating as his flighty Chosen.
"Ho, girl." His voice carries up the hill, fingers smoothing primly down the front of his shirt, and as he crests the rise he draws up short to just stare at the goats.
Paul himself almost never ventures out this far, and when he does, he is usually distracted by the niggling sensation of his growing bond with his Guardian, with the brief bursts of sound or color or taste that come creeping across. Today he pauses at the base of the hill, the elegant sweep of his jacket whipping around him, wind tousling his hair back off of his cheeks, and he actually takes in the wreck that was his childhood home: the darkened windows, the battered grounds, and the glimmering light of his village in the distance.
He is a terrible estate manager, and he takes a moment to mourn this fact. Just a moment. Then he's moving on; up the hill, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth, the now-steadier yearling trotting along behind him with an angry flash in his eyes. Samael has never found anything half so frustrating as his flighty Chosen.
"Ho, girl." His voice carries up the hill, fingers smoothing primly down the front of his shirt, and as he crests the rise he draws up short to just stare at the goats.
Rejam
The next few seconds are extraordinarily crowded. Petra yelps and jumps; the dog hears her and comes tearing up the hill barking like a hellhound, and Spokelse, in direct contradiction to the habits of any mundane deer, lifts her head above the high grass without bolting, her stance as alert as a fox’s, her ears upright. She does not even lift a hoof as if to flee. Her reaction, in fact, is far more self-possessed than that of the girl.
Petra grabs the rope around the dog’s neck as it darts past, restraining it with some difficulty and yelling over its furious barking. The goats have scattered over the hill but are already attempting to regroup.
“They told me in the village no one lived here but a lot of servants!” she shouts accusingly, as though Paul himself had offered the lie. “Goddammit boy, get down,” she adds, and it takes a moment to realize she is yelling at the dog and not at the stranger, since she’s barely glanced at him after an initial quick assessment of his clothes. She seems strangely unfrightened, and definitely does not seem to be prepared to offer obeisance or curtsy or even apology. Or perhaps not so strangely. Paul is wearing fancy clothes and Petra recognizes cityfolk when she sees them, whereas Petra’s bare feet are walking-roughened and likely fleet. It is stupid to be afraid of a monster that one can easily outrun.
“You scared the goats,” she finishes, and this time it impossible to know whether she is chiding the dog or the man.
Petra grabs the rope around the dog’s neck as it darts past, restraining it with some difficulty and yelling over its furious barking. The goats have scattered over the hill but are already attempting to regroup.
“They told me in the village no one lived here but a lot of servants!” she shouts accusingly, as though Paul himself had offered the lie. “Goddammit boy, get down,” she adds, and it takes a moment to realize she is yelling at the dog and not at the stranger, since she’s barely glanced at him after an initial quick assessment of his clothes. She seems strangely unfrightened, and definitely does not seem to be prepared to offer obeisance or curtsy or even apology. Or perhaps not so strangely. Paul is wearing fancy clothes and Petra recognizes cityfolk when she sees them, whereas Petra’s bare feet are walking-roughened and likely fleet. It is stupid to be afraid of a monster that one can easily outrun.
“You scared the goats,” she finishes, and this time it impossible to know whether she is chiding the dog or the man.
and be blue
"You have goats!" It comes out sharper than he intends, and is followed by a whuff from Samael behind him, the yearling swaying on his feet and then finding them, trying to strike a proud pose to match Spokelse. Given a few more months, his antlers properly grown out and the velvet all worn away, and he will be able to manage it. For now, he is too lean, too gawky, his limbs long and skinny, and it leaves him looking petulant instead.
In contrast, Paul is an exercise in elegance. Every aspect of his clothing is perfectly tailored to him, designed to make his waist slimmer and his shoulders broader, pants just the right length and only his shoes touched with mud. Even they still retain some of their shine, glimmering between the brown specks. He points at her goats, turning in place to frown down on her.
"You have goats on my property!" Indignant, now, as if he hasn't let the grounds become overgrown, as if the place isn't a wreck anyway. Given time to work it out, to think it over, he will likely blame the broken fence on her as well.
In contrast, Paul is an exercise in elegance. Every aspect of his clothing is perfectly tailored to him, designed to make his waist slimmer and his shoulders broader, pants just the right length and only his shoes touched with mud. Even they still retain some of their shine, glimmering between the brown specks. He points at her goats, turning in place to frown down on her.
"You have goats on my property!" Indignant, now, as if he hasn't let the grounds become overgrown, as if the place isn't a wreck anyway. Given time to work it out, to think it over, he will likely blame the broken fence on her as well.
Rejam
Petra, glancing back up, goes still and wide eyed and drops the dog’s collar, apparently without noticing. Luckily he has calmed considerably, and only sprints back down the hill to start heeling the goats back into a group.
