November Challenge - Family

[lslaw.livejournal.com]

(With apologies to seph_hazard for the survival of her character in this one; I must be slipping.)

In the village of Dymchurch-under-the-Wall, Old Scarecrow watches as his grand-daughter is presented; her first gathering as a full-fledged member of a tribe.

It is admittedly embarrassing that she hasn't followed in his footsteps - he had a secret hope that she might inherit his old deed name, Runs-Against-the-Storm - although he should probably have seen it coming. It's not as though Bess didn't show all the signs of that kinship; it was part of what he loved about her. And he can not help but be proud of her as she stands before the elders and gives her name in a clear voice.

"Penelope Starkadder," she announces, and that makes him smile. "Called Shapes-the-Steel."

Shapes-the-Steel indeed; he suddenly realises that things could have been much worse. She could have been one of them. A tiny part of him hopes that she'll name the Lords next, but he knows the hope is forlorn.

Sure enough, she finishes as expected: "Cliath Theurge of the Black Furies."

Her pack mates whoop with approbation. Christopher feels some of the other Shadow Lords in the Sept glowering, no doubt blaming him for this reversal in the fortunes of an ancient and venerable line, seeing further generations of strident amazons arising from their kinfolk. He shrugs it all off with a soft chuckle; he wasn't exactly expecting great-grandkids from Penny after all.

[Geist]The Writer

[golgothafiction.livejournal.com]

Bill let his body go limp and fell forwards into the desk.  Every time she got to the same place in the story she would start wailing loudly. He was trying to do her a favour, record her life and her death so that she would never be forgotten. He had boxes full of life stories under his bed, each story was the life of a ghost he had helped or simply found. She was one he had found, she couldn’t be helped, at least not by him, her anchor was her killer and revenge was what would unlock her and while Bill were many things, he was not a killer.

“Listen,” he finally said, lifting his head from the desk and lighting a cigarette that was close at hand, “If you want to be remembered you need to talk to me. I know it’s traumatic but it’s unchangeable now.” This was greeted by another ear-splitting wail and she collapsed to the floor, or at least as close to the floor a floating ghost can get, and broke down into tears. Bill calmly took a drag of the cigarette and let the warm smoke laced with addictive nicotine sooth his soul and subdue the cravings. As he exhaled he felt calmer and allowed himself to relax into the chair and momentarily enjoy the sight of the smoke curling around the intangible figure of the ghost. “You gotta remember why you came to me; you wanted me to record your story.” Bill leaned forwards in the chair and focused for a moment so he could gently touch her cheek, her ‘skin’ cold to the touch.

“Okay...”She wheezed through her tears, “I can carry on.” She got to her feet, despite the fact she stood two inches above the floor.

“That’s it, now when you are ready start again.” Bill spun round in his chair and rested his fingers lightly on the keys of the typewriter waiting for her to continue the story.

“I was young when I first met Jake...” She began. Bill concealed his sigh and took another drag from the cigarette, this was the eighth time she had started the story from the beginning and he had no doubt he’d hear it all at least twice more before the end of the night, but Bill didn’t mind. He was not a great fighter but he was a skilled finder and an above average writer. While some of the Bound went round kicking in heads and resolving anchors, Bill record the past, he recorded lives and while he had helped resolve a few anchors in his time, this is what he was meant to do, this was how he helped. That was not to say he was above revenge, but he would much rather let someone else take care of it. He gently stubbed out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray and inserted fresh paper into the typewriter and began to write down what she said.

“File 119; Holly Sullivan” Her life, like the others would be recorded and filed away.