writing_shadows

Quick. Run. Move. Shift. On a bus, sliding in and out of shadows so the bus driver doesn't see you. Through a shop, through the walls, in amongst the pickles and pears in the back room. Up the stairs, through the dust covered empty rooms and out through a window, floating like spindrift through the evening air.

Move. Dodge. Twist. There will be pursuit. There is always pursuit and the man in black (enamel eyes and a steel smile) has said that there's no way to hide from him or his. But you've got to try.

Don't think. Don't feel. Keep moving. Just move. Nothing else. Anything else will cut. Anything else will hurt. Anything else will bleed. Don't think about it. Not the terror in Aria's voice. Not the blood on Carin's cheek, nor the taste when you kissed him. Don't think.

Don't stop.

Stop.

In amongst the buildings, tall and thin, slants the russet shine of the twisting Thames. It should be a silver shine, which alliterates as well as catching the light, but the Thames has never been silver. It's always been brown. It's the tides, you once heard. They stir up the mud. Still, it's cleaner now that it has been in years. There are salmon again in the Thames and when you walk beside it, it no longer has the pungent stench that you remember from your youth.

Memory.

Now, that's a bad word. It's too heavy for this afternoon or evening. It carries with it too much weight, and every single portion that makes up the whole is as jagged as broken china.

But why else are you here if not for memory? Memory of him and his foot, carelessly resting against your head. Memory of a song that has no words, but says everything you ever wanted to say. Memory of a sense of utter belonging, all triggered by a single sentence, from a crying woman kneeling on the floor.

"He needs someone who knows exactly what he is to give their heart to him totally."

Is that all the memory that brings you here? It isn't quite enough anymore. It isn't sharp enough to cut through the softer memories, of the smell of woodsmoke and the sting of the salty waves against skin, of the roughness of a worgen's coat, and the supple smoothness of dragon scales.

But there are other memories. Aria's laugh and Carin's smile. Both offered up as payment for your sins, and you owe them more than can be counted on fingers or toes. They offered themselves for you. And all those memories now cut like diamond edged razorblades.

Walk. Now. No more hiding. First one foot, then the other. One step, two step, across the road, and between the great grey houses and offices that block the way. Around a corner, past a man on a bicycle that stops to stare. Down the steps and up ahead you can see the Thames, and hear the cry of the gulls, louder than traffic now.

Stop.

Far enough.

Why?

Memories.

But what?

Memories as hard as onyx. Memories of promises made, of a woman with dark eyes, half hidden beneath the water.

"Promise me you won't let yourself get hurt or taken because of their mistakes."

No. No enough. That promise doesn't count. This isn't about their mistakes.

One step more. You're off the steps now, one foot on the red paved path that stands between London and the Thames.

Stop.

Too far.

Another memory, as gentle as an eiderdown quilt. Memories of a hand on yours, of a whispered voice, over and over again, from a woman who smells of appleblossom.

"This isn't your fault, Rosie. This isn't your fault."

Maybe that doesn't matter. The Thames is close now. Reach the water and call, and he'll come for you. Fault or not fault, this is what is real. This is what has always been real. This is where you belong.

One step back. Back on to the steps, away from the river, away from the woman with the dog who frowns and hurries on and away. Back towards the town, towards the dim and distant roar of the cars and buses.

Why?

Memories.

One more memory, solid as the earth beneath your feet, even though it is just the memory of a stranger.

"It ain't the chains on your body you've got be scared of. It's the chains in your head. Fink you've go' more'n a few chains in yer 'ead still 'a break"

And down by the river, the river that leads to the sea, the realization comes.

It's time to break free.

It's time to flee.