She slowly straightens and then blurts, nearly-tearful: “You have a Guardian!” She reaches out to wrap an arm around Spokelse’s neck possessively, but her eyes are only for Samael. To hell with Paul’s fancy coat and shiny shoes, Petra knows what’s important. The doe exhales gently into Petra’s ear, calming, like a mother whispering secrets. And perhaps, in a strange way, she is doing just that. Petra relaxes. “What’s his name then?”
She slowly straightens and then blurts, nearly-tearful: “You have a Guardian!” She reaches out to wrap an arm around Spokelse’s neck possessively, but her eyes are only for Samael. To hell with Paul’s fancy coat and shiny shoes, Petra knows what’s important. The doe exhales gently into Petra’s ear, calming, like a mother whispering secrets. And perhaps, in a strange way, she is doing just that. Petra relaxes. “What’s his name then?”
and be blue
Oddly, instead of finding a like soul in Paul, Petra's enthusiasm seems to annoy him -- the look in her eyes might be excitement, might be glee, but he registers it as avarice and takes a step to the side as if he can obscure her view of the young Guardian behind him. It is, of course, a pointless endeavor; Samael, even young as he is, is a long-legged, lanky creature, and the whip of Paul's coat only halfway obscures him from view.
"I'm the one asking questions here, young lady!" The words, though, are stiff and awkward, because...well. He hasn't asked a question yet, has he? And thus the entire statement rings false. Paul huffs out a breath and gestures down toward her goats.
"Why aren't they on the other side of the fence?"
"I'm the one asking questions here, young lady!" The words, though, are stiff and awkward, because...well. He hasn't asked a question yet, has he? And thus the entire statement rings false. Paul huffs out a breath and gestures down toward her goats.
"Why aren't they on the other side of the fence?"
Rejam
Petra’s brow furrows. “That’s rude,” she snaps. “If you were at some fancy to-do and someone asked you to introduce a friend of yours I’d bet a coin you’d do it but apparently you’re only fancy when there’s enough rich people around to see. Anyway, they’re not on the other side of the fence ‘cause the grass is better here,” obviously, implies her tone, “and anyway if you gave half a s**t about where people put things you’d take better care of your fences. Yours are in such bad shape there’s no such thing as ‘other sides.’”
The girl reaches into her pocket, her eyes still lingering on Samael with a fresh and strange skepticism, and she withdraws the sort of tattered pouch an old man keeps his tobacco in. Or actually, the kind of tattered pouch Petra keeps hers in. It is the nature of goat herders to chew a bit when conversing, and Petra has picked up the habit in imitation. She tucks a fragrant bit into her cheek. Spokelse’s face somehow conveys disapproval.
The girl reaches into her pocket, her eyes still lingering on Samael with a fresh and strange skepticism, and she withdraws the sort of tattered pouch an old man keeps his tobacco in. Or actually, the kind of tattered pouch Petra keeps hers in. It is the nature of goat herders to chew a bit when conversing, and Petra has picked up the habit in imitation. She tucks a fragrant bit into her cheek. Spokelse’s face somehow conveys disapproval.
and be blue
Paul's face, in turn, shows a mix of horror, disgust, and embarrassment. He halfway turns to frown back at Samael and then squares his shoulders before looking back at Petra, most decisively standing his ground. Nervous fingers pluck at the front of his jacket, smooth everything into place, tidy the folds of his cravat as he stares down at the young girl.
"The state of my fence has little to do with whether or not you are trespassing on my grounds, young...lady." The word sticks in his craw, and Paul makes a face like it hurts to say it. "You have little footing to be making demands of me."
"The state of my fence has little to do with whether or not you are trespassing on my grounds, young...lady." The word sticks in his craw, and Paul makes a face like it hurts to say it. "You have little footing to be making demands of me."
Rejam
Petra levels him a look. Levels is an operative word here—no matter that she has to look up to do it, the gaze is unintimidated and square. In other situations, in other places, perhaps Petra would have the common sense to be demure and obedient, to gather up her goats with profuse apologies and make herself absent with speed and efficiency. She looks like the sort of person who knows how to watch her own back and when to bend her own will.
But her expression as she looks at Paul isn’t subordinate at all. Clearly, for some reason, Petra feels Paul is an equal. More than that—Petra feels Paul is an inferior in some sense. Spokelse shifts her weight, self-possessed but uneasy. How old is the doe? Four years? Five? She has the elegant but thickly-muscled and well-filled-out body of a creature that came into its own long ago and knows its own strength. There isn’t the faintest trace of the impatience and gawkiness that marks Samael’s habits. And more than that: when Petra makes a movement, or says a word, something about Spokelse echoes it. When the doe shifts her weight Petra’s arm is already on her way to her neck. The most finely-aware rider on the most highly-trained dressage horse doesn’t show such a profound attunement.
“I reckon,” she says after a long cool assessment, “you don’t have much footing to be making demands of me, neither.” Never mind that this hierarchy perhaps does not exist outside of Petra’s own mind. To her it is real. Petra is not often in a position of superiority, and is enjoying the novelty. She spits a brown wad of tobacco, politely aiming away from Paul. Or perhaps just away from Samael.
