Bri's Notebook

Bri's writing notebook

[bri-s-notebook]

Wait if Dareth wants to pursue peace then where does that leave his and Alithea's relationship which was supposed to be the driving force of the story? Because that takes away all the conflict.

Girl help this is becoming A Committee of Space and Politics.

[bri-s-notebook]

Robins and Wool

Marissa thought, as she sat at her spinning wheel. She had had lots of time to think, since that fateful day three years past, when she had snapped at a child at the well. She did not speak anymore, forbidden to do so by the mother who had once doted upon her.

So she sat and thought, and spun. She and her mother, furious and humiliated and proud, had refused her sister's offered charity. They had fled their home, traveling to another town and learning a trade to make their own way. It had been difficult, learning to do all the work that her stepsister had previously done, but Marissa had little choice. Now she was the one to knead the bread, and sweep the hearth, and fetch the water, and mend the clothes, and, when her chores were done, to sit and spin wool into yarn.

Her mother was the one who dealt with their customers, in the little room in the front of their shop. She did not enjoy it, and her mouth was always pursed in displeasure, but she spoke civilly no matter how much effort it took, for who knew which old crone or pert child might be a fairy in disguise?

A flutter of wings and a shadow at the window drew Marissa's attention. A robin sat upon the sill, fluffing its wings and surveying the room with a dark beady eye. Marissa could not speak to shoo it away, but she could, sometimes, if she were careful, make sounds in her throat if they were not recognizable words. She did so now, a scolding noise, and flapped her hand at the bird.

It did not startle and fly away, as she intended, but hopped sideways, tilting its head at her. Marissa stared back. It had been such a very long time since she had seen such a friendly face. What was it really hurting, anyway? Let it stay.

She bent for her distaff and spindle once more, resuming the steady treadling of her wheel. The wool fibers slipped through her fingers, twisting into sturdy, warm yarn. The robin on the windowsill hunkered and watched, as though wishing to learn to spin.

Marissa thought of the hunched, deaf and half-blind spinner who had taught her and her mother their craft. She wondered if, one day when she was quite old, a maiden would come to a hunched, mute old spinner, perhaps driven there by foolishness or a curse, and ask to be taught a skill.

The customers out front left, and Marissa's mother swept into the tiny back room. "Not done yet, you lazy girl?" she scolded, and then let out an angry cry when she caught sight of the robin on the sill. "Oh! What is that creature doing here? Why didn't you drive it off? Shoo! Go on!"

The robin, startled by her waving hands and strident tone, scattered away into the air, and vanished into the brush. Marissa's mother slammed the window shut, and Marissa bent once more to her spinning.

The next day, the robin returned. Marissa's mother was busy with customers once more, and Marissa stole a furtive glance at the door before looking back to the robin with a small smile. It was good company, whistling a merry greeting at her. Carefully, tentatively, she pursed up her lips and, ready to stop at her mother's step or the first hint of toad-slime or snake-scale on her lips, whistled cautiously back at the bird. No viper fell from her mouth and her mother did not storm in, demanding to know what all the racket was. Instead, the robin trilled, hopping with its wings slightly outspread.

Marissa smiled more broadly than before, delighted, and whistled at the robin again. It answered in kind once more. She did not dare to laugh with delight, as she should like to do, but picked up distaff and spindle and began her spinning, whistling back and forth to the robin until she heard her mother's step outside the door. She shut her lips upon the instant and as the door opened, the robin took to the air. Marissa, bolstered by her little visitor and the first conversation she had held in three years, endured her mother's scolding in meek silence, looking forward to the morrow.

The robin did not come on the morrow, perhaps chary of the spindly-tailed kitten who came sniffing at the kitchen stoop as Marissa swept it. She paused in her sweeping, so as to not startle the little creature, and crouched, offering it her hand to sniff. It butted its ears and head against her fingers, producing a purr that sounded entirely too large for that fragile little body. She scratched the orange ears, rubbing the hard little head, then stood, moving back to where the morning's milk still sat on the counter. It would be one more dish for her to wash, later, but she took a saucer and poured a tiny bit of the precious milk into the dish. This she set on the stoop.

The kitten stalked over stiff-legged to sniff suspiciously at the dish, then bent to lapping up the offering in good earnest. Marissa quietly finished her tasks around the kitchen, keeping an eye on the kitten. She had just dried the last dish - save the saucer on the stoop - to put away, when her mother came in, looking as bad-tempered as always. The kitten, curious about this newcomer, ventured indoors.

Marissa's mother gasped, drawing back her skirts. "Oh, ugh! Why are you letting that horrible creature in here? Take it and drown it at once!"

Marissa, appalled, reached silently for a basket, bending to scoop the kitten up in one hand. It immediately began purring again, vibrating against her palm. She set it in the basket and stepped out the door, setting off down the path towards the village. As soon as she was out of sight of the house, she paused and set down the basket carefully, pulling off her kerchief and tucking into the basket, petting the kitten's head carefully. It purred up at her and she gave it a sad, strained little smile, lifting the basket once more and carrying down the path.

The village was bustling and she drew many curious looks, a comparative stranger in their midst, a mute with her head down and her eyes on the dust below her feet, her hair bare in the sun. She set the basket carefully by the well and retreated into the shadows between two narrow buildings, watching. It did not take long for the purring kitten to draw a crowd of admiring children, and when one delighted little girl lifted the kitten and went running towards a house, Marissa slipped forward to collect kerchief and basket and trot rapidly back to the house.

Her mother scolded her, of course, but Marissa had been expecting it, and endured the scolding with bent head, and sat down to her distaff and spindle and wheel once more. No cheery robin came to bear her company today, but only her mother's sharp tongue. Marissa sat and spun, pensive, pondering the acute difference between kind words and cruel ones. The sun had long since sunk past the heavy trees out the window, the sky above dark and embroidered with stars, when Marissa's mother blew out the candle and curtly ordered her to bed.

The bells in the village chapel tolled their call to the service. Marissa sat at the window and listened, her shoulders slumped with weariness. There would be no customers today, and Marissa's mother slept late, as exhausted by her own toil as was Marissa. Outside the window, somewhere in the verdant forest, a robin chirped and whistled, but it did not come to the window. Marissa sat, watching the forest and listening, the week's burdens weighing on her.

Bake and mend and cook and draw water and sweep and dust, and then sit and spin spin spin spin spin. Voices from the shop in the front room, Marissa's mother with the forced note of pleasantry in her tone that Marissa was never judged worthy to receive, the cheerful jolly voices of matrons come to buy their yarn and their cloth. A robin whistled in the forest and Marissa whistled hopefully back, but her little friend did not come hopping or flying out to see her.

Instead a battered tom-cat slunk out of the forest, its ribs showing, ears tattered like old dish-cloths, one eye missing. It did not approach the house, but sat, watching Marissa through the open kitchen door as she bent over the fireplace and oven where their daily meals were cooking. Marissa straightened, pushing back a sweat-damp tendril of hair, and looked at the wary old tom with compassion. Chicken was dear, but a very little bit would not be missed if she was careful to take less for herself that evening. Only a bite, but she tossed it to the tom-cat, the morsel landing in the dust some halfway between the step and the stray.

The cat rose to its feet with wary grace, creeping forward to sniff at the half-cooked meat. A quick bite, and the chicken was gone. The cat turned round, melting back into the bushes on the eaves of the forest. Marissa hoped that he would not find robin for dinner.

Over the next few days, she could not help fearing that her little friend had ended his days as a cat's dinner, but she had but little time to think of the cheery robin that had brightened her days. Shearing time had come, and Marissa was hard at work from before dawn to after dusk. At the end of each exhausted day she would collapse onto her narrow cot, too tired even to think. After three years, the work was no longer clumsily unfamiliar, but it was still hard. She was beginning to feel as old as her mother, whose hair was increasingly streaked with grey, who had new lines around her hard-set mouth.

