And Sue has decided that I’ve been away from my WIP quite long enough. Back to it. For her Thursday photo prompt.
Unease settles on the shoulders of the white lady. Sedge bristles about the lake island, but Evienne wonders how long it will stay out of mortal sight. The changes that she has helped initiate are gathering momentum and threads of the weave are flying loose. She stands, letting the gentle movement of the water draw the folds of her satin dress back and forth. White sails fill the pool at her feet and her eyes are full of clouds. Something is escaping her, and she fears it is destiny. She has been here before, on the shore watching, while a white-sailed ship flies to disaster, but this time, the disaster will be none of her doing.
Clouds billow and fill the pool like white sails. Richard’s fleet, she hopes, and breathes calm, as much as she can, on the waters of the Irish Sea. But there is something else, a darkness on the edge of the vision, pacing about it like a hungry wolf. In the pool rimmed by rushes, the face of a young man with hard, discontented eyes floats to the surface like a dead fish.
He does not see her, would not believe in her even if he did, but Evienne peers into the irises of pale grey-blue and sees not ships with sails like clouds, but banners fluttering, red and yellow that sweep the blue sky. The sky is above a keep—Striguil. The eyes, narrow and the colour of rain, glitter, as little cogs and wheels turn, calculating.
She knows this face and although it is not so different to many soldier’s faces, she dreads it more than most. Richard’s enterprise, her daughters’ happiness, the white-sailed ships are all part of the fate that she has woven. The pale-eyed knight is not in this future of her making, and clutched in his fist she recognises the threads she lost in the wind.