Prelude (Underworld Lucian Fanfiction)

9 - Chapter IX: That Certain Point

Outside...

Waiting in the stagecoach, the woman focused on her hands, the skin speckled, creased as if she had bathed for hours upon hours. Soft. Shaking. England. How could she go to England? Some of her memories were so certain, so fixed. Others were like dried leaves before winter, crumpling to dust, parts of them missing, blowing away as the wind took them. She could still see their necks, the women hanging. Eight of them left through the night, their legs swaying in the breeze. She gripped the seat, battling tears. Things would have changed. The people...would have changed.

But foolish not to have held her tongue. Regardless of what she did now, he would force her to learn simply for the challenge of it. Already, she knew so many languages, remembered learning them, seated for hours at a time, reciting them for...a woman. She could see the woman's face. Dark hair and pale skin, a green-eyed woman. She spoke sweetly as an angel with a devil's sword on her back. Her mentor. Another blood-seer. Another warrior. Memories of a hand on her neck, keeping her in line.

The thought of the warrior calmed her.

Breathe, she whispered almost silently, imagining the hand on her neck, stroking her head softly. Breathe. As if hearing the woman's voice in her mind, she inhaled slowly, counting as she did, trying to order her thoughts. Somehow trying to will her memories into cohesion.

Remember...

Dreams of a ship. Snow and ice. A life spent alone and hunting, far back from the chaos of the coven. She knew she had been alive before the war began. Snatches of her childhood leaping before her like a snow-hare. Who was Hrafn? It meant 'raven' in old Norse. It stood for the 'H' on her side, but the name held no face. For that matter, who was she? In all her memories, why did no one call her by name? What if she had never been named? She curled deeper into the seat, disturbed by the thought, the fear returning. No memory of birth, only the green-eyed woman with the sword.

Suddenly, the coach swayed to the side and she heard a creak. She looked up at the ceiling, anxious at the thought of the driver climbing from his perch. Why would he do that? What did he want? She tried to peer out the window, but there was no sign of him. Outside, she heard the horses pawing the ground, the soft creak of leather straps and bits being adjusted. It was probable the lycan was just caring for the horses, making some movement or other to soothe them. But with Lucian gone, if he decided to try anything, there would be little she could do to stop him.

Not that he would want to do anything.

She exhaled, looking away from the window, the faint reflection of her wrinkled face. She had almost forgotten. It was so strange not to see herself. If she closed her eyes, she could remember. Smooth skin, blue eyes from the Norse father, the cheekbones of her Sámi mother. The memory of her mother forcing a bone-comb through the black tangles, braiding her hair like rope and then sending her out to scrape hides. Even if her hair grew back, she would be hard-pressed to find herself wanted by anyone, let alone a brawny fresh-faced lycan. The one benefit to being old in a den of lycans.

Opening her eyes again, she looked around the empty stage-coach, letting her foot tap listlessly on the wooden floor. The botany book was still lying on the seat across from her. Almost tempted to pick it up and skim, she let it lie, afraid that Lucian would open the door the moment she touched it. He seemed...unpredictable, and it would be stupid to get her head ripped off simply because she was holding his favourite book. Jaded, she touched the latch of the window, but did not open it. Her body was still not used to being awake and the inside of the stage-coach was stifling.