Marissa moved through her days in a fog of exhaustion, which was likely why it took her several hours to realize that her mother had not come even once to harangue her for being slow, or stupid, or lazy. Guilty relief warred with anxiety, and Marissa halted her wheel, standing to go in search of her mother. She found her, sprawled on the neatly swept floor of the kitchen, breathing labored. A sharp flare of alarm stabbed like fire through Marissa; with an effort, she lifted her mother to the bed where the older woman slept. Her face was an unhealthy grey and Marissa, after tucking her in warmly, tied on a kerchief and all but flew down the trail into the village.

It was difficult to convince the wise woman to follow her, without speaking betraying words, but pleading looks and tugged sleeves and the display of their few precious hoarded coins convinced her to come. The old lady gathered her herbs and her basket and followed Marissa back to the small cottage.

An attack of the heart, she pronounced. She left a tincture with Marissa, along with a stern instruction that her mother was to be allowed to sleep quietly for some several days. Marissa realized with sinking heart that she must need tend the shop herself, now, mute as she was, and there would be no abatement of her own workload. It was a daunting prospect, and her heart sank, but she firmed up her mouth and squared her shoulders. She would need to buy more candles, that was all.

Three days, of little food and less sleep, of spooning broth into the invalid's mouth, of smiling silently at customers and fetching their yarn for them and indicating through awkward gestures how much was owed, of sitting up late into the night shivering beside the banked fire, spinning by candlelight and moonlight until skilled fingers were too cold and numb to do their work. Three days, Marissa's mother slept, and woke only to eat, and said little, and slept once more. Three days, without even a robin's whistle to sustain her, and Marissa scarcely noticed.

On the fourth day, she was nodding off over the shop counter when her mother shuffled into the room. "Oh, there you are," she said peevishly, her voice little better than a croak. "Did you not hear me calling to you? Sleeping out here! I ought to have known!"

Marissa had sat up with a jerk, and now rubbed her stinging eyes. She could not answer back, but her mother was mercifully cut short by the door opening. Both women turned to help their customer, but stopped short in surprise.

A pert robin hopped across the floor towards the counter, halting halfway. It spread its wings and then a lady stood in its place, tall and grand, bright dark eyes and brown feathered cloak and crimson gown, feature elfin-fine and magnificent. Marissa and her mother gaped, Marissa shrinking back in alarm.

The fairy smiled kindly upon her. "Fear not, child. You have done nothing to merit punishment. Do you remember them?" She held out one elegant hand. Above it, a robin hopped, a kitten gamboled, an old tom cat winked its one eye. "You were kind to even the very least of these, when it would give you no gain, when it might cause you further trouble. Tell me, child, have you learned the value of kind words, and the pain of cruel ones?"

Tell her, she had said, and Marissa dared not disobey. She swallowed hard and said, very tentatively, only a single word. "Yes."

No slime or scales offended her lips, no venomous toad or adder fell to the floor. Her eyes widened, and she looked down at the wooden planks, and over at her pallid mother, and back at the fairy. The fairy met her gaze with compassion. "Speak freely, then, child. Do not forget the cost of cruelty, though," she cautioned. "If you revert back to your old ways, the curse will return, and you will be beset by the toads and snakes of your own making."

"Thank you," Marissa gasped. "Oh, milady, thank you! I will not!"

The fairy inclined her head. "It is well. The curse is lifted, and I would give you a gift. Do you wish for gold and jewels and wealth? Or a handsome man to fall in love with you?"

"Oh," Marissa said, dazed. "Oh, I do not know."

"Think a moment," the fairy advised. "And while you do, I will see to justice." She turned her gaze, heavy and piercing as a saber, on Marissa's mother, who had begun to tremble. "You, I deem, have not learned the lesson your daughter has learned. You treated these least of creatures with callous disregard, and your own daughter with cruelty. Would it not be a fitting punishment for your words to manifest?"

"Milady, please," Marissa's mother whimpered, and Marissa's heart was wrung with horror.

"Oh, milady, I beg you," she said quickly. "My mother has been ill, and she has grown worn with a work to which she was not raised. I beg you, please, milady, have mercy on her, and do not lay a curse upon her!"

The fairy looked at her, pointed brows tilted in surprise. "Do you, who have suffered the worst for her sharp tongue, interceded for her, then, child? Why?"

"Because..." Marissa faltered, and looked over at her mother, who was gazing at her with a strange expression. Quick as lightning, memories ran through Marissa's mind. A golden childhood, adored and doted upon, her younger sister bearing the brunt of their mother's displeasure, growing into a young lady, petted and pampered and flattered, an offended fae and a curse and a fall from grace. Always, Marissa's mother had been straight and regal and haughty as any queen. Now her hands were roughened with toil where once they were smooth and white, her silks and velvets had been replaced with rough homespun, her once-elegant hair was caught in a simple bun that would not stay smooth, her arrogant beauty lined and wrinkled and weary.

"Because she is my mother, and I love her," Marissa said simply. "You offered me a gift, milady. Let it be this, then: that my mother go free and unharmed, no curse meted out upon her."

The fairy regarded her. "Are you certain, child? Think what you are giving up. You could have aught that your heart desires; wealth untold, love, ease and luxury."

It was a tempting lure. It was. For a moment, Marissa thought longingly of never spinning again, never having to touch wool even once more in her life. She thought of a large home with many rooms, massive fireplaces and heaps of wood. She thought of silks and jewels.

Yet, having lived three years of her life in miserable silence, keeping every thought to herself and enduring everything mutely, she could not wish such a fate on her mother. "Nay, milady," Marissa said humbly. "I ask only that I may speak freely once more, and my mother the same. I would wish to converse, not speak to one who cannot answer back."

There was kindness and respect and surprise in equal measure as the fairy looked on her. "As you wish, child. Let it be so." She turned to Marissa's mother. "For the sake of your daughter's forgiveness towards you, I shall have mercy. I advise you to remember that."

"Y-yes, milady," Marissa's mother said unsteadily.

The fairy gave them a regal look. "I would not leave you without a gift, child. You will be the greatest spinner in the land, while you live, and your daughter shall surpass your skill: she will be able to spin straw into gold." With this pronouncement, she turned away, and dissipated into the sunbeam shining through the door, leaving both women silent and stunned.

Marissa put a hand to her lips and murmured wonderingly, "I can talk." Her words fell into empty air and dissolved there, and she said aloud and joyously, "I can talk!"

"Daughter." Her mother's voice was husky, and Marissa turned towards her. Tears stood in the older woman's eyes. "I am... sorry. Forgive me. Thank you."

A lump choked Marissa's own words. "Of course," she murmured, and lifted her arms, and stepped forward to embrace her mother.

[bri-s-notebook]

That wasn't quite the end‚ of course. The fairy had said that Marissa would have a daughter‚ so it did not come as a complete surprise when the young miller from whom they bought their grain began making the trip to deliver it all the way out to their cottage himself. It was not a surprise when he began bringing bouquets of flowers when he came. It was not a surprise when‚ a year later‚ he asked for Marissa's hand in marriage. He was a good man‚ and a kind one‚ and she was pleased to accept. Their daughter was as beautiful as the sunrise‚ and even as an infant‚ loved to twist pieces of string into thread.

But that is a story for another time.

[bri-s-notebook]

Robins and Wool

Marissa thought, as she sat at her spinning wheel. She had had lots of time to think, since that fateful day three years past, when she had snapped at a child at the well. She did not speak anymore, forbidden to do so by the mother who had once doted upon her.

So she sat and thought, and spun. She and her mother, furious and humiliated and proud, had refused her sister's offered charity. They had fled their home, traveling to another town and learning a trade to make their own way. It had been difficult, learning to do all the work that her stepsister had previously done, but Marissa had little choice. Now she was the one to knead the bread, and sweep the hearth, and fetch the water, and mend the clothes, and, when her chores were done, to sit and spin wool into yarn.

Her mother was the one who dealt with their customers, in the little room in the front of their shop. She did not enjoy it, and her mouth was always pursed in displeasure, but she spoke civilly no matter how much effort it took, for who knew which old crone or pert child might be a fairy in disguise?

A flutter of wings and a shadow at the window drew Marissa's attention. A robin sat upon the sill, fluffing its wings and surveying the room with a dark beady eye. Marissa could not speak to shoo it away, but she could, sometimes, if she were careful, make sounds in her throat if they were not recognizable words. She did so now, a scolding noise, and flapped her hand at the bird.

