democratically elected to an Epic Quest

[pro_patria_mortuus]

The Milliways grounds are limited, no matter how much magic expanse of forest they contain, and doubly so to someone who hungers quietly for a city. Still, they're a change of scene, and a way to stretch one's legs. And they're pretty too, which Enjolras is largely oblivious to, but many people including his companion are not.

So: Enjolras and Bahorel are walking, arm in arm, beside the lake.

Bahorel is attempting to explain something about the logistics of television show creation. In the interests of clarity, he's restraining his (strong) artistic opinions to frequent asides.

Comments

[clayforthedevil]

"It's the King, of course." And it's late at night, before Enjolras and Bahorel have a moment to speak alone, not-sleeping-yet in rather comfortable hammocks on they covered porch they'd chosen as sleeping quarters over one of the tight-packed little houses. "And the ghosts. The kids talk about it, when they don't know they are. The last king--the good king, hah, the last king was always good, funny that-- he did something to settle the ghosts. Far as I can tell, it was just leaving them the hell alone, but anyway it worked. And now this one has them riled up again. Something to do with those stones. The kids say the stones keep the ghosts quite, but the king wants them for his big house."

Bahorel laughs a little. "That, I think, sounds off; I'll trust a child for ghost stories, but they don't know much about trade and architecture. Ah, but it's all magic here, so who knows? A king has more reason than most men to want the ghosts around him settled.--Anyway, the ghosts are real enough, and they're coming thicker, and that's all I've heard for reasons why."

(It is, of course, nosy of him to be prying around about these things. But if he and Enjolras are going to be able to help here at all, they have to learn what they can. And of course they're helping if they can. They're here. Given that,the only possible question is how, not if.)

[pro_patria_mortuus]

(Of course they are. If the people don't want the help of strangers, that's their right; it's their land and their problem. Any help Bahorel and Enjolras can give will be in following the lead of citizens here. But they need to know as much as they can to know what help they can offer, and to be of any use if the offer's accepted.)

"Hmm."

It's a start -- and far more than they'd known before. But there are, of course, still plenty of questions to ask.

"The children talk about it. I wonder if the adults will? Not in a big crowd like this, clearly, but..."

"They're afraid of ghostly ears, but I had a hard time telling if they were thinking of mortal ears too. And wary of the king. The new king, yes -- very new, and some kind of broken promises around how he came to power, or how he's holding it now. There's some anger about that, kept quiet."

How many are angry, and how much so? Hard to tell yet. But at least some; it's there, in the undertones, in sentences muttered or begun and shushed.

[clayforthedevil]

They're good questions-- and neither of them has answers.  The obvious decision is to wait until the the next day and hope they can ask their hosts more questions, and more directly.

But it's their hosts offering more questions as the day goes along, and they become more used to the strangers visiting them. More questions,  when another villager comes come back from a simple trip to gather wood with another story of terrifying ghosts.

Even more questions, from  a visitor who's obviously not from the village comes by--questions which are pretty clearly demands. Not that Enjolras and Bahorel can exactly hear from the cottage where they've been hidden away.  Heard or not, the new visitor is clearly an Authority.  It sets Bahorel's teeth on edge, and seems to have the same effect on the people who live there. There's a new quiet while the visitor is there, and new questions, and angrier ones, after he's well gone.  

New questions, and yet familiar ones. Who do they think they are and what are they even doing up there , even if Bahorel doesn't know exactly where There is. What do they think we are, that's an old friend, and What are we supposed to do? 

And the answers all seem to depend on knowing more than they know, more than anyone in the village can know-- and from places farther away than any of them can be spared to go, with the new and confusing orders and demands from their King coming ever more often--and the roads and towns in any case watched for people traveling without a passport. (That makes Bahorel growl too-- passports, again.) 

Conversations go on, and Enjolras and Bahorel  and the villagers alike end up finding themselves circling the same idea: If only there were someone without their own field and families duties to be spared, old enough and healthy enough to have some chance of carrying news. 

[pro_patria_mortuus]

If only.

There's a solution to that dilemma, of course. It only takes one exchanged glance, very early in these discussions, for Enjolras and Bahorel to know that they're thinking in similar directions. Especially since there's no sign yet of the kirin, or any way back to their friends, or their watches communicating with anyone back at Milliways. But even if there were, this matters.

But the obvious solution has some fundamental questions. Will these people accept as reliable and trustworthy two near-strangers from elsewhere? Will they consider those two near-strangers able to represent their hopes and concerns accurately? If not, is there anyone free to go with them? If yes, can Enjolras and Bahorel understand the local details of what they see and hear enough to bring back the relevant information, and do what really needs doing, instead of chasing false tracks or missing something obvious and vital?

So there's circling. Learning, and consideration, on both sides.

But in the end, when they make the offer, no one seems surprised. And it's not much of a surprise either when the headman and headwoman look around the village, and nod slowly, and accept.

[clayforthedevil]

It's a walk,to the next real village; they're warned of that. It's a walk. 

It's a long walk. 

Not that Bahorel minds, as long as the weather's good; there are fields and passing...shepherds, for lack of better terms, herding not-sheep, the occasional field workers to talk to.  People are wary of a couple young men with no obvious occupation in hand, but then they are messengers, and don't people have messages to take between these little settled islands in the country? Oh, don't they always. It's a fine way to pick up gossip, really.  And such gossip! More than enough to keep them sure they're on the right track , regarding the real road and their own reasons for the trip.  

"I know we set out about the king--of course I mean to see a king brought to accounts!--but the more we hear along the way, the more the local lord sounds like a real ogre. And I do mean a real ogre--Rawhead-and-Bloody-Bones,  Iron Jacque In the Forest. Oh, every peasant calls the landlord a blood-drinker, I know it, but here it may be something else again--did you hear that last fellow? Another one who thinks our ghost-soldiers are his fine lord's doing."   He's mostly watching the sky as he talks; this bit of road is a fine smooth wagon-trail, and they're hardly racing. And the sky..."We might look to a patch of woods, I think. Those clouds are coming in faster than I would think clouds should." 


And then they are racing, but the clouds come in faster than they can reach the nearest stand of trees, in fact; clouds thundering overhead with thunder that sounds remarkably like horses' hooves, and rain that almost seems to slice the air.  By the time they reach cover, they're drenched, and their clothes surprisingly worse for the experience, leaning more towards tattered than they've any business doing. 

[pro_patria_mortuus]

It felt like rain on the skin; cold and driving rain, sluicing down, plastering hair to foreheads and running down collars in an icy stream, like the worst kind of early spring day, but no worse than that. It patters harmlessly off the broad blue-green leaves of the trees, too, and puddles on the ground in muddy cold puddles like any rain.

But their clothes look as though the raindrops were made of knives and sharp rocks. Enjolras's coat is in shreds. He might as well take it off, he thinks, irritated; he'd be at least as decent in shirtsleeves and (only slightly less abused) waistcoat. Clearly there's no rain protection to be gained from this coat right now, or possibly ever again. His shirtsleeves are tattered now too, but at least they're better.

He casts a look of baffled, annoyed resignation at Bahorel. (Bahorel shed his coat hours ago, and is casting a look of gleeful bafflement down at himself, in contrast. Then he pulls out his camera and demands a selfie of the two of them, for no reason Enjolras can discern.)

The rain ends just as suddenly as it began. They wait a little while just to make sure of it, but the sky stays resolutely blue. Fine. They'll carry on.

But it's not long before there are hoofbeats -- several horses, around a curve of the muddy road but getting rapidly closer.