Mon Aug 01, 2005 5:59 pm
Planting the apology was not nearly as difficult a task as he had thought. The stableboys were always willing to do a few clandestine tasks for the promise of a few coins. This time, though, they did it for free -- the sheer size of the man who had approached one of them on the graveyard shift was enough to make them want to do whatever he asked.
The attic was where she stayed. From the outside, it was rather easy to access.
Upon her bed was placed an old, chipped hammer, its black-stone head still stained with the blood from so many battles, its thin handle cracked and slivered in all of those places where swords had bitten into it and spells had narrowly missed her heart by burning across its handle. It was a hammer that had killed, but had killed to defend, had killed in honor, and had killed for the loyalty of friends and the lives of those she loved. It meant to be returned to its home.
Quincy would have known who it was from immediately. Beside it was placed the wordless message. Wrapped and twisted tight as it had always been, there was a fist-thick braid of black hair laid beside the hammer, cut away at its base by a sharp knife. The man who had left it as identification had only that hair -- otherwise, he was as bald as a rain-soaked stone.
It was an apology -- he had returned her Estela, and as well the body of Phlynn, but he knew not how to tell her how sorry he was, how awful it had been to bring two very important things home to Quincy at the same time -- one very much alive, eyes shining, blonde hair as beautiful as ever ... and the other wrapped posthumously in preserving leathers for burial. But Lyonette had taken the boy's body.
Either way, everything seemed alright. Estela was home, as were the remnants of Phlynn Marion Johnford.
And so was the hammer.