It did not startle and fly away, as she intended, but hopped sideways, tilting its head at her. Marissa stared back. It had been such a very long time since she had seen such a friendly face. What was it really hurting, anyway? Let it stay.

She bent for her distaff and spindle once more, resuming the steady treadling of her wheel. The wool fibers slipped through her fingers, twisting into sturdy, warm yarn. The robin on the windowsill hunkered and watched, as though wishing to learn to spin.

Marissa thought of the hunched, deaf and half-blind spinner who had taught her and her mother their craft. She wondered if, one day when she was quite old, a maiden would come to a hunched, mute old spinner, perhaps driven there by foolishness or a curse, and ask to be taught a skill.

The customers out front left, and Marissa's mother swept into the tiny back room. "Not done yet, you lazy girl?" she scolded, and then let out an angry cry when she caught sight of the robin on the sill. "Oh! What is that creature doing here? Why didn't you drive it off? Shoo! Go on!"

The robin, startled by her waving hands and strident tone, scattered away into the air, and vanished into the brush. Marissa's mother slammed the window shut, and Marissa bent once more to her spinning.

The next day, the robin returned. Marissa's mother was busy with customers once more, and Marissa stole a furtive glance at the door before looking back to the robin with a small smile. It was good company, whistling a merry greeting at her. Carefully, tentatively, she pursed up her lips and, ready to stop at her mother's step or the first hint of toad-slime or snake-scale on her lips, whistled cautiously back at the bird. No viper fell from her mouth and her mother did not storm in, demanding to know what all the racket was. Instead, the robin trilled, hopping with its wings slightly outspread.

Marissa smiled more broadly than before, delighted, and whistled at the robin again. It answered in kind once more. She did not dare to laugh with delight, as she should like to do, but picked up distaff and spindle and began her spinning, whistling back and forth to the robin until she heard her mother's step outside the door. She shut her lips upon the instant and as the door opened, the robin took to the air. Marissa, bolstered by her little visitor and the first conversation she had held in three years, endured her mother's scolding in meek silence, looking forward to the morrow.

The robin did not come on the morrow, perhaps chary of the spindly-tailed kitten who came sniffing at the kitchen stoop as Marissa swept it. She paused in her sweeping, so as to not startle the little creature, and crouched, offering it her hand to sniff. It butted its ears and head against her fingers, producing a purr that sounded entirely too large for that fragile little body. She scratched the orange ears, rubbing the hard little head, then stood, moving back to where the morning's milk still sat on the counter. It would be one more dish for her to wash, later, but she took a saucer and poured a tiny bit of the precious milk into the dish. This she set on the stoop.

The kitten stalked over stiff-legged to sniff suspiciously at the dish, then bent to lapping up the offering in good earnest. Marissa quietly finished her tasks around the kitchen, keeping an eye on the kitten. She had just dried the last dish - save the saucer on the stoop - to put away, when her mother came in, looking as bad-tempered as always. The kitten, curious about this newcomer, ventured indoors.

Marissa's mother gasped, drawing back her skirts. "Oh, ugh! Why are you letting that horrible creature in here? Take it and drown it at once!"

Marissa, appalled, reached silently for a basket, bending to scoop the kitten up in one hand. It immediately began purring again, vibrating against her palm. She set it in the basket and stepped out the door, setting off down the path towards the village. As soon as she was out of sight of the house, she paused and set down the basket carefully, pulling off her kerchief and tucking into the basket, petting the kitten's head carefully. It purred up at her and she gave it a sad, strained little smile, lifting the basket once more and carrying down the path.

The village was bustling and she drew many curious looks, a comparative stranger in their midst, a mute with her head down and her eyes on the dust below her feet, her hair bare in the sun. She set the basket carefully by the well and retreated into the shadows between two narrow buildings, watching. It did not take long for the purring kitten to draw a crowd of admiring children, and when one delighted little girl lifted the kitten and went running towards a house, Marissa slipped forward to collect kerchief and basket and trot rapidly back to the house.

Her mother scolded her, of course, but Marissa had been expecting it, and endured the scolding with bent head, and sat down to her distaff and spindle and wheel once more. No cheery robin came to bear her company today, but only her mother's sharp tongue. Marissa sat and spun, pensive, pondering the acute difference between kind words and cruel ones. The sun had long since sunk past the heavy trees out the window, the sky above dark and embroidered with stars, when Marissa's mother blew out the candle and curtly ordered her to bed.

The bells in the village chapel tolled their call to the service. Marissa sat at the window and listened, her shoulders slumped with weariness. There would be no customers today, and Marissa's mother slept late, as exhausted by her own toil as was Marissa. Outside the window, somewhere in the verdant forest, a robin chirped and whistled, but it did not come to the window. Marissa sat, watching the forest and listening, the week's burdens weighing on her.

Bake and mend and cook and draw water and sweep and dust, and then sit and spin spin spin spin spin. Voices from the shop in the front room, Marissa's mother with the forced note of pleasantry in her tone that Marissa was never judged worthy to receive, the cheerful jolly voices of matrons come to buy their yarn and their cloth. A robin whistled in the forest and Marissa whistled hopefully back, but her little friend did not come hopping or flying out to see her.

Instead a battered tom-cat slunk out of the forest, its ribs showing, ears tattered like old dish-cloths, one eye missing. It did not approach the house, but sat, watching Marissa through the open kitchen door as she bent over the fireplace and oven where their daily meals were cooking. Marissa straightened, pushing back a sweat-damp tendril of hair, and looked at the wary old tom with compassion. Chicken was dear, but a very little bit would not be missed if she was careful to take less for herself that evening. Only a bite, but she tossed it to the tom-cat, the morsel landing in the dust some halfway between the step and the stray.

The cat rose to its feet with wary grace, creeping forward to sniff at the half-cooked meat. A quick bite, and the chicken was gone. The cat turned round, melting back into the bushes on the eaves of the forest. Marissa hoped that he would not find robin for dinner.

Over the next few days, she could not help fearing that her little friend had ended his days as a cat's dinner, but she had but little time to think of the cheery robin that had brightened her days. Shearing time had come, and Marissa was hard at work from before dawn to after dusk. At the end of each exhausted day she would collapse onto her narrow cot, too tired even to think. After three years, the work was no longer clumsily unfamiliar, but it was still hard. She was beginning to feel as old as her mother, whose hair was increasingly streaked with grey, who had new lines around her hard-set mouth.

Marissa moved through her days in a fog of exhaustion, which was likely why it took her several hours to realize that her mother had not come even once to harangue her for being slow, or stupid, or lazy. Guilty relief warred with anxiety, and Marissa halted her wheel, standing to go in search of her mother. She found her, sprawled on the neatly swept floor of the kitchen, breathing labored. A sharp flare of alarm stabbed like fire through Marissa; with an effort, she lifted her mother to the bed where the older woman slept. Her face was an unhealthy grey and Marissa, after tucking her in warmly, tied on a kerchief and all but flew down the trail into the village.

It was difficult to convince the wise woman to follow her, without speaking betraying words, but pleading looks and tugged sleeves and the display of their few precious hoarded coins convinced her to come. The old lady gathered her herbs and her basket and followed Marissa back to the small cottage.

An attack of the heart, she pronounced. She left a tincture with Marissa, along with a stern instruction that her mother was to be allowed to sleep quietly for some several days. Marissa realized with sinking heart that she must need tend the shop herself, now, mute as she was, and there would be no abatement of her own workload. It was a daunting prospect, and her heart sank, but she firmed up her mouth and squared her shoulders. She would need to buy more candles, that was all.

Three days, of little food and less sleep, of spooning broth into the invalid's mouth, of smiling silently at customers and fetching their yarn for them and indicating through awkward gestures how much was owed, of sitting up late into the night shivering beside the banked fire, spinning by candlelight and moonlight until skilled fingers were too cold and numb to do their work. Three days, Marissa's mother slept, and woke only to eat, and said little, and slept once more. Three days, without even a robin's whistle to sustain her, and Marissa scarcely noticed.

