It’s Day 523 of @mariannewest’s five-minute #freewrite, and I struggled a bit today. I know, freewriting, write what comes to mind. But since I’m trying to incorporate it into an existing work and inspire new ideas to come out… my freedom is restrained a teeny bit. 😉
Today’s prompt is — drapes — and the only thing I could think of is something I’ve already done involving my main character, Lyria. So I had to stew on it for a while to work out who else could be bothered by some curtains fluttering in their faces. Ended up choosing Cael since he’s in the same curtained room, and maybe his perspective could be interesting. In the story so far, I’ve blanked out this bit, instead focusing on Lyria and the nightmare she’s trapped within, unable to escape until our friendly demon intervenes. So, time to enter Cael’s POV for a moment!
You can find today’s challenge at the following link:
And my header image is CC0 and courtesy of Pixabay! (I spend more time looking for images than I do writing these things!! 5 minutes to write; 5 hours to find a picture (slight hyperbole))
The billowing drapes brushed across Lyria’s face. She did not stir. Cael ran a finger along her cheek and swept her golden locks away from her brow. Nothing.
A cold gust of wind flew in through the broken window of the ramshackle cottage, further twisting the sheets that served as curtains, and he shivered. Winter was well and truly on its way. If she didn’t wake soon… he swallowed. He didn’t know. He had to do something. They couldn’t stay here. They couldn’t return to Astana. By the Gods, he had no choice; he had to return to Astana –his father would be livid!
Lyria winced and released a sharp intake of breath, then settled, returning to the depths of sleep. Or was that a nightmare? He grasped for her hand, hoping to offer some comfort, and sighed. His father was going to be livid anyway. Not only at his son’s brazen departure, but at this girl who was once his prize. There would be no hiding her illegal gift now… but she had saved his life. His father would have to see that, to acknowledge that not all magic was cursed. Johne’s eye! His mother was one of the damned things. Would his father still hate them if he had been born with their gifts? But for a twist of fate he, too, would have been a despised mage.
An icy tendril snaked into the room and twisted about him, summoning goosepimples across his skin. He had to leave before it was too late. They both did. He wrapped the blanket about her body and stumbled to his feet, carefully lifting her from the bed. She groaned but still did not awaken.