It was in the autumn that Owen met Dhemlan's heir for the first time. He
remembers this, because he was raking leaves, damp with a cold rain that
would soon be snow. He hadn't bothered with his cloak, and the leaves had
clung to the soaking hems of his pants as he raked. He tried to pretend
that the rain was snow, but the colors of the leaves, they were too
assaulting for even him to believe that the world was balanced on the edge
of winter, and that soon would all be dissolved into slate grey skies and a
white flecked landscape.
While he was raking, and pretending, the little witch had appeared. At first, he thought her hair was a web of snow on the bleached oak branches, and he had been jubilant for a moment. And then the girl shifted, and he realized there was a girl, and that the snow was her hair, tumbling wild around her shoulders and caught back from her face in ring of autumn leaves.
She smiled at him as she approached. Owen did not notice her eyes, not at first. He was young, and too practical to be a romantic. So the first thing he noticed was her shoes. The wet leaves clung to them as she shuffled forwards, and he noticed the gold chased buckles on them, and the smoothness of the leather. She wore a slight heel on them, and the toes were tapered, as was the fashion. A noble, he had thought then, a woman of consequence. If only he knew.
The white haired girl seemed a wild thing. Her wind swept hair, held back in combs of leaves, and the rain on her dress glittering like jewels in the waning sunlight. This girl, she wore the elements about her like a cloak. Except for her shoes. That made him wonder, but he didn't say anything, just kept raking. Owen was silent by nature, and in the presence of a noblewoman, he was slightly awed, and words evaded him. So he raked and she smiled and the sun began to set, setting the leaves to burning as the light caught their water edged surfaces.
"Why are you raking leaves?" she asked finally.
Her guise faded a little, as the wind beat the leaves from her hair and the rain from her cheeks. Save for her moonlight hair, she seemed normal, mundane almost. And her questions were blatant and silly. A noblewoman then, he thought to himself. His rake combed the earth, snaring the leaves and gathering them into heaps that seemed like gold, in the dying light. Owen played out that fancy for a moment, ignoring her long enough where curtness was almost rudeness, before speaking. "My job is raking the leaves."
The girl narrowed her eyes, gold shadowed eyes he thought, like autumn leaves dusted in the sunlight. Strange eyes, when framed in her snowy hair. It didn't look right. He plunged his rake into the pile of leaves, shaping them into a small tower, before using a wisp of Craft to push them into the silky black garbage bags. It felt like he was gouging her eyes, and every time after, he would see her face in the circles of mottled autumn leaves that he raked.
"You are not Dhemlan," she said.
Owen snorted. "Good observations, Lady! Perhaps I should put you in charge of raking the leaves with a sharp mind like that!"
Her cheeks bloomed with two spots of color, stark on her pallid skin. She nibbled her lip, retreating behind the curtain of her hair and tried to look unobtrusive. Owen rolled his eyes, tossing the rake aside and wrestling the bags shut. With a satisfied grunt he vanished them with a flick of his Opal strength.
The honey eyed girl waited until he was done. Smiling crookedly, she said with stinging tartness, "Perhaps you should have put me in charge, Prince."
Owen snarled sarcastically, "Oh, really? With stick arms like that I doubt you could life a branch!"
The girl shrugged, and there was a little too much smug satisfaction in her smile for his comfort. When she only sat, smiling that infuriating smile, he brandished his rake and tramped towards the more northern part of the lawn, bending over to pick up a handful of garbage bags as he walked. When he looked up, he gasped, slack jawed and unbelieving.
The leaves were gone. All of them. Even the ones who had been clinging doggedly to the spindly branches had vanished. Scanning the lawns with something close to panic, Owen felt the rake slip from his hands, bouncing against the cold ground. The garbage bags fluttered to rest around it. Mother Night! He spun around slowly to focus again on the girl, who was standing, one hand propped on her hip, smiling like a pompous little twit.
"What did you do with the leaves?" he asked softly.
"You could do it. Even with that puny little Opal," she said with a loud sniff.
Owen glared hot fire at her. "Hey, there is nothing shameful with wearing an Opal! And I'll have you know that I wear one of the darker jewels in my court, and that I'll be a Red jewelled Prince one day, and you better watch out, you're the first on my hit list!" Owen growled, judging the distance between them. Six paces, and then he could show her what the Opal could do! The girl sobered, her gold flecked eyes studiously wide, and the corner of her mouths turned down in a thoughtful frown. "Oh, I believe you are a darker prince among your court. A court of half-blooded witless fools, for taking in an Opal jewelled Prince!"
"Arrgghh!" Owen cried, flinging himself at her swaying figure, doggedly clinging to her feet while laughter racked her.
In a cloud of swishing silk and flying hair and little ruptures of giggles, she disappeared before Owen could spit on her shoe buckles. With an angry cry he kicked the ground, and cried even louder when his toe connected with solid earth. "Stupid witch! I'll find you! I know you're out there!"
He threw out an Opal probe, but nothing out of the ordinary surfaced. Typical! Just like a woman, to go disappearing the moment before things got dirty. Never stuck around long enough to see their battles through! If it wasn't for men, he doubted they could keep their feet on the ground long enough to wash the blood off their hands before bouncing off to reek havoc somewhere else.
Raking his hands through his hair with a frustrated sigh, he picked up the rake, slammed it into the ground, ran after it to retrieve it, and nearly stabbed himself in the eye, waving it around in his anger. Stupid witch, just wait, she'd be back, to gloat probably, and then he would show her! He stabbed his rake into the garage bags, then plucked them off its rusty teeth, stuffing them deep in his pockets. Well, at least he had no more leaves to rake.