On the fourth day, she was nodding off over the shop counter when her mother shuffled into the room. "Oh, there you are," she said peevishly, her voice little better than a croak. "Did you not hear me calling to you? Sleeping out here! I ought to have known!"

Marissa had sat up with a jerk, and now rubbed her stinging eyes. She could not answer back, but her mother was mercifully cut short by the door opening. Both women turned to help their customer, but stopped short in surprise.

A pert robin hopped across the floor towards the counter, halting halfway. It spread its wings and then a lady stood in its place, tall and grand, bright dark eyes and brown feathered cloak and crimson gown, feature elfin-fine and magnificent. Marissa and her mother gaped, Marissa shrinking back in alarm.

The fairy smiled kindly upon her. "Fear not, child. You have done nothing to merit punishment. Do you remember them?" She held out one elegant hand. Above it, a robin hopped, a kitten gamboled, an old tom cat winked its one eye. "You were kind to even the very least of these, when it would give you no gain, when it might cause you further trouble. Tell me, child, have you learned the value of kind words, and the pain of cruel ones?"

Tell her, she had said, and Marissa dared not disobey. She swallowed hard and said, very tentatively, only a single word. "Yes."

No slime or scales offended her lips, no venomous toad or adder fell to the floor. Her eyes widened, and she looked down at the wooden planks, and over at her pallid mother, and back at the fairy. The fairy met her gaze with compassion. "Speak freely, then, child. Do not forget the cost of cruelty, though," she cautioned. "If you revert back to your old ways, the curse will return, and you will be beset by the toads and snakes of your own making."

"Thank you," Marissa gasped. "Oh, milady, thank you! I will not!"

The fairy inclined her head. "It is well. The curse is lifted, and I would give you a gift. Do you wish for gold and jewels and wealth? Or a handsome man to fall in love with you?"

"Oh," Marissa said, dazed. "Oh, I do not know."

"Think a moment," the fairy advised. "And while you do, I will see to justice." She turned her gaze, heavy and piercing as a saber, on Marissa's mother, who had begun to tremble. "You, I deem, have not learned the lesson your daughter has learned. You treated these least of creatures with callous disregard, and your own daughter with cruelty. Would it not be a fitting punishment for your words to manifest?"

"Milady, please," Marissa's mother whimpered, and Marissa's heart was wrung with horror.

"Oh, milady, I beg you," she said quickly. "My mother has been ill, and she has grown worn with a work to which she was not raised. I beg you, please, milady, have mercy on her, and do not lay a curse upon her!"

The fairy looked at her, pointed brows tilted in surprise. "Do you, who have suffered the worst for her sharp tongue, interceded for her, then, child? Why?"

"Because..." Marissa faltered, and looked over at her mother, who was gazing at her with a strange expression. Quick as lightning, memories ran through Marissa's mind. A golden childhood, adored and doted upon, her younger sister bearing the brunt of their mother's displeasure, growing into a young lady, petted and pampered and flattered, an offended fae and a curse and a fall from grace. Always, Marissa's mother had been straight and regal and haughty as any queen. Now her hands were roughened with toil where once they were smooth and white, her silks and velvets had been replaced with rough homespun, her once-elegant hair was caught in a simple bun that would not stay smooth, her arrogant beauty lined and wrinkled and weary.

"Because she is my mother, and I love her," Marissa said simply. "You offered me a gift, milady. Let it be this, then: that my mother go free and unharmed, no curse meted out upon her."

The fairy regarded her. "Are you certain, child? Think what you are giving up. You could have aught that your heart desires; wealth untold, love, ease and luxury."

It was a tempting lure. It was. For a moment, Marissa thought longingly of never spinning again, never having to touch wool even once more in her life. She thought of a large home with many rooms, massive fireplaces and heaps of wood. She thought of silks and jewels.

Yet, having lived three years of her life in miserable silence, keeping every thought to herself and enduring everything mutely, she could not wish such a fate on her mother. "Nay, milady," Marissa said humbly. "I ask only that I may speak freely once more, and my mother the same. I would wish to converse, not speak to one who cannot answer back."

There was kindness and respect and surprise in equal measure as the fairy looked on her. "As you wish, child. Let it be so." She turned to Marissa's mother. "For the sake of your daughter's forgiveness towards you, I shall have mercy. I advise you to remember that."

"Y-yes, milady," Marissa's mother said unsteadily.

The fairy gave them a regal look. "I would not leave you without a gift, child. You will be the greatest spinner in the land, while you live, and your daughter shall surpass your skill: she will be able to spin straw into gold." With this pronouncement, she turned away, and dissipated into the sunbeam shining through the door, leaving both women silent and stunned.

Marissa put a hand to her lips and murmured wonderingly, "I can talk." Her words fell into empty air and dissolved there, and she said aloud and joyously, "I can talk!"

"Daughter." Her mother's voice was husky, and Marissa turned towards her. Tears stood in the older woman's eyes. "I am... sorry. Forgive me. Thank you."

A lump choked Marissa's own words. "Of course," she murmured, and lifted her arms, and stepped forward to embrace her mother.

[bri-s-notebook]

The wine was a very deep dark red as she poured it, her eyes steady on the glass. His eyes remained fastened on her face, betraying why he was here. These woods were very dark, but one grew accustomed to it, when one lived there. Dark, and dangerous, but sometimes the hunters whose hearts were filled with foolish courage, or greed, risked the dangers and penetrated the eaves of that forbidding forest.

She turned away, skirt swishing around her ankles, to fetch the food to set before him - bread, baked of a small hard bright grain, cheese made of the milk of some creature he would never have seen before.

The woods were very dark.

[bri-s-notebook]

The Western That I'll Never Write

The scene opens with a man with a noose around his neck, the rope thrown over the branch of a dead tree and tied around the trunk. His hands are tied behind him and he's mounted on a spooky young horse. "Slick" Weston is a card sharp and bandit, who had double-crossed his band, without success.

A young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, approaches, also mounted. Her attire shows that she is reasonably well off. Her approach makes the spooky horse shy a little and she stops, observing that the man appears to be in a spot of trouble. He agrees, and they discuss the best way to proceed.

He keeps talking to distract the horse while she makes a wide loop and sneaks up behind to untie the noose from the tree. They then discuss the best way to proceed; she suggests he fall in a controlled manner and let the horse run away but he declines; it isn't his own steady horse but it's better than not having one and he'd rather keep it. Ultimately she soothes and befriends the spooky young horse and tethers it to a bush before helping him down and untying his hands.

He has neither gun nor hat, and Miss Miranda Lake invites him back to her family's home. Having no better options, he accepts.

Winston Lake is an elderly, blind ranch owner who made lots of money back East before moving West and running a nicely successful castle operation. He has two daughters, Miranda and Cassandra, and several hands, who are all currently on a cattle drive to St. Louis. Old Mr. Lake makes Weston welcome; Cassie recognizes him as a bandit and confronts him in the kitchen, but is obviously enamored of the glamor of his profession. Weston opts to be amused, rather than threatened, and tells her that she's imagining things, and walks out.

The position of an honored guest of the wealthy and innocent Lakes is a cushy one, and Weston accepts Mr. Lake's invitation to stay. He begins to harbor dishonorable intentions towards Miranda in his heart; he considers Cassie as easier prey, due to her fascination with his outlaw status, but without any real seriousness. He ponders having had relations with 'women he paid to be willing,' and stealing kisses during his career as an outlaw, and the last innocent kiss he'd had at age sixteen. He purposes to lure Miranda willing to his bed, have his way with her, and depart.

When a band of cowhands, drunk and rowdy and looking for trouble, come upon the homestead, Weston takes the family's shotgun and goes out and drives them off. Miss Miranda's warm genuine admiration starts to waken his better nature for the first time in as long as he can remember.

He continues to stay on the grounds of protecting the family and still secretly intending to seduce Miranda. He takes meals with the family, chops wood, and spends most of his time flirting with her. At one point he starts to make a bawdy joke to her and then restrains himself ("If you weren't a lady, I'd tell you what I want." "Tell me anyway." "No, you're still a lady.") He also shows her the aces he keeps on himself: one in his hat band, hidden rather than open, one in each sleeve, and one in his boot; he demonstrates how easily and slyly he can get each one into his hand.

