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Shepherd's Bush
Aug. 12th, 2005 11:16 pmDoor hates horses.
She especially hates these horses, but with Velvets and who know what else hounding her steps, Shepherd's Bush is the only place she's been able to reach.
She needs rest and, more importantly, she needs a bandage. And so she Opens one more desparate time, concentrating fiercely on the cave the shepherds live in, rather than the fields that are home to their bloodthirsty charges.
She makes it, just barely, and the next five minutes are a confusion of lights and noise until she realises that her arm is being cared for tenderly and the voices around her hold concern rather than anger or fear, and she finally allows herself to lose consciousness.
She wakes less than an hour later, her arm smeared with a foul-smelling salve and wrapped tightly. She's lying on a bed that's several times too large for her, being watched over by a Cyclops whose eye flickers between boredom and interest.
And then it's more confusion - yes, I'm alright, thank you for your help, no, I need to go, I can't lead them here, the House won't forget your service, please don't tell anyone I was here - and they finally let her go, their bulbous eyes filled with concern and respect and a touch of pity.
She's too tired to Open more than a few more times, and so she takes the quickest route possible, stopping only to spend a few dangerous moments in a sewer, whispering with a rat.
And then she is in a meadow, broad and green and empty, unvisited by anyone but Openers in years beyond counting. There are rows and rows of unicorn skeletons, their horns shining in the sunlight.
Here she can rest.
She especially hates these horses, but with Velvets and who know what else hounding her steps, Shepherd's Bush is the only place she's been able to reach.
She needs rest and, more importantly, she needs a bandage. And so she Opens one more desparate time, concentrating fiercely on the cave the shepherds live in, rather than the fields that are home to their bloodthirsty charges.
She makes it, just barely, and the next five minutes are a confusion of lights and noise until she realises that her arm is being cared for tenderly and the voices around her hold concern rather than anger or fear, and she finally allows herself to lose consciousness.
She wakes less than an hour later, her arm smeared with a foul-smelling salve and wrapped tightly. She's lying on a bed that's several times too large for her, being watched over by a Cyclops whose eye flickers between boredom and interest.
And then it's more confusion - yes, I'm alright, thank you for your help, no, I need to go, I can't lead them here, the House won't forget your service, please don't tell anyone I was here - and they finally let her go, their bulbous eyes filled with concern and respect and a touch of pity.
She's too tired to Open more than a few more times, and so she takes the quickest route possible, stopping only to spend a few dangerous moments in a sewer, whispering with a rat.
And then she is in a meadow, broad and green and empty, unvisited by anyone but Openers in years beyond counting. There are rows and rows of unicorn skeletons, their horns shining in the sunlight.
Here she can rest.
