Few things have changed the face of The Broken Dagger. Its windows and eaves are bright with the help of the sun; it's yellow wash spreads a warm carpet of light on Dagger's front porch. Such an omen alters the pounding of one's heart. The landscape rolls endlessly. There is a tidy breeze drifting from it's fragrant beds. The stable stands its ground down by the meadow.
She lovingly remembers Tsort Somnifer who made his home among the stalls. Of Jean Jules who hauled his lumber from the woods so that he could build his family's house. There were Pritchard's rainbarrels which he'd -insisted- they would use one day.
That gaping hole in the roof was patched so long ago that Jarek's handywork was just as beaten of its color as every other slat. There were newer things, added touches, that her eyes did not ignore.. but no memory was served by noticing. She smiled at the porch corner that was hidden just enough at moon's light so that suspicious transactions could take place, and sometimes, kissing.
The lean of a weathered broomstick by the door... Raegan has spent weeks chasing the courage, but she finally, finally arrives to swap thoughts with Molly O'Neill.* She didn't plan in her imagination this far. She didn't know that she would as well be meeting every ghost that shared her past.
Her lungs barely work. Her eyes quietly sting. The broomstick and its forlorn shadow pull at invisible strings that move her limbs. A fingerswipe puts pressure on the sadness, stemming a tear before it has the strength to leave the inner corner of her eye. She washes her face with bare, dry hands. She pushes her hair back from her skin. The sun picks up its warm tones as it resettles around her face. She then holds to the fabric of her full skirt, determined to go inside. "If not now, when?" as Ari might say.
Knowing there will be no Lenore waiting on the inside, she keeps a shoddy composure walking up row of stairs. Again, with the hands in her hair, she tells herself to stay calm, stay strong. She tucks these strands behind her ears as a gesture to relax and, also, to become serious; to -do- this, even while her brown eyes -reek- of inner fear. So, the handle. It was there, within arm's reach, in front of her hand.
Lips part, breath slips. Thoughts are hostile, tempered, -sulking- things that rattle in her head. She touches the door handle, tentative, half-willing to tug... afraid not to... so, does. The reaching hand pulls and the door breaks its seal in the jamb. She can hardly breathe.
The common's dim appearance is of great contrast to the pretty day behind her. She remembered how, once, when a wall had been smashed through, there was an eerie brightness in the tavern. Darkness tiptoed for the room's corners, light chasing in as the door yawned. The woman takes up all of the space, spreading her arms to hold the door and it's frame. Her shadow was so much taller than her meager stature.
Raegan Darkblayde has come home.
*Molly was not able to be there at the time of arrival, but a plan is to meet very soon.