During this time the Lakes receive a cable from the foreman informing them that the cattle are sold and the cowboys paid and they're all headed home. Weston tells Miranda he'll need to leave before the cowboys get back.

The hands are about two months of travel away when Weston's old band comes by the ranch. He goes out to defend the homestead and both recognizes and is recognized; there is a bit of tense banter between himself and de facto leader, (no hat, no gun, still alive and kicking) until Miranda comes around from behind the house with the other shotgun. One of the bandits goes to shoot Weston and she shoots the bandit; this sets off a firefight, and Weston dives behind the woodpile for cover to put the shotgun to good use until one of the bandits rides right at Miranda to either ride her down or yank her up and kidnap her. At this point Weston breaks cover roaring her name and shoots both man and horse; the remaining bandits flee. She observes that he saved her life and he responds that she had done the same for him and it was the least he could do. For a moment their mutual attraction is very evident to both of them but they do not act on it.

She urges him to leave lest the band come back to see the job of killing him finished, but he refuses, saying that if they come back and he is not there, they will not leave the Lakes in peace but kill old Mr. Lake and kidnap the girls into torment, telling her that even if anyone noticed that they had disappeared and formed a posse they would not be found in time. She tells him that he is a good man, and he responds that he isn't.

The bandits return that night and, unaware that Weston is sleeping in the otherwise empty bunkhouse, go to set fire to the main house. Weston sees the flare of light and shoots them with the revolvers recovered from the bodies earlier. Miranda comes out with the shotgun to help but the remaining handful of bandits have already fled. She points out that Weston has saved all of their lives twice now, and says that she can never repay him. He tells her that all he wants is right there and they kiss. His desire for her becomes visible on his face and she grows nervous and refuses him a second kiss, telling him he is scaring her. He tells her he is sorry for scaring her and returns to the bunkhouse, pondering on the course his life has taken and the choices he has made of late.

As the expected day of the hands' return draws nearer, Miranda again asks Weston to leave. He has not, to this point, told her, or anyone, how exactly he knew the outlaw gang, or why it would be dangerous for him when the cowboys return. She has not asked, only accepted it, and now points out that he told her he would need to leave. He refuses again, saying that he will not leave the Lakes unprotected and he'll take his chances with the cowhands.

The hands return a couple of weeks early and see Weston first, as he is outside. They recognize him from a wanted poster in St. Louis and a fight immediately starts brewing; he tells them he hasn't harmed the Lakes or compromised either of the women, and tells them to go see for themselves. Slim, the foreman, holds him at gunpoint, while Lightly, a somewhat impetuous youth who obviously has a tendre for Cassie, goes to check on the family. Miranda comes out and tells Slim to cease with his hostility, and says that Weston has protected them for months. She refuses to listen when Slim tries to tell her that she is harboring 'Slick' Weston, a notorious and wanted outlaw, and says that she doesn't care, he had plenty of opportunity to do them harm and had not.

Slim asks Weston why he did not and Weston tells him that Miss Miranda helped him out of a bind, and he owed her. Slim grudgingly allows him to stay but makes it plain that he is watching the former outlaw closely.

Weston reluctantly adjusts to life with the cowhands returned; he remains in the bunkhouse, but to his dismay now spends more time with the hands than the family, taking meals with the men and working hard with them. He tells Lightly that Mr. Lake will not like a match between his younger daughter and a broke hand with no prospects; Lightly retorts that Mr. Lake would like even less having a bandit as a son-in-law. Weston tells the kid that Lightly has no idea what he's talking about but does not tell Mr. Lake about the young couple.

Slim tells Weston that Miss Mandy is in love with him, and warns him off of toying with her heart. Weston dismisses this, saying that Miss Miranda can have any man she wants, and will pick a good, God-fearing church-going man and wrap him around her finger within days.

Weston catches Cassie and Lightly kissing behind the barn. Cassie implores him not to tell and says something about them not understanding; Weston responds that Miranda would understand just fine, and says that the only reason Cassie thinks of her sister as an old maid is because Miranda has not found the man she wants yet, but that she is the kind of woman a good man wants to stand at his side against the world with him. Lightly says that she doesn't want a good man, she wants a bad one, and that is why she is still unmarried. Weston warns him to keep his hands to himself and leaves.

The next scene is of him with Miranda. He tells her again that he is not a good man, and confesses to having once been a bandit. She replies quite calmly that she knows, she has known, she could tell from his demeanor from the very beginning that he was either an outlaw in trouble or a retired lawman dodging old enemies, and that Cassie had told her within the first few days that he was a bandit. She tells him that she had been completely prepared to shoot him if he had done anything to any of the Lakes, and then says that his self-image no longer reflects who he is: that he still paints himself as black and wicked in the heart, but his actions do not bear this out. He warns her that he never had a hankering for a plot of land of his own or cared at all for kids, and she asks him if he would hate his children if he begot them, and points out that he has been working the land and the cattle for the last few months. She tells him she loves him just the way he is, and they kiss again.

They are interrupted by Slim and some of the other hands, all of whom immediately draw their pistols. Miranda stops them and says that Weston was not stealing a kiss or importuning her, but that she was a fully willing participant. Weston tells her that she is too good for him, and to go to the church and find a good man who can give her everything she wants. He goes out to saddle his horse and Slim follows him. When Weston goes to mount, Slim pulls his gun again, and asks him where he thinks he's going. Weston tells him that Miss Miranda does not need to tie herself to an outlaw, and Slim says that for good or ill, she has given her heart to him, and he's not allowed to leave now - he'll have to get used to the idea of being a cowhand, because he is now.

For the first time, Weston allows himself to actually fully honestly consider the prospect of settling down, staying in one place, taking the same woman to bed each night and waking up to her smile each morning. He decides that if that woman is Miranda, that is what he wants, actually, but is still reluctant to wed her with a price on his head. Slim says that plenty of wanted men marry and settle down and get away with it, and Weston jokes grimly that even Pinkerton men have to eat. He dismounts and unsaddles.

When Miranda serves the men dinner that evening and sees that Weston is with them, she takes it as confirmation that he is staying for her. His courtship becomes more overt and assiduous, and she takes to spending the evenings outside in the yard with the men. Weston is still an outsider and sits apart but nearby. One evening one of the younger hands sees him shuffling a deck of cards and eagerly asks if he plays; Slim interjects that the youngster does not want to play with Slick Weston. Slick demonstrates that he got the name gambling, not shooting, and shows how easily he palms his aces. One of the men remarks that that only works if no one is counting cards, and Slick reveals that he can, in fact, count cards, and isn't stupid enough to use one of his aces if its counterpart in the deck has already been in play; "That way, if another man plays it later, suspicion of cheating falls on him." He tells the assembly that it's better to lose a hand than get caught cheating and lose your head. Miranda teasingly asks if he had lost the hand or his head when she had found him in a fix; he responds 'neither one. He had gambled, and lost.' He cuts the deck and turns up the ace of clubs and says that "Sometimes, even after losing, you come about," and looks right Miranda and smiles (the first time he is mentioned to smile.)

The following Sunday he goes with the household to church. He doesn't put much stock in it but listens and is respectful and draws the interested attention of some of the unmarried ladies. Cassie discloses that he's courting Mandy.

This is as far as I've plotted with any detail, but the vague outline from here out is for him to realize he's not too wicked to be saved, accept salvation, marry Miranda, and take a few years (or maybe months) to grapple with the weight of his many sins. Eventually he comes to the conclusion that he needs to turn himself in, and sue for a pardon or plea deal. Slim tries and fails to dissuade him; Miranda will go with him. He obviously gets a plea deal (somehow) and returns home with his wife. Inevitably she has a baby and he discovers that maybe he's indifferent to children in the abstract but he would die for this tiny little son Miranda has given him.

Aaand that's all I got for now, but I'm sure I'd wrap it up with a very satisfying (but very contrary to all Western tradition) ending. If I were writing it. Which I'm not.