But her expression as she looks at Paul isn’t subordinate at all. Clearly, for some reason, Petra feels Paul is an equal. More than that—Petra feels Paul is an inferior in some sense. Spokelse shifts her weight, self-possessed but uneasy. How old is the doe? Four years? Five? She has the elegant but thickly-muscled and well-filled-out body of a creature that came into its own long ago and knows its own strength. There isn’t the faintest trace of the impatience and gawkiness that marks Samael’s habits. And more than that: when Petra makes a movement, or says a word, something about Spokelse echoes it. When the doe shifts her weight Petra’s arm is already on her way to her neck. The most finely-aware rider on the most highly-trained dressage horse doesn’t show such a profound attunement.
“I reckon,” she says after a long cool assessment, “you don’t have much footing to be making demands of me, neither.” Never mind that this hierarchy perhaps does not exist outside of Petra’s own mind. To her it is real. Petra is not often in a position of superiority, and is enjoying the novelty. She spits a brown wad of tobacco, politely aiming away from Paul. Or perhaps just away from Samael.
and be blue
The expression he returns is not level, nor is it even, nor is it, exactly, unintimidated. Paul's face flashes with shock, stunned more than anything else, and only Samael's slow fidget behind him will bely the anger that sits beneath the surface, simmering. His mouth opens and then closes, his shoulders slowly tensing beneath his jacket, hand curling and desperately wishing he had his cane in hand. It is not much of a man who'd take a weapon like that to a child, but right about now, Paul thinks that maybe someone should.
It takes him a moment to find the words, but his eyes finally harden as he takes a step back. "I am going to get my rifle, and if you are still here when I return, I will start shooting."
Another step, his chin twitching up. Petra doesn't have to know that he's a terrible shot. "If you're lucky, it'll just be the goats I shoot."
It takes him a moment to find the words, but his eyes finally harden as he takes a step back. "I am going to get my rifle, and if you are still here when I return, I will start shooting."
Another step, his chin twitching up. Petra doesn't have to know that he's a terrible shot. "If you're lucky, it'll just be the goats I shoot."
Rejam
Petra’s eyes abruptly well and glaze, disappointment contorting her face. A series of strange sharp whistles pierce the air, and judging from the sudden activity on the hillside, they are commands to the dog. The goats are herding up into a cluster, and the snapping dog is pushing them back towards the run-down section of fence they’d used to gain access.
“You don’t deserve him,” Petra spits tearfully at Paul. Spokelse is kneeling beside her without being asked, and Petra is climbing onto her back, clumsily. She doesn’t often ride her Guardian; she feels it is, somehow, inappropriate. But she is small and light and Spokelse clearly feels her weight is no burden, rising to her feet as Petra continues. “You don’t deserve him,” she repeats. “You have all this stuff and the people in town say you don’t even come out here but ******** a girl graze a couple goats on your goddamned overgrown grass. You’re a bad greedy man. A Chosen ought to be better. I bet you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn anyway,” she screams over her shoulder as Spokelse heads off the join the goats, as light on her feet as if she carried no rider at all.
“You don’t deserve him,” Petra spits tearfully at Paul. Spokelse is kneeling beside her without being asked, and Petra is climbing onto her back, clumsily. She doesn’t often ride her Guardian; she feels it is, somehow, inappropriate. But she is small and light and Spokelse clearly feels her weight is no burden, rising to her feet as Petra continues. “You don’t deserve him,” she repeats. “You have all this stuff and the people in town say you don’t even come out here but ******** a girl graze a couple goats on your goddamned overgrown grass. You’re a bad greedy man. A Chosen ought to be better. I bet you couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn anyway,” she screams over her shoulder as Spokelse heads off the join the goats, as light on her feet as if she carried no rider at all.
and be blue
Paul doesn't even make it all the way back to the house. Instead, he pauses about halfway, turning to watch the girl chase her goats off his land. He will, later, tell his groundskeeper to mend the hole in the fence, and he realizes he may have to hire on additional help. The place is rather a wreck, and guilt wells in him -- guilt and disappointment.
He attributes the second to Samael. He is used to disappointment from his Guardian. He turns and frowns at the deer.
"I wouldn't have, you know, if she'd been polite." He doesn't talk to Sam often. Other Chosen might, but Paul...he swallows and looks back up the hill. "...well. I might not have, so stop."
But the disappointment doesn't go away. Maybe it is, in fact, his own.
He attributes the second to Samael. He is used to disappointment from his Guardian. He turns and frowns at the deer.
"I wouldn't have, you know, if she'd been polite." He doesn't talk to Sam often. Other Chosen might, but Paul...he swallows and looks back up the hill. "...well. I might not have, so stop."
But the disappointment doesn't go away. Maybe it is, in fact, his own.
