Lys: Blurred Lines

Sitting there, with Cathair's surprisingly gentle hands combing her hair, Aithne nearly dropped off to sleep more than once. Finally, Cathair handed the comb back to her and stood, saying if she was going to keep it up, she might as well just lay down and sleep again.

She laughed and shook her head, following him outside. It was nearly suppertime, so they made their way back to the villa. The mood at the table was somewhat subdued, but not terribly so. There were so many seasoned warriors at the table... They had grown used to seeing such things and could rejoice at their victory. The loss of their fellows did not sting quite so much as it did for the more peaceful among the crowd.

Cathair, she found, was able to slip into the coversation fairly easily, though they both noticed the reserve amongst the others. He shared their pursuits, but this time yesterday he'd been on the other side, and she knew the only thing that kept him safe at this table was Lord Ambrosius's acceptance of him.

She suddenly hoped the Guttersnipe never heard who it was that killed Aidan.

The meal ran down to a close, and Aithne could see the light at the window had turned a golden orange. She turned to Cathair, who nodded, knowing what she meant.

The two rose and excused themselves, going to the corner where the harp was covered by her father's brat. Aithne picked up the cloak, exhaling breath she'd been unknowingly holding since she left her seat, and put it over her shoulders, folding it in the bard's style.
She didn't know how, but somehow her father's scent still remained. Numerous years of riding in a bundle on Cathair's back, and still it smelled like Da- all damp wool and herbal fires.

She buried her nose in it and inhaled, feeling almost as though she was breathing his spirit... A pagan notion, sure, but one she could understand. She took up the harp, stroking the beaten places- it had seen more battles than this one- before even Cathair had taken it with him. Her father had told her the tale of each and every scar, and she could tell them in full bardic rhyme.

The lines were blurred for her, she thought. She was an in-between, like the shore- neither here nor there, or the dawn- neither day nor night. She was a bard, but not a bard.

And she was about to perform a funeral that was not a funeral.

How very apt. She thought. She had been wondering if she was doing the right thing before now. But now she knew.

Quietly, unobtrusively, she made her way outside, Cathair following behind her. The hillside, on the edge of the trees, was the place to continue the pattern- neither forest nor plain, neither hill nor valley. A nothing that meant everything.

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