Dry Lips, Wet Eyes
There is a house that sits a little ways apart from its neighbors in Archet. It looks proud of its land, the garden being built there, but also sad and somewhat worn, as though tired of seeing so many families pass in and out of its doors. The most recent of these seem to have taken their leave. The house has once more lain empty and silent for days, the garden unattended. The sun on this bright summer morning drenches the partially repaired roof, puts shine on the once-proud walls.
Today, it would seem, the house has a visitor. A former occupant, one of the most recent tenants. From as far away as the road, laughter can be heard. Loud, female laughter. At first, the sound is happy and bright, inviting. But if one were to listen long enough, the sound would twist, and become somewhat demented, desperate and pained. These sounds drift through the front door that is cracked open, revealing darkness within.
Uannve is watching the house from the roadway, standing and just watching it for the last few minutes. The last few days have seen her watching it from various discreet places. Her narrow eyes have been rigid and attentive to it in those hours, but today, from a distance, she thought she heard something from the dead house, and upon closer approach, yes, she is certain now, she heard someone--someone is within. Yet could Uannve be scared? She stands on the road as though uncertain, and then no more.
Uannve walks forward. She moves for the door, and soon her hand is upon it and she waits at the crack of it, hesitant, neither opening it or closing it. She listens.
Uannve may remember the voice that is laughing now, more in sorrow than joy. It's a voice that whispered to her in loving tones on many dark nights out in the wilderness, a voice Uannve has heard raised in anger, and excitement, one that used to be ever-present with this woman. The horrible laughter continues, and when Uannve has come close to the door, she may be able to hear another sound, the noise of something being torn. The soft sigh of a blade is unmistakable. And then it stops, but the laughter continues.
Uannve's face is void of feeling, but her razor eyes are more than perceptive, as if she is hearing through her eyes as well, as they stare at the door right before her. She listens, and the horrible laughter is as though apart of the same song her eyes are, something no words could ever put to explanation. It's a strange thing, and something in the depths of Uannve's dark eyes fluctuates with each bit of laughter.
Uannve opens the door. She enters, listening still, not hearing if the forsaken wood creaks underfoot. She is gloved, though unarmed, and in the entryway she stands, looking and listening again.
From the entryway, the source of the sounds can be seen. It's a rather chilling sight, for some, perhaps. Muirgheal sits in the middle of the floor, cross-legged by the hearth, in her now empty family room where her children learned to crawl on the carpet. In her hand is her sword, finishing up the job she's been doing. Her pretty face looks the same, though hollow, and her eyes look fever bright. She reacts to the sound of Uannve entering, turning to look at her old friend and lover, but it's almost as though she's seen the scene through someone else's eyes. Reality is with her, but not entirely. She's looking through the twisted mirror of pain, fear, and heartbreak. She wears a widow's black, as if already mourning her husband.
All around her on the floor is her handiwork, like a field of fallen autumn leaves: beautiful, long locks of golden hair. Little strands of gold cling to her black dress like shining feathers. Now, her hair loosely curls around her ears, and there it stops. It makes her look much older. Finally, she sees Uannve truly, and her mouth opens softly in surprise. Her sword falls from her limp hand onto the floor in front of her. It's a harsh sound on the old wood.
The sound of the sword falling makes Uannve flinch, yet she doesn't move further. The door slowly closes behind her, back to just a crack, yet if it creeks loudly, Uannve does not hear it. She hears only the sword over, softer each time. She watches Muirgheal for a time.
Uannve, for all her oddities and creepy aspects, is just flesh and bone, her only real quirk a void of some instinct to pursue happiness. Her eyes are just eyes, exotic as they may be, and yet they are missing something, the light of life. They stay with her old love. She moves forward at Muirgheal unafraid, or not showing what she feels.
Those burning, fever bright eyes meet Uannve's. Muirgheal still looks less than sane, but better, now, more focused on what's really happening in this dark room. "Good morning." She offers to the woman. Her voice is soft, lilting but uncertain, and breaks in the middle of the phrase. She's been in hiding with her children, in a cellar, and it has made her limbs stiff, her face paler. So much quiet, she hasn't used her voice much except to sing occasional ballads to quiet the twins. A hand reaches up, still watching Uannve, and she shakes the remnants of loose hair from her very short cap of golden curls. She doesn't look boyish, even with her hair like this no one could ever mistake her very lovely, feminine face for other than what it is. "Do you think they'll recognize me now?" this is asked as though she assumes Uannve knows all of what has transpired, of late.
Her pack shudders on her back as Uannve drops down on her knees behind Muirgheal, and wraps her in a hug, pressing her head in close alongside. Still nothing is said, and nothing answered, nothing at all. There is only her hug, and it is fierce. There are no sweet nothings whispered into Muirgheal's ear --there is only a hard hug, and the pressure of Uannve's intensity conveyed through the contact of their bodies.
Muirgheal doesn't even have time to be surprised at this gesture. Instinct reigns and she replies by putting her arms around Uannve almost instantly. She pulls the woman down toward her, as if without Uannve's support, she'll fall through the floor. She bows her head, resting it against Uannve's shoulder, perhaps to hide her eyes, which have teared up. She's shaking, small tremors not typical of this strong young woman.
After several minutes have gone by, she speaks, head still pressed to Uannve's shoulder, so the words are a little muffled, but mostly understandable. "I'm a foolish girl, Uannve. I have done nothing but cause trouble for anyone I have ever loved, and I question why I've lived this long. I know I wasn't meant to. I deserve all of this." One pale hand comes up to gesture around the now empty house, which used to be filled with children, friends, happy laughter and the scent of fresh baked bread. The last thing she says is spoken with a firmer resolve, and is louder. "But I have to live for them." Caoimhe and Elfaroth, still in hiding someplace safe.
Uannve's hug doesn't relent, and she offers no response beyond this unfaltering proof of her care--no words to comfort or criticize, no chiding or reaffirming wisdom, should she have either, nothing. The hug is made yet longer in Uannve's pure silence.
Muirgheal spends several more blissful moments in silence, wrapped up with Uannve. She looks up at last to mouth, "Thank you." It's not given enough breath to really be heard. Silent, too, are the tears that slide down her pale cheeks. Frustrated, she reaches up to wipe them away. She keeps holding onto Uannve with her other hand, and ceases shaking at last. "I used to be brave," she insists to no one. "But," she adds, "I wasn't loved then." Now she finds Uannve's gaze and looks so many questions at the woman that it's hard to be sure what Muirgheal wants to hear first. Never before has this cocky, fiery girl seemed so dazed and lost.
Uannve shifts her position slightly so she can better just rest her head against Muirgheal's, forehead to forehead. Her hug transfers to hands upon Muirgheal's arms, and she rubs them up and down firmly. Her hands are strong just now for her size, and there's more than just a void in her face. There's concern and a dull, stern sadness that looks to be veiling much more. Eyes so close, she just watches Muirgheal's intently.
Uannve's lips part at length to say something, but for a while she then does not. Her whisper is finally, "You are loved now."