[bri-s-notebook]

"Heeey, Way!" came the called greeting from over by the bar.

Songbird grinned and crossed to where the Bandit sat, side by side with Thrasher. "Hey, Beaky. Sup, kid."

Thrasher grinned back at him bashfully. "'Sup, Birdie."

Birdie gestured to the grizzled bartender and hollered over, "The usual!" before propping both elbows on the sticky bar and lowering his voice to address his companion. "Not doing business tonight, Beaky?"

The bandit rolled his eyes, tipping his head back slightly. "Not with the Sarge here."

Birdie accepted his glass and glanced casually behind. An imposing brown-skinned man sat hunched over a table alone, drinking something that looked as strong as he did. Birdie faced front again, widening his eyes speakingly. "I get your point."

Bandit grunted, slouching low over the bar. "Wish he'd get done and leave. My client is going to lose patience."

Birdie glanced around again, taking in the rather eclectic mix of patrons in the old dive bar this evening. "Not the old lady, surely."

Beaky shrugged, sipping his drink. "I dunno. Could be. She's here with her grandson." His voice conveyed his utter disgust, and Birdie could see why. If ever a buttoned-up little nerd didn't belong somewhere, it was here. The kid couldn't be a day over eighteen, and looked it, with all the excited nervousness of a wet-behind-the-ears youngling out on his first illicit adventure, and a decent dose of scandalized disapproval at the heavy pall of cigarette smoke that hung in the air and the song being warbled from the stage at the far end of the room. Or perhaps it was the assembled company that so shocked the preppy kid; there was nothing to alarm him in the short worried-looking fellow in the corner who kept fidgeting with a wedding band on the chain around his neck and shooting glances at the other patrons as though afraid they would come over to steal his bauble, or even in the outward appearance of the portly middle-aged businessman enjoying a Scotch-and-soda at one of the more well-lit tables.

Birdie, wiser to the ways of the world and of portly middle-aged businessmen who frequented establishments such as the Swan Dive, gave him a derisive look and continued his scan. The rest of the company was of the unsavory type, and Birdie cracked a grin. "John, you old pirate! Why are you lurking way over there?"

The other man stood with a laugh, grabbing his rum and sauntering over. "Good company over there, mate."

Beaky cast the newcomer a look of dislike, encompassing dreadlocked head to leather-booted toes. "Then go enjoy it. You stink."

"You wound me," John said, sounding wounded.

The only other patron, further down the bar nodding off over several empty margarita glasses, snorted and sat upright with a jerk. "Crooner! How about a real song?"

The singer gave him an injured look but kept singing. Beside him, the hunched bass guitarist didn't even look up, continuing to wring fretful notes from his strings. Birdie suggested, "If you don't like the music, Jimmy, why don't you give us a ditty?"

The man straightened his very loud Hawaiian shirt and his spine concurrently. "I'm not nearly drunk enough for that, Songbird. Hey! How about another margarita down here?"

"Got a light?" Thrasher asked casually.

Birdie handed over his BIC. "Going to destroy your lungs, kid."

Thrasher shrugged, lighting up. "That's my business."

"Cheers," Birdie agreed, and sipped his drink, relishing in the company of friends.

[bri-s-notebook]

Okay but what if Earth and Lora aren't at war yet. Still in the preliminary talking stages. No solution is being found but diplomacy hasn't completely broken down yet.

It would require reworking the entire plot but the plot isn't working right now anyway.

[bri-s-notebook]

After thinking it over I've come to the conclusion this won't work. If they're not already at war him kidnapping her would definitely start it, and also he probably wouldn't be slated for execution anyway. It also makes the whole 'spy' bit a bit dicier and while I toyed for a few seconds with the idea of it being an arranged marriage to try and bring about peace, that's too different.

(The characters of Dareth and Alithea in an arranged marriage is an intriguing concept (arranged marriage to lovers my beloved,) but it's not the story I'm trying to tell here and now.)

So I must regretfully discard this idea and go back to my previous wrestling ring; ergo, the politics of a war that is really no more than a MacGuffin anyway but that my pedantry demands be at least plausible even if only in barebones form.

[bri-s-notebook]

I could, I suppose, always make my problem their problem.

Dareth: Haiiii guys I'm back. :3

The rest of the Lorans: WHO is that and WHY do you have her here?!

Dareth: This is my wife! I couldn't just LEAVE her!

The rest of the Lorans: ........you really, really could have. Now what do we do with her.

[bri-s-notebook]

^ Like that

[bri-s-notebook]

Okay but what if Earth and Lora aren't at war yet. Still in the preliminary talking stages. No solution is being found but diplomacy hasn't completely broken down yet.

It would require reworking the entire plot but the plot isn't working right now anyway.

[bri-s-notebook]

After thinking it over I've come to the conclusion this won't work. If they're not already at war him kidnapping her would definitely start it, and also he probably wouldn't be slated for execution anyway. It also makes the whole 'spy' bit a bit dicier and while I toyed for a few seconds with the idea of it being an arranged marriage to try and bring about peace, that's too different.

(The characters of Dareth and Alithea in an arranged marriage is an intriguing concept (arranged marriage to lovers my beloved,) but it's not the story I'm trying to tell here and now.)

So I must regretfully discard this idea and go back to my previous wrestling ring; ergo, the politics of a war that is really no more than a MacGuffin anyway but that my pedantry demands be at least plausible even if only in barebones form.

[bri-s-notebook]

I could, I suppose, always make my problem their problem.

Dareth: Haiiii guys I'm back. :3

The rest of the Lorans: WHO is that and WHY do you have her here?!

Dareth: This is my wife! I couldn't just LEAVE her!

The rest of the Lorans: ........you really, really could have. Now what do we do with her.

[bri-s-notebook]

Okay but what if Earth and Lora aren't at war yet. Still in the preliminary talking stages. No solution is being found but diplomacy hasn't completely broken down yet.

It would require reworking the entire plot but the plot isn't working right now anyway.

[bri-s-notebook]

After thinking it over I've come to the conclusion this won't work. If they're not already at war him kidnapping her would definitely start it, and also he probably wouldn't be slated for execution anyway. It also makes the whole 'spy' bit a bit dicier and while I toyed for a few seconds with the idea of it being an arranged marriage to try and bring about peace, that's too different.

(The characters of Dareth and Alithea in an arranged marriage is an intriguing concept (arranged marriage to lovers my beloved,) but it's not the story I'm trying to tell here and now.)

So I must regretfully discard this idea and go back to my previous wrestling ring; ergo, the politics of a war that is really no more than a MacGuffin anyway but that my pedantry demands be at least plausible even if only in barebones form.

[bri-s-notebook]

Okay but what if Earth and Lora aren't at war yet. Still in the preliminary talking stages. No solution is being found but diplomacy hasn't completely broken down yet.

It would require reworking the entire plot but the plot isn't working right now anyway.

[bri-s-notebook]

Earth vs. Lora conflict

Major spoilers for Unwaging War below the cut

So thinking more about Earth's perspective in the war and, like most things, simpler is better. Some variation of "We've barely got enough resources for our own people [whether true or not] and you've got nothing we need or want for trade so if you come to take our stuff, it's over our dead bodies." Literally.

Which, again, provides us our factions if we're doing away with discrete nations, or even emphasizing the UN (or its fictional equivalent, all names and organizations are fictitious yadda yadda yadda) - those who want trade, those who want mercy and peace and to extend aid (I think I'm going to go ahead and mention the Vatican at least once as heading the Coalition of Peace just because) and those who want war. And, as per the usual in any real-life conflict, they are the most successful, despite general anti-war sentiment.

...I'm trying really hard not to get political or insert that kind of commentary but sometimes it just intrudes itself whether one likes it or not.

So, in sum, Earth has what Lora needs, and can't or won't give it, and Lora intends to take it by force. (Which is essentially the sum of every war ever that's not religiously motivated and even some that are, and it's rather absurd that it's taken me this long to get around to it, but ah well, better late than never.)

