(no subject)

[white_flowers]

She walks silently away from them all as the last light fades from the sky.

(This one has her life and her potential. What do you have now, White Rider?)

She knows the answer, and it is bitter as ash on her tongue.

She has nothing. Not even her oldest name.

Comments

[theravenboy]

Bran has a list in his head of things the White Rider has done. It is not short.

At the top of the list, and again at the bottom, Bran thinks of Guinevere, alone with an infant in Owen Davies' cottage when Caradog Prichard came to the door. Once he dreamed of her with her black hair blown in knots and her gown falling off of her shoulder.

Guinevere has gone on to the silver-circled castle at the back of the North Wind. She does not need Bran to avenge her now.

Bran wraps his right hand around Caliburn's hilt. His palm burns. He lets go of the sword.

"No."

[white_flowers]

"A pity, that."

Each soft word is bitterly clear.

She turns from him once more, evidently meaning to start away again.

[theravenboy]

"I cannot say I feel sorry for you," Bran says to her back.

[white_flowers]

"I would not expect you to feel anything for me," she snaps back at him, whirling to face him once more. "Clear enough you made it, long ago."

"And I do not want your pity."

[theravenboy]

Coldly, "Good."

Bran turns away, walking shakily towards the bar. The fact that he dares have his back to her speaks of his disdain for the woman who was once the White Rider.

[white_flowers]

There is no sound from behind him.

She watches in silence as he leaves, his white hair gleaming in the twilight as brightly as the hilt of the sword at his side.

Only after the door of the bar shuts behind him does she turn away again, heading into the deepening shadows of the forest.