To the Weaver of Pages

[seph-hazard.livejournal.com]

To the Weaver of Pages,

When Princess Elizabeth Tudor was held prisoner in the royal Woodstock Manor, she wrote poetry. She had no parchment, no ink, but she was still bejewelled as much as befitted any potential future queen and instead scratched her offerings into the window-glass with a diamond.

Much suspected by me,
Nothing proved can be;
Quoth Elizabeth prisoner.

I had no such diamond, nor indeed a window. The stone walls of my cell resisted all scratches and, though I considered writing my chiminage into my skin with a chip of rock, in the end I was not quite brave enough to follow through. I'm sorry; I failed you and I broke our deal. There were extenuating circumstances. Now I am home.

After a fashion, at any rate. You want secrets, that's why you ask for these missives, so secrets are what I shall give you: if this is my home, it's not the one I left. Everything is turned on its head and I wake up screaming in the night with no idea where I am. I can't imagine how the others are coping; my pack are, by and large, doing so much for me that I don't know how I could ever repay them. What does Natalie do, without a pack to look after her? What do any of the others do when they wake screaming in the night? H has slept with me, a comforting lupine presence by my side, every night since I got back here.

I have so much more than Natalie, but somehow I can't seem to drag my mind off what I don't have. I've been dreaming often of Ian; Ian who I'm not supposed to even think of, Ian whose name I'm not supposed to speak. We seem to make a habit of that in this pack. Whenever I so much as mention Hayden's name Arthur looks at me like I've slapped him in the face.

He says I don't get it yet, but this time I think it might be he who misses the point. Hayden was my brother, my saviour, and my best friend as well as my packmate and my alpha. As far as I can tell Arthur feels like his successor, like he should have replaced him in my affections like he's replaced him in our pack. And I love Arthur, of course I do: I always have, in one way or another. But he is not Hayden. And I do wish he would stop taking that personally, stop reproaching me for daring to mourn the death of someone who meant the world to me. And I do wish there was anyone left, anyone at all, who could deal with the fact that I wish Ian was still with us without shifting away from me like Mother Luna was going to come and strike me down at any second.

I’m the only founding member of Quiet Life left, now. I don't think the others realise that means anything to me at all.

Not that I am anyone to talk about letting people hang on to their past lives. I suspect I may be about to do the unthinkable; I think I may be about to rewrite the story of a tiny child, give them a life entirely other to the one they were born to. From what little I know of the toddler who is about to become my ward (and I say 'ward' rather than 'daughter'; I will never lie to her about that, I will be Aunty Helen to her always), her two short years have not exactly been bathed in purity and light. And so Genevieve McKenzie will become Jenny Penn, and even her Uncle H can probably not be told the full story of who she is.

I have no idea why Catriona left this task to me. I only hope I can be its equal. I thought, foolishly, that perhaps we could approach this as a pack: coparent, spread the burden, share the costs. I was wrong about that - though I do entirely understand why, I think - and it falls to me to see this right. I'll be honest, I don't know how to do it. What do I know about parenting? My mother was never a mum, my dad was always more her parent than mine, and Korsten...well, we all know what happens to the children of Korsten Winterfell.

There are two others that I know of, other than Ian and Hayden and myself. Doug is possibly the angriest Storm Lord I have ever met; he lives in Scotland and he wants little to do with me, I think.

The other is a newborn baby to be brought up in a cave, by a pack of savages who will call her their property. I've asked around a little, and apparently there's no chance of my getting the mother on my side to effect a rescue. I'm told that being able to offer a child a real house and a loving family and early admission to a good school is not high on the list of priorities for the Pure Sovereigns.

I fear that these next few months are going to be mired in the sort of crisis of identity I thought I had left behind me with adolescence and then, much too much later, the First Change. I am Dr. Helen Miranda Penn (BA Hons, M.Res, D.Phil.), respected academic, diligent librarian and Lay Reader to the Church of England. I am Sister-To-Heroes, the mysterious woman who trekked to a peculiar monastery in Russia to learn how to wield a staff and hunt bears alone in the snow. I am Mightier Than The Sword, Ithaeur Bone Shadow in a pack that already contains one of the worthiest and most respected Ithaeur Bone Shadows in the world. And I am, not to put too fine a point on it, absolutely bloody terrified.

Yours always, in chiminage and in fear,
Helen.

Comments

[annwfyn.livejournal.com]

Beautifully written. I really like this piece and it is very Helen.

[suave-steve.livejournal.com]

Very nice piece.