[bri-s-notebook]

Lora vs. Earth conflict

Major spoilers ahead for Unwaging War

So before I can proceed any further, I need to decide on the nexus for the conflict between Lora and Earth. In the original, it was a simple territorial conquest and genocide, but that doesn't really scratch the itch for a logical society that considers themselves enlightened.

However I really only need to take one step to the left.

Lora is a terraformed asteroid, right? They're strapped for resources, plain and simple. Their half artificial planet simply cannot support their growing population.

Which doesn't really explain why it's a conflict. Why not just open trade with Earth? So I think there's definitely a faction that prefers that route. And because I need an unambiguous Bad Guy, there will be a faction that's all for conquering Earth and committing genocide and simply taking what they need (I'll call these guys Space Bandits for now.) And then maybe there's the guys who just want to sneak in and steal what they need without bloodshed. (Maybe Dareth was one of these guys.)

Which brings us back around to, why even have the conflict in the first place? Well, I'll need to lean hard into the Darkness To Be Found In The Human Heart, which is a unfortunate fact of real life but a very useful narrative device in romance stories in vaguely scifi settings. Also known as, the presumed-failed colony of Lora was An Embarrassment that got hushed up and Earth refused to help them when they made contact.

...or something, frankly that part still needs work. Might have to tie it in with why there is, apparently, now a one world government.

But! For now, we've got the Loran motive and factions.

[bri-s-notebook]

In hindsight, she really shouldn't have been surprised that there was a Loran ship so close by. It had loomed large in the viewport, and she had listened to the comms exchange with as huffy an attitude as she could project with bound hands. Dareth, blast him, seemed to find her indignation endlessly endearing, offering sweet nothings and mild flirtations as he glided the stolen little ship into the docking bay.

"No critiques, darling? I know you could do this better," he said, settling the little ship down with a thump that made them both wince. The Loran groundcrew with their orange guidance cones, visible through the starshield, also collectively winced, or perhaps were merely shaken by the rough landing.

"Oh no," Alithea said acerbically. "You're doing great."

Dareth stood, unbuckling his harness, and took a bow. "Just trying to impress my lovely wife," he cooed, and reached over to unbuckle her harness as well.

For a moment, defiance warred with dignity in Alithea's breast. Dignity won and she stood regally - only to find herself arrested with one slender warm hand wrapped around her upper arm. She stopped, looking up at him - in surprise, in an automatic response, she could not say - and stood for a single instant, transfixed by his eyes. Blue as Arctic ice and warm as the Equator where they rested on her. The fingertips of his other hand just skimmed her cheek. "Stars, you're lovely," he murmured.

Habit, again, to lean into this caress, to let it be a soothing balm on her wounded heart, to savor his nearness and the quiet of the gently humming spaceship.

Then reality came crashing in again like a meteor. The humming spaceship was stolen, she was a prisoner of war, and her husband was a sworn enemy of her people and all that she fought for. Alithea's spine straightened with a snap that should have been audible, all the force of her betrayal and her rage (not grief, no time, no room for grief) weighing in her gaze as she glared at him. "Spare me your empty words."

"Never empty for you, darling," he said, but, mercifully, turned to activate the landing ramp. It lowered, and his grip around her bicep shifted. Head held high and spine ramrod straight, she marched regally at his side, her arm held captive in his hand, her life held captive in his hands.

[bri-s-notebook]

The cell was quiet, and dim. Alithea appreciated that she was not to be put under blinding, harsh white lights. The starship hummed around her, a soothing note, almost familiar, just alien enough that she could not quite rest. Her spine and the back of her skull itched, and the cold of space seeped straight through a thin uniform designed for summer in the deserts of central North America.

They had left her her uniform. She did not like to think about the implications of that.

Luckily for her, she had plenty else to occupy her mind. For instance, the fact that the welcoming committee had saluted Dareth, and that everyone they had met had treated him with respect bordering on deference. Maybe this was standard for long-undercover-spies-turned-escaped-prisoners-of-war, but she suspected not. Spies turned escapees also didn't, usually, start rapping out orders and expect to be obeyed.

Alithea found she did not care for those implications, either, although this dislike mainly arose from incredulity and indignation.

(And some small part of her wondered how he had ever managed to conceal his natural air of command while holding no command position on Earth.)

She was cautiously grateful that his commands regarding her had been obeyed. It was unsettling, in a way, to have been treated to no indignity, to have not had her humanity stripped away from her in any small way. They had scarcely searched her, and that under her husband's - under Dareth's - watchful eye. Then they had thrust her in here, and sealed the door, and left her alone.

She paced the cell once more, and shivered, and hugged herself, and contemplated the hard little cot built into the wall, with its thin pallet mattress and its thin little blanket. A moment, and her pacing resumed. Though she had been treated humanely, she was still a prisoner of war, facing an uncertain future at the mercy of a man who-

Her thoughts shied away from that line. No. She was still a prisoner of war facing an uncertain future, being taken, presumably, to another planet, far from her own. Escape would be so difficult as to be nearly impossible.

Alithea sank at last onto the cot, staring blankly at the door opposite. Time slowed to an eternal race, hourglass sand trickling at terminal speed. The door slid open and her eyes tracked the movement before flicking up to the newcomer, and her voice was a croak, as though it had been years since she had last spoken. "Oh, how the tables have turned."

"I had enough sense not to bring a weapon." Dareth spread his hands to show his uniform, the holster for a sidearm conspicuously empty.

"Very wise." She did not stand, did not move closer. Another counterpoint.

He came to her nonetheless, kneeling before her and taking her hands in his, ever so gently. "Your hands are cold."

She stared down, at her fingers wrapped in his, his thumbs brushing over the backs of her hands. "I don't understand how yours aren't."

"Better circulation," he said deadpan, and suddenly Alithea was choking, scalding tears rising in her eyes and her heart, a wordless howl of aching pain and knifing agony-

His thumb - her husband's thumb - brushing the corner of her eye was as sharp as glass and the howl in her soul reached a crescendo. It was so loud she almost didn't hear his whisper, words as familiar as her own reflection in the mirror. I love you too, sweetheart. Always.

There was no one in the cell to see as she keeled forward over her own knees in the grip of a grief too great for her body to hold, no one save the one to whom she had laid bare everything down to her very soul. There was no one in the cell to see her greatest enemy sit up beside her on the meager cot and take her in his arms, no one to know that she buried her face in his chest to muffle the screaming, keening wails of stunned betrayal and wounded, bleeding hurt.

There was no one to see as she cried herself out, no one to see her captor wipe away her tears with infinite tenderness. There was no one to witness as he tipped her chin up, light and easy, no one to see her hands wrap tightly into the front of his uniform shirt. No one to observe the kiss that each had been hollow without for so long.

Silence in the cell. The thin little bed smelled of him, and when the lone occupant closed her eyes and drew the thin blanket close around her shoulders, she could almost pretend that none of this had happened, that she was back home, and her husband would soon finish his duties and join her in bed.

Alithea fell asleep with her face turned into the mattress and Dareth's scent filling her nose.

[bri-s-notebook]

In hindsight, she really shouldn't have been surprised that there was a Loran ship so close by. It had loomed large in the viewport, and she had listened to the comms exchange with as huffy an attitude as she could project with bound hands. Dareth, blast him, seemed to find her indignation endlessly endearing, offering sweet nothings and mild flirtations as he glided the stolen little ship into the docking bay.

"No critiques, darling? I know you could do this better," he said, settling the little ship down with a thump that made them both wince. The Loran groundcrew with their orange guidance cones, visible through the starshield, also collectively winced, or perhaps were merely shaken by the rough landing.

"Oh no," Alithea said acerbically. "You're doing great."

Dareth stood, unbuckling his harness, and took a bow. "Just trying to impress my lovely wife," he cooed, and reached over to unbuckle her harness as well.

For a moment, defiance warred with dignity in Alithea's breast. Dignity won and she stood regally - only to find herself arrested with one slender warm hand wrapped around her upper arm. She stopped, looking up at him - in surprise, in an automatic response, she could not say - and stood for a single instant, transfixed by his eyes. Blue as Arctic ice and warm as the Equator where they rested on her. The fingertips of his other hand just skimmed her cheek. "Stars, you're lovely," he murmured.

