white_flowers | (no subject)

(no subject)

Her plans are slowly being laid in place as a particular day draws nearer, and it is to that end that she is walking through the edge of the woods this early evening.

Her white cloak will stand out against the trees, she knows; therefore, as she starts into the forest, it is the green kirtle that she wears, and the form of Anghared of Northgalis.

Besides, passing so may buy her peace and time both, given certain recent events.

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And oh, the difference between this plaintive explanation and the plea that Blodwen Rowlands had given to John during the Dark's attempt to have Bran Davies cast out of his place in Time-- the difference here is that Rilian believes Anghared, that he believes her.

She is almost trembling as he embraces her, offering support and comfort, and then a shiver passes through her. Anghared puts her arms around him and buries her face in his shoulder with a small sob.

He cannot see the unnatural inhuman brightness to her cold ice-blue gaze, not this way, but the few tears that fall are warm and seem real enough.

(when we live in your world... we feel and see and hear as you do)

She has had many, many years of existing in mortal form, after all, and when she wishes it to be, the semblance is very nearly perfect.

(only there are certain perceptions in us that are not in you - and these in the last resort have dominion over the others)

Very nearly perfect, indeed.

"Oh, my lady," he says quietly, stroking her hair as though comforting a child woken from a nightmare. "I am sorry, so very sorry it has been this way for you."

She remains still in his arms for just a moment longer, and then draws back as though ashamed of some weakness.

Anghared flushes slightly as she looks up at him, her blue eyes still wet with tears.

"What you must think of me--"

"I don't think badly of you for grieving," he says gently. "I understand it, Anghared, better than you know."

"Because-- because of the (witch) enchantment, that you spoke of?"

"Because of that, aye, because I know what it is to want power, to be afraid and to be willing to do nearly anything to stop that fear." He sighs. "I still wish it could be otherwise, what has passed between you and my kinsfolk, but I do not hate you, Anghared."

"They do."

Softly said, and without a hint of doubt.

"For what I am, they hate and despise me, Rilian. You know it as well as I."

"I know."

His voice is soft, and sorrowful.

"Is there any way to change, Anghared? Any way I can help you to change?"

"Too late, it is," she whispers. "And no second chances here, I do not care what others say -- from the moment I passed through the door, it was made clear to me that it would not be allowed, not for me."

She sighs, and moves as if to step back from him.

"I-- I will leave you -- your father would not want you speaking with me--"

His hands tighten on her arms, not enough to hurt or to constrain her if she wants to get away, but enough to say he does not want her to leave.

"Let me be your second chance. Please, Anghared, I -- I know there is good in you. Let me help you find it again. We can show them that they were wrong."

She freezes, like some startled wild creature, and her gaze is wondering as she searches his face.

"You mean it," she says, oh, so softly. "Why, you truly mean that, I do believe."

Deep within and hidden, the White Rider makes a decision. This young king may mean her well, may believe in her-- but his father does not, and will never be convinced.

Caspian will have to be dealt with, and likely his lady Lucy as well.

Anghared smiles, a trembling, sweetly hopeful smile.

"I will trust you again, Rilian."

"I truly mean it, my lady."

He smiles gently, and offers her his hand.

"Walk with me a while, Anghared."

And for a while, the forest sounds are joined by quiet, somber voices.

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