Telling Stories
Disclaimer: All characters and locations herein are the property of Tamora Pierce. Plot and actual written words owned by me. Written for Challenge 12 of the Seanfhocal Circle.
In a quiet, grassy glen, two women wait. Lit by a glow too soft and pure to be sunlight, their eyes -- dark, expectant -- are locked on the gap between two willow trees. Arced together as though embraced, the trees protect a shaded oval gateway. Seeds of fire in all the colors of the rainbow dance maniacally in the leafy gloom, so different from the peace and comfort of the glen.
The two lounge on the bank of a clear, silvery brook twining through the greenery. The tinkle of waterfalls sounds nearby, just out of sight among the trees. Both are young, dark and fresh-faced, their faces clear and clothing simple. In every way they differ from the object of their anticipation as she finally steps out of the sparking gloom.
Stark in red and white, gray hair to her shoulders, the once-child steps into the pure, clean light. The young women rise, speak softly in hushed, excited voices, then go to her, hesitantly. She blinks in the suddenly bright light, and looks around her.
"Glaki?" the black-haired woman asks tentatively.
Eyes focus on her, taking her in from every angle. Something shifts, tugging inside. "Do I know you?"
Tears stain the younger's face, dripping down on her white kyten.
Her friend lays a comforting arm around her shoulder. "It's been a long time, Ira," she murmurs.
"Ira," says the woman called Glaki wonderously. She shakes her head. "How did you know it was me?"
"We've been waiting for you for a long time," replies the friend.
"Yali?" asks the frowning Glaki.
She nods. "I couldn't really expect you to remember," she admits with a crooked smile. "You were so young when we died."
Glaki's frown deepens. "I can remember, if I try very hard," she says. "The streets and the streams. And our house, and the neighbors."
"Don't remind me," inter-cuts Ira dryly. "It's been peaceful here. Thinking of Poppy and Xantha and the boys, and all that old life…"
"Life," breathes Glaki, her dark eyes misting.
"Tell me about yours," orders Ira. "I missed almost all of it."
As the two performers retake their seats on the stream's bank, their elder removes her red over-robe and joins them on the grass, groaning as her bones resist her efforts to move too quickly.
"It's hard to take," says Yali thoughtfully. "Us looking like we do, you nearly seventy, with gray hair and creaking bones, dressed like a shenos, and… is that silk?"
"Should I tell you everything?" asks Glaki with a smile.
Both girls nod vigorously.
"But you have to promise to tell me everything, too," she says.
Ira shrugs. "What's to tell?"
"How you met my father, and who he was," she retorts, sharp-eyed. "And about your family, and how you both became yas- yakes-"
"Yaskedasi," supplies Yali. She looks at her friend. "I suppose she's right. There's a lot we never told her."
Glaki looks above her, sees no sun. "Take your time," she says. "I want to hear it all."
And so they sit, and talk.