Habit, again, to lean into this caress, to let it be a soothing balm on her wounded heart, to savor his nearness and the quiet of the gently humming spaceship.

Then reality came crashing in again like a meteor. The humming spaceship was stolen, she was a prisoner of war, and her husband was a sworn enemy of her people and all that she fought for. Alithea's spine straightened with a snap that should have been audible, all the force of her betrayal and her rage (not grief, no time, no room for grief) weighing in her gaze as she glared at him. "Spare me your empty words."

"Never empty for you, darling," he said, but, mercifully, turned to activate the landing ramp. It lowered, and his grip around her bicep shifted. Head held high and spine ramrod straight, she marched regally at his side, her arm held captive in his hand, her life held captive in his hands.

[bri-s-notebook]

Unwaging War Planets and Politics

Major spoilers ahead for Unwaging War.

In the original version of UW, there was a secret third planet, unknown to both Lora and Earth, waiting in the wings to come in after the war and conquer both planets. In the first draft, the discovery of this third planet was the impetus for the first two to come to a truce, and then everyone committed a whole lot of war crimes.

I don't feel like a third planet, completely unknown, is plausible; I can come up with a semi-believable backstory for Lora (more on that anon) but not another one. I think instead I'll have at least two factions on Lora - which, let's face it, is what's realistic anyway. (It was my greatest quibble with Star Wars, treating planetary climates and politics as homogeneous the entire planet over when it just doesn't work like that.) One world governments and empires, even ones that don't tolerate dissent, are not homogeneous. People are different and messy and disagreements arise.

So. At least two factions on Lora, despite their limited population. Possibly more. (One that wants war with Earth for - whatever unknown reason - one that wants complete conquest of Earth, one that wants peace, etc) A second faction plotting against the current government will take the place of the Secret Third Planet (I'm totally keeping Taun though.)

Lora is a terraformed asteroid of reasonable size that semi-artificially mirrors Earth's orbit exactly, but on the exact opposite side at all times. They've got more advanced technology such as gravity generators, in part because of being settled (and populated) entirely by scientists, and probably also in part because of eugenics.

Speaking of which, I think I'll simultaneously keep and eliminate some of the war crimes of the original by making military and civilian life inextricably intertwined in both societies, so there is no such thing as non-combatants. Yes this does mean that children are raised as soldiers.

(This might be fun to explore as a subplot or in flashbacks. In fact this might be the impetus for Alithea to cooperate with Dareth in seeking peace; if she fell pregnant she could dislike the idea of their child being raised as a soldier the way she was.)

[greenleavesandwarmbreezes]

@inklings-challenge

The stars sang. Every spacefarer knew that, and at every port, one could find the old dusts, their skin pale from the extended lack of sun and eyes a little too large, as they sat and spun their yarns, hands wrapped around drinks that wouldn't float away from tables held securely in place by the forces of gravity. The stars sang, they said, but everyone knew that. They said other things, too, but they were addled by stardust and too much time away from the sun. Space madness. Better not to listen.

The stars sang, though, and Max could hear them, but more than that, they were beautiful. He could see how men could go mad, up here in this infinite void, gazing at brilliance not meant for human eyes. God had put Mankind on land, not in the depths of the ocean or the vastness of space, but there it was: Man, in all his hubris, had invented boats and submarines and rockets and photon engines, and plumbed the deepest depths and looked to a sky not quite high enough to be beyond reach.

The stars were beautiful. He still stopped sometimes, just to gape out of the viewports, to stare at planets slipping past and giant flaming balls of gas so bright that looking at them was probably damaging his eyes. He understood why the old dusts spoke wistfully of plunging straight into the hearts of those glorious infernos.

Space madness, they called it, but it wasn't really. It was love, wild passionate soul-consuming love.

There had to be more to them than mere mindless gas and flame. Something that that barrier of heat kept humans from discovering.

It was so very long ago. He had spent, oh, most of his life thinking that it had just been a dream, perhaps brought on by one of the books his mother had read to him endlessly, back when there had still been time for such things. A dream, a young child's imagination, so vivid it felt like a real memory.

After all, one didn't really find strange glowing little fairy girls in one's front yard. But she hadn't been a fairy, had she? I am a star, she had said, and she had been so pale, and so beautiful, and so glowing, that Max had almost believed her. After all, he was pretty sure that normal people didn't eat heat, although it had certainly been interesting to watch. He had not even minded the scolding for playing with matches - an entire box of matches, no less! He had thought of his shining friend and agreed not to do it again and didn't regret it at all, not even when she vanished two days later.

It was not the sort of thing that one forgot about, precisely, but neither had he thought of it in several years. The first time he had seen a star unfiltered by the atmosphere, painfully bright and achingly awe-inspiring, he had remembered, vividly.

I am a star, she had said, and that was absurd, because stars were vast balls of flaming gasses and heat so hot you couldn't get within miles of them and he believed her, now, he thought, because she had been painfully beautiful in just the same way.

Max understood why the old dusts spoke wistfully of diving into the heart of a star, just to see what was there.

Which was probably why, buried deep underneath the panic and the scrambling self-preservation and the instincts screaming I don't want to die! there was the tiniest seed of excited anticipation. All around him, the rest of the crew was screaming, or shouting, or praying, or sobbing, or scrambling into escape pods.

The engines were offline, their orbit was decaying, and there weren't enough escape pods for the entire crew. Those were the facts, cold and bare. Klaxons blared and alarms screamed and emergency lights strobed red. Max stood at the viewport, watching the escape pods streak away from the ship like meteors, trailing tiny glittering wisps of atmosphere as they went. They were beautiful, too.

He turned his gaze on the star that would kill them all, mesmerized, even now, by the exquisite loveliness of its deadly power. He looked, because he wouldn't have much use for his eyes for much longer, and this was worth it, to see a star up close, to marvel at the intricate swirls of heat on its surface.

It was beautiful.

The ship plunged towards the star.

*

Dying wasn't so bad. Everything was made of light. The air, whatever Max was lying on, Max himself. Pure, white, brilliant light. The ship was gone, with its artificial alarms and puny overhead bulbs, burned away. It was just Max, and the light, and the fairy girl he had found one long ago evening, curled up cold and frightened in his front yard. She was older now, same as he was, and no less beautiful for it.

He was old enough now not to be embarrassed to tell her so, and with that thought, he found his voice again. It was made of light, too. You're beautiful.

She smiled. "You're awake. Do you remember me?"

Of course. That wasn't the sort of thing one forgot.

"Good. Can you sit up? Give me your hand."

He had hands? He had had hands, but he thought they must have turned to light, too.

Max sat up, looking down at himself, baffled. He was a jarring note in this place of pure white light - but it wasn't pure white light, anymore, or at least, the light was taking shape. He was lying on a bed, even though it felt like lying on light, but those were the wrinkles of fabric, and he was sitting up, staring at practical brown coveralls and marveling how mud could obscure a sunbeam, but his skin was glowing now, too, white like hers, spacer-pale, and her hand, when it clasped his, felt like light too.

He stood, dazed, certain he was dreaming - this had to be a dream, the continuance of a dream from when he was five years old. But this room was not like one he had ever seen before, and the floor was also made of light - he was standing on light - and the vast arched windows showed a white sky with shimmering swirls like the surface of the star that had claimed the Prometheus.

The girl's hand squeezed his gently and Max looked around, realizing his jaw was hanging slightly. Her eyes were compassionate as she looked at him, and merry, and joyous. "Welcome to my home. I told you I was a star. Would you like to come look around?"

There was nothing Max would like better.

It was beautiful.

[bri-s-notebook]

Klaxons blared and emergency lights strobed red and sleek silver escape pods flashed silently out into space like shooting stars, their distress beacons broadcasting out into the void before they were seized in tractor beams and reeled into the pirate ships like helpless fish.

The airlocks had been sealed shut, but the pirates were boarding, of course, their arc welders blazing white-hot circles into the toughened steel of the airlocks. Armed guards stood ready and waiting, rows upon rows of soldiers and private security in an array of uniforms, guns poised and ready to spray fire on the boarders as they came through their cut entryway.