Survivors write history

[walkonair]

So this is Cormyr.

She stands at the gates, surveying the propsect before her. It hasn’t been a deliberate choice to come. But the silent slenderness of her purse dangling at her side reproachfully reminds her why she’s stopped.

Deliberately, she takes her first step forward. Surely she can use her skills here. And in doing so, hone and gain more.

If not, she can always move on.

And when she jumps out the next window? She’ll make sure the landing is better.

[walkonair]

“Could you try on some clothes for me?”

Take a risk, take a step, move forward. New land, new opportunities. But only if you try and reach for them.

A curtain, a drunk, a joke she’s not a part of. A fist flies past her face, and suddenly she is not standing alone.

Take a risk, take a step, move forward.

Her circle gets wider.

[walkonair]

Dear Diary, today I nearly got eaten by a bear.

There’s nobody to write to about her explorations, the places she’d gone to, the things that she’s done. All the important people are here. Those that are not would have no interest.

But writing is a compulsion: she starts to keep lists.

Some short, some long, some silly, some terribly terribly not. Her hand is neat – copying stories will train you well – except for two. The most important, to hold close and protect. These are written in a messy hand, hard to decipher.

And later, in a sunny garden when one is playfully stolen and ransomed back, it is still hers to keep.

[walkonair]

You only had to ask me. I would have told you.

It takes her almost a tenday to find out what the word means. Patiently, restlessly, she enquires and asks. She gets many answers to the question, but only one is right.

“Thank you very much. But I don’t think the context is quite correct.”

In the end, it is ridiculously easy to find out, and if she had begun there, it would have cut off her journey at the start.

But she doesn’t regret a moment; each is a treasure in memory. It’s right she should at least quest for a precious gift she hasn’t earned.

She’ll never take any of it for granted. Nights of conversation under the stars or by a fire in an inn. She hopes she can live up to the name that has been gifted.

Needed, wanted, she grabs with both hands – hold tight but do not smother – and offers back unconditionally. She’ll never take this for granted.

More words are learned in time. But the first is the most precious.

“Hante lle. For teaching me.” “Lle creoso.”

[walkonair]

S’alright lass. But next time, maybe you’ll listen to-

She knows why he came, despite the cold, and the bears, and the fact they ultimately get lost. He came because of her, to temper her impossible belief and boundless enthusiasm, to-

And now he’s lying in the snow. Dead.

I’ll bring you back. I’ll go as fast as I can, and be right back. I promise.

So she runs, ducking branches, skidding down slopes, dodging – Oops, orc! – and prays the others will be alright until she returns.

The return is another dash across the snow – Bother, more orcs! – and then she’s back, gasping for air. He’s still there, pale and white, and now a new friend lies next to him, her hair a splash of gold against white snow.

She sings from sheet music. They *all* run.

And later in the inn, there is neither reproach nor blame. She begs forgiveness anyway, and promises to use her brains next time. The grin and lass she gets back has never been so sweet.

But she’ll never forgive herself if anything happens to him again because he was protecting her.

Don't you know? You’ve always been a hero to me.

[walkonair]

Well, that explains a lot.

She meets them at opposite ends of the same place, though in fact there are three entrances all told. Going up, going down, balance in the middle. Much later, she laughs in sheer joy at the symbolism. And the centre of pure mischievous delight is an unexpected grace-note on an interwoven tapestry of colours.

Red and yellow and pink and green, purple and orange and blue…

Cool grace and elegance on the one side, warm exuberance and enthusiasm on the other. Opposite ends of a spectrum she suspects she fits closer to the middle of.

It's an interesting rock!

Both symbolise things she would like to be, would like to know. Both accept her for who she is, and she offers that back with open smiles. And rejoices in two new friends and her widening circle.

I can sing a rainbow….

When the darkness of a crypt illuminates, she finds no differences. In the end, there is only one question that remains:

How do I count this anyway?


*"I Can Sing a Rainbow" written by Arthur Hamilton.

[walkonair]

Couldn’t I run and look at the same time?

She smacks head-on into him the first time. They’re going in opposite directions, one travelling from a relaxed evening, and the other retracing steps to rescue the fallen. In the end, it’s all a moot point, but introductions are made all the same.

The second time there is an opportunity for conversation, which veers into unexpectedly fascinating paths. In fact, paths are a recurring theme she finds.

For all the danger and all the sheer trudging you must have done, didn't you find it exhilarating as well?

An inn, some maps, and a man with a head. Cormyr has been full of oddities and ironies since she arrived, but this carries it to a new level. By the end of the day, she has the dubious distinction of a starring role in the daftest conversation she has ever heard.

I am guessing . . . he would pick . . . human or horse

Her actions are understood; so is she. With a bright smile and hopeful thought, she reaches. And her circle completes.

Simple, really.