The Devils See: Arrival (Personal)

[roadstotheriver]

It had only been a simple complaint of a pair of Hands, something Sabriel had been sure Lirael could handle. After everything else they'd done, how could a pair of Hands, probably left over from Hedge's minions, be difficult at all? Sabriel was far too far north to make it to Robles Town with any speed, and busy besides, but Lirael, at the House, wasn't far at all. So, despite her discomfort with it, Lirael had been the one to go. How hard could it be, right?

Standing in the Second Precinct of Death, frustrated and exhausted after three days of tracking down some extreme canny Lesser Dead, Lirael thought that she knew it was a mistake to come here alone. Dealing with the townsfolk had almost been beyond her, worse than dealing with the Dead-- she'd felt awkward and uncertain, in the face of all their hopeful, expectant faces-- and the Dead themselves... well. At least they were finally in Death, and she was following them at least through the Fourth Gate, to make sure they didn't come back. They shouldn't have the strength to resist past the Fourth Gate, not as young as these spirits were.

While the two Dead spirits were simply pulled into the whirlpool of the Second Gate, Lirael spoke the Free Magic spell that would give her steps down it, ignoring the burn of the words against her lips. The stair appeared, and she started circling down. The Third Precinct was probably the most dangerous of all, and she had to be ready. Turning Ranna around in her hand, so that she held the tiny bell by its metal and clapper to keep it from sounding on accident, she took a deep breath, and then broke into a splashing run as soon as her feet hit the bottom of the whirlpool Gate's stairwell. The Third Precinct had waves, and to reach the Third Gate, she would have to outrun the one that her spell had held back.

She was almost there, drawing a breath to cry out the spell to open the Gate to her, when something caught her ankle. The hand of some spirit flattened under the ankle-deep water, braving the wave itself to stop her, yanked hard and sent her tumbling, splashing, and sputtering into the shallow River. Lirael hadn't really realized you could lose consciousness in Death-- or, really, that the River could drown you. She was only a spirit in Death, after all, not someone with lungs to fill and a brain to rattle. But when the massive wave came down on her, battering her against the mist-gate into the Fourth Precinct, drowning was certainly what it felt like. She had been gasping, coughing, flailing, trying desperately to keep a grip on Ranna, remembering even in her panic to keep it from sounding.

And then, when she actually hit the Gate, there was the terrible darkness of blacking out, which would mean certain death, indeed, if the River carried her beyond the Fourth Gate.

Except when she comes to hours or moments later, it is not to the murky gray half-light of Death, but a dark, moonlit beach, and the water that tugged gently at her ankles is not the frigid, spirit-sapping waters of the River, but some tepid and tropical water that rises and falls in gentle wavelets. When she starts coughing, ejecting what water had made it into her lungs and stomach, what comes up is salty and bitter, not cold and tasteless like what she vaguely remembers filling her mouth in Death.

She sits up, the small bell still clenched hard in her left hand, her fingers holding its clapper still automatically, and though her head spins for a moment, soon her vision clears. She is on a beach... a tropical beach, with pale sand, palm fronds, and lush grass above the tide line. If it were day, surely it would be a riot of color. This is definitely not Death-- or even the Old Kingdom. It is far too far north for anything tropical, even in the summer, even by the Red Lake. Where in the name of the Charter am I?

Still feeling a bit dazed, Lirael mentally reaches for that same Charter, looking for marks for light and clarity so she could see her way if and when she managesd to get to her feet. The chill emptiness she finds chased the rest of the dampness from her thoughts and she gasps, nearly dropping Ranna and clutching at her surcoat in horror, shuddering and trying hard not to hyperventilate. It is the unthinkable, for someone who had been raised always in harmony with the ever-constant flow of marks and magic, that the Charter-- the Charter simply isn't there! Where was she-- where could she be, that the Charter is gone? Not even before the Dog had come to her had she ever felt so alone, because there had always been the Charter.

It takes several moments and a particularly large wave lapping up over her thighs to finally break her paralysis. She puts Ranna away shakily, closing the flap of leather that keeps the little bell silent in its pouch on the bandolier, and forces herself to move. Practicality asserts itself, if tenuously. Even if the Charter... even if the Charter isn't here, she is here, and she still needs to get out of the water and find somewhere safe to take stock of her situation. Choking back a sob, forcing her emotions back, she staggers to her feet and away from the water, pulling out her ensorcelled sword as a crutch to keep her balance for the first few steps, and as some weak form of defense. There has to be some shelter here... somewhere. Or people. If she's lucky, they would even be friendly. If she wasn't... well, she'd deal with that when she found it, and she'd figure something out.

"I wish you were here, Dog," she whispers, looking up at the stars-- unfamiliar stars. The Disreputable Dog would know what to do.

That is the last moment of stillness and fear she allows herself. After wringing her surcoat as dry as she can one-handed, and shaking the water from the ceramic gethre scales of her armor under that, Lirael starts resolutely towards the woods, hoping that she'd find something to tell her where she was... and how to get home again.