Post by gear on Dec 5, 2011 5:10:48 GMT 10
To: Elsceetaria
Message: I hope you like it!
From: Gear
Title: One for Sorrow
Rating: PG13
Wishlist Item: #3 with a little bit of #1
Summary (and any warnings): Lark's life has been marked by magpies.
One for sorrow,
The troupe had sheltered me, fed me, for as long as I could remember, since before my mother had died. Now they were gone but for hoof prints, scraps of brightly colored cloth and a handful of glass jewels and broken gilt jewelry. I tried very hard not to resent them – it was only practical, I was nothing but a deadweight who could no longer tumble, no longer even breathe properly – but it was hard. They had left me. I wanted nothing more than to cry, to mourn the most permanent home that I had ever known.
But I was an eminently practical girl, and I knew that I was in a foreign city, without food or shelter, so instead of indulging myself, I stood up and began gathering all the trash that the caravan had left behind. Some of it would have to be of use. I would figure out how to survive. Somehow.
I was reaching for a piece of crimson thread when a solitary magpie landed in front of her and swiped the thread off the ground, spreading its wings and flying off before I could snatch it back.
Two for joy,
Magic. The man said that I had magic. I couldn’t have magic. But there was . . . something . . . when I sewed, when I handled cloth. If I had magic I would have known, I wouldn’t be here in the Mire at thirty with no prospect of ever getting out. If I had magic . . .
For days, my thoughts wove themselves in never ending circles of indecision as I hunted for rags and food in the trash piles of the rich.
Three days after her meeting with the man, I found herself crouching, only half-hidden, behind a crumbling wall, the cold and wet seeping into her clothing as I forced myself closer to the stone, trying desperately to stay unseen, invisible as I heard the sounds of violence just feet from my meager shelter. Gang fights weren’t uncommon, but I had always managed to be elsewhere when they happened. Later, I would blame my preoccupation with magic for my predicament, but now, my luck had run out, and I was trapped. I wasn’t in a gang, but there was a good chance that ‘playing with’ a lone woman would catch their fancy should they notice me. I couldn’t run, not with my broken breathing, and I didn’t know how to fight, so hiding would have to suffice.
I prayed silently to every god and goddess I could think of, a confused mass of fear and hope and promises and terror, even to my own mind. I couldn’t have said how much time passed – hours or seconds or minutes were all the same, but eventually, I realized that silence had fallen. I was still alive, still alive, and safe for the time being. Somehow, I remembered that in my tangle of prayers, I had promised Mila of the Grain that if I survived this, I would become a Dedicate in the Goddess’ honor. It seemed silly now, but I knew stories about what happened to people who broke promises to the gods, and I decided that I had nothing to lose, so the next day found me at the gates of Winding Circle.
As I explained to the gatekeepers that I wished to become a novice, a pair of magpies lit upon a nearby tree.
Three for a girl,
When I had come to Winding Circle, they had asked if I had any medical disabilities. I had said no, afraid that if I told them about my sickness, they would turn me out again, back into the Mire. I managed to keep my asthma hidden for almost half a year, making excuses when I felt my breathing get short. But it had always become worse in the spring, and when the flowers began to bloom and we were sent to work in the gardens, I found it harder and harder to conceal, until one day I broke down coughing in the fields, unable to stop, to breathe, to do anything at all but gasp helplessly.
I woke up some time later to a sharp voice, “Healer Birch, you may be content to allow this woman’s asthma continue, but I want to help her. She’s been hiding it for months and if you want to pretend that it won’t continue, feel free, but don’t try to stop me from helping her.”
I began to sit up, to try to see what was going on but my body failed me yet again, collapsing before I had elevated myself more than a few inches. Luckily – or perhaps some would say, unluckily – the owner of the sharp voice came to me in the form of a short, auburn haired woman maybe a few years younger than me, holding a small vial. Her voice was much softer than it had been when she was addressing Birch, “You have something that Healers call asthma. It means that sometimes your air passage narrows so you can’t breathe properly,” as she spoke, she opened the vial and tapped some of the powder inside out into a tiny bowl, “this powder will stop that from happening. Come to the infirmary every morning and ask for me – I’m Dedicate Rosethorn. I’ll give you the medicine. Your attacks won’t stop immediately – but they will slow down in frequency and eventually stop. In the meantime, I want you to carry this,” she hands me an oddly shaped jar even smaller than the vial with a tiny opening, also filled with a powder, “and if you feel an attack coming on, inhale one time from it. Do you have any questions?”
I answered in the negative, and thanked her. Then she handed me the bowl and instructed me to breath from it. She asked me several questions – how long the attacks had been happening for, how long they usually were - and made marks on a slate at the end of my bed before wishing me well and leaving.
The raucous cries of three magpies sounded at her exit.
Four for a death,
We had become . . . not close, but perhaps as close as she let anyone get to her (close enough for me to have something of a crush on her), so I noticed that when I came for my medicine one morning, that she was more closed off than usual. I was tempted, deeply tempted, to ask her what was wrong, to sate my never ending curiosity, but I was certain that a misplaced question, an unwelcome inquiry, would shatter our infinitely fragile friendship. So I took my medicine, and bid her a good day, ignoring my disappointment when she didn’t answer.
My curiosity nagged at me for the rest of the day, distracting me so much that I had to rip out several inches of knitting when I noticed that every single cable was crossed backwards. I reached my limit when I caught myself, after a day filled with mishaps, about to pour salt in my tea, and decided that I would find Rosethorn and, if necessary force the truth out of her, for the sake of my craft and my food.
I found her in a tiny garden hidden behind a forge. She wasn’t hoeing or planting, just sitting there, and as I slowly approached, I heard the sounds of near silent sobbing. I almost left right then – I was an intruder– but she looked so small, and so alone, that I couldn’t bring myself to abandon her, even if I was sure that this intrusion would shatter our burgeoning friendship like a hammer on glass. During my moment of indecision she must have noticed my presence, because she said, “You can sit down Lark. I promise not to bite.” Her voice was admirably steady, but I could hear the telltale quivering of someone who has been recently crying, and her eyes were red and puffy.
I opened my mouth to ask what had happened, but found myself unable to form the words, too shocked at seeing the normally indestructible woman so broken. She seemed to understand, and said, “I got word that my mother died today. It, it’s silly – I haven’t seen her in years. I shouldn’t be so, so emotional about it.” She spat the words like a curse even as tears began to well up in her eyes again.
I did the only thing that I could think of; I shifted closer and pulled her into a tight hug, letting her cry into my habit.
Four magpies took flight as we stood, hours later, together.
Five for silver,
“Moonstream asked me to make a place for those who don’t do well with the novices. Young ambient mages for the most part, but some nonmages, and academic mages too, probably. She gave me a piece of land, but I’ll need to build a cottage, and the garden is horrific, and, I was wondering if you might want to, to, help me? Moonstream said that if I wanted to approach anyone, I could, and I knew that you were just made a dedicate, and Moonstream will pay for the supplies that Winding Circle can’t provide, and -“
I almost had to smile - Rosethorn rambled so rarely that it was a rare wonder to witness, and I was touched that I was important enough to make her this nervous, but I took pity and cut her off, “I would love to help you Rosethorn. Would you mind showing me the place?”
A small stack of silver coins, some land and a friendship. All the ingredients to weave a home. And weave a home we did, with blood and sweat and tears, and just a little bit of magic.
When Rosethorn brought me out to the garden, blooming for the first time, there were five magpies strutting about in it.
Six for gold,
To this day, I don’t know what prompted me to do it. It was some combination of Rosethorn’s smile, the liquid gold of the setting sun on the thatch, and my giddiness over the completion of Discipline. But whatever it was, I kissed her as we lay on the freshly thatched roof, the scent of dry straw around us. I had thought about it before, on occasion, but had never managed to work up the nerve to actually do the deed. She tasted like strong tea, and cinnamon, and magic. It felt like tumbling or flying, free and fantastic, but always with the possibility of falling.
The jeering calls of half a dozen magpies startled us apart, but only temporarily.
Seven for a secret, never to be told
We never told anyone about our relationship. Everyone who was important, everyone who mattered figured it out on their own.
And as best I can remember, every time, there was a flock of magpies to herald their realization.
Message: I hope you like it!
From: Gear
Title: One for Sorrow
Rating: PG13
Wishlist Item: #3 with a little bit of #1
Summary (and any warnings): Lark's life has been marked by magpies.
~ ~ ~
One for sorrow,
The troupe had sheltered me, fed me, for as long as I could remember, since before my mother had died. Now they were gone but for hoof prints, scraps of brightly colored cloth and a handful of glass jewels and broken gilt jewelry. I tried very hard not to resent them – it was only practical, I was nothing but a deadweight who could no longer tumble, no longer even breathe properly – but it was hard. They had left me. I wanted nothing more than to cry, to mourn the most permanent home that I had ever known.
But I was an eminently practical girl, and I knew that I was in a foreign city, without food or shelter, so instead of indulging myself, I stood up and began gathering all the trash that the caravan had left behind. Some of it would have to be of use. I would figure out how to survive. Somehow.
I was reaching for a piece of crimson thread when a solitary magpie landed in front of her and swiped the thread off the ground, spreading its wings and flying off before I could snatch it back.
Two for joy,
Magic. The man said that I had magic. I couldn’t have magic. But there was . . . something . . . when I sewed, when I handled cloth. If I had magic I would have known, I wouldn’t be here in the Mire at thirty with no prospect of ever getting out. If I had magic . . .
For days, my thoughts wove themselves in never ending circles of indecision as I hunted for rags and food in the trash piles of the rich.
Three days after her meeting with the man, I found herself crouching, only half-hidden, behind a crumbling wall, the cold and wet seeping into her clothing as I forced myself closer to the stone, trying desperately to stay unseen, invisible as I heard the sounds of violence just feet from my meager shelter. Gang fights weren’t uncommon, but I had always managed to be elsewhere when they happened. Later, I would blame my preoccupation with magic for my predicament, but now, my luck had run out, and I was trapped. I wasn’t in a gang, but there was a good chance that ‘playing with’ a lone woman would catch their fancy should they notice me. I couldn’t run, not with my broken breathing, and I didn’t know how to fight, so hiding would have to suffice.
I prayed silently to every god and goddess I could think of, a confused mass of fear and hope and promises and terror, even to my own mind. I couldn’t have said how much time passed – hours or seconds or minutes were all the same, but eventually, I realized that silence had fallen. I was still alive, still alive, and safe for the time being. Somehow, I remembered that in my tangle of prayers, I had promised Mila of the Grain that if I survived this, I would become a Dedicate in the Goddess’ honor. It seemed silly now, but I knew stories about what happened to people who broke promises to the gods, and I decided that I had nothing to lose, so the next day found me at the gates of Winding Circle.
As I explained to the gatekeepers that I wished to become a novice, a pair of magpies lit upon a nearby tree.
Three for a girl,
When I had come to Winding Circle, they had asked if I had any medical disabilities. I had said no, afraid that if I told them about my sickness, they would turn me out again, back into the Mire. I managed to keep my asthma hidden for almost half a year, making excuses when I felt my breathing get short. But it had always become worse in the spring, and when the flowers began to bloom and we were sent to work in the gardens, I found it harder and harder to conceal, until one day I broke down coughing in the fields, unable to stop, to breathe, to do anything at all but gasp helplessly.
I woke up some time later to a sharp voice, “Healer Birch, you may be content to allow this woman’s asthma continue, but I want to help her. She’s been hiding it for months and if you want to pretend that it won’t continue, feel free, but don’t try to stop me from helping her.”
I began to sit up, to try to see what was going on but my body failed me yet again, collapsing before I had elevated myself more than a few inches. Luckily – or perhaps some would say, unluckily – the owner of the sharp voice came to me in the form of a short, auburn haired woman maybe a few years younger than me, holding a small vial. Her voice was much softer than it had been when she was addressing Birch, “You have something that Healers call asthma. It means that sometimes your air passage narrows so you can’t breathe properly,” as she spoke, she opened the vial and tapped some of the powder inside out into a tiny bowl, “this powder will stop that from happening. Come to the infirmary every morning and ask for me – I’m Dedicate Rosethorn. I’ll give you the medicine. Your attacks won’t stop immediately – but they will slow down in frequency and eventually stop. In the meantime, I want you to carry this,” she hands me an oddly shaped jar even smaller than the vial with a tiny opening, also filled with a powder, “and if you feel an attack coming on, inhale one time from it. Do you have any questions?”
I answered in the negative, and thanked her. Then she handed me the bowl and instructed me to breath from it. She asked me several questions – how long the attacks had been happening for, how long they usually were - and made marks on a slate at the end of my bed before wishing me well and leaving.
The raucous cries of three magpies sounded at her exit.
Four for a death,
We had become . . . not close, but perhaps as close as she let anyone get to her (close enough for me to have something of a crush on her), so I noticed that when I came for my medicine one morning, that she was more closed off than usual. I was tempted, deeply tempted, to ask her what was wrong, to sate my never ending curiosity, but I was certain that a misplaced question, an unwelcome inquiry, would shatter our infinitely fragile friendship. So I took my