He was almost calm. As calm as any Prince could be after being beaten into the dust by a point toothed witch. But when he turned around again, his calm dissolved into anger, and anger boiled away into disbelief.
The leaves were all back. Every single one. Even the ones still on the branches.
While he was raking, and pretending, the little witch had appeared. At first, he thought her hair was a web of snow on the bleached oak branches, and he had been jubilant for a moment. And then the girl shifted, and he realized there was a girl, and that the snow was her hair, tumbling wild around her shoulders and caught back from her face in ring of autumn leaves.
She smiled at him as she approached. Owen did not notice her eyes, not at first. He was young, and too practical to be a romantic. So the first thing he noticed was her shoes. The wet leaves clung to them as she shuffled forwards, and he noticed the gold chased buckles on them, and the smoothness of the leather. She wore a slight heel on them, and the toes were tapered, as was the fashion. A noble, he had thought then, a woman of consequence. If only he knew.
The white haired girl seemed a wild thing. Her wind swept hair, held back in combs of leaves, and the rain on her dress glittering like jewels in the waning sunlight. This girl, she wore the elements about her like a cloak. Except for her shoes. That made him wonder, but he didn't say anything, just kept raking. Owen was silent by nature, and in the presence of a noblewoman, he was slightly awed, and words evaded him. So he raked and she smiled and the sun began to set, setting the leaves to burning as the light caught their water edged surfaces.
"Why are you raking leaves?" she asked finally.
Her guise faded a little, as the wind beat the leaves from her hair and the rain from her cheeks. Save for her moonlight hair, she seemed normal, mundane almost. And her questions were blatant and silly. A noblewoman then, he thought to himself. His rake combed the earth, snaring the leaves and gathering them into heaps that seemed like gold, in the dying light. Owen played out that fancy for a moment, ignoring her long enough where curtness was almost rudeness, before speaking. "My job is raking the leaves."
The girl narrowed her eyes, gold shadowed eyes he thought, like autumn leaves dusted in the sunlight. Strange eyes, when framed in her snowy hair. It didn't look right. He plunged his rake into the pile of leaves, shaping them into a small tower, before using a wisp of Craft to push them into the silky black garbage bags. It felt like he was gouging her eyes, and every time after, he would see her face in the circles of mottled autumn leaves that he raked.
"You are not Dhemlan," she said.
Owen snorted. "Good observations, Lady! Perhaps I should put you in charge of raking the leaves with a sharp mind like that!"
Her cheeks bloomed with two spots of color, stark on her pallid skin. She nibbled her lip, retreating behind the curtain of her hair and tried to look unobtrusive. Owen rolled his eyes, tossing the rake aside and wrestling the bags shut. With a satisfied grunt he vanished them with a flick of his Opal strength.
The honey eyed girl waited until he was done. Smiling crookedly, she said with stinging tartness, "Perhaps you should have put me in charge, Prince."
Owen snarled sarcastically, "Oh, really? With stick arms like that I doubt you could life a branch!"
The girl shrugged, and there was a little too much smug satisfaction in her smile for his comfort. When she only sat, smiling that infuriating smile, he brandished his rake and tramped towards the more northern part of the lawn, bending over to pick up a handful of garbage bags as he walked. When he looked up, he gasped, slack jawed and unbelieving.
The leaves were gone. All of them. Even the ones who had been clinging doggedly to the spindly branches had vanished. Scanning the lawns with something close to panic, Owen felt the rake slip from his hands, bouncing against the cold ground. The garbage bags fluttered to rest around it. Mother Night! He spun around slowly to focus again on the girl, who was standing, one hand propped on her hip, smiling like a pompous little twit.
"What did you do with the leaves?" he asked softly.
"You could do it. Even with that puny little Opal," she said with a loud sniff.
Owen glared hot fire at her. "Hey, there is nothing shameful with wearing an Opal! And I'll have you know that I wear one of the darker jewels in my court, and that I'll be a Red jewelled Prince one day, and you better watch out, you're the first on my hit list!" Owen growled, judging the distance between them. Six paces, and then he could show her what the Opal could do! The girl sobered, her gold flecked eyes studiously wide, and the corner of her mouths turned down in a thoughtful frown. "Oh, I believe you are a darker prince among your court. A court of half-blooded witless fools, for taking in an Opal jewelled Prince!"
"Arrgghh!" Owen cried, flinging himself at her swaying figure, doggedly clinging to her feet while laughter racked her.
In a cloud of swishing silk and flying hair and little ruptures of giggles, she disappeared before Owen could spit on her shoe buckles. With an angry cry he kicked the ground, and cried even louder when his toe connected with solid earth. "Stupid witch! I'll find you! I know you're out there!"
He threw out an Opal probe, but nothing out of the ordinary surfaced. Typical! Just like a woman, to go disappearing the moment before things got dirty. Never stuck around long enough to see their battles through! If it wasn't for men, he doubted they could keep their feet on the ground long enough to wash the blood off their hands before bouncing off to reek havoc somewhere else.
Raking his hands through his hair with a frustrated sigh, he picked up the rake, slammed it into the ground, ran after it to retrieve it, and nearly stabbed himself in the eye, waving it around in his anger. Stupid witch, just wait, she'd be back, to gloat probably, and then he would show her! He stabbed his rake into the garage bags, then plucked them off its rusty teeth, stuffing them deep in his pockets. Well, at least he had no more leaves to rake.
He was almost calm. As calm as any Prince could be after being beaten into the dust by a point toothed witch. But when he turned around again, his calm dissolved into anger, and anger boiled away into disbelief.
The leaves were all back. Every single one. Even the ones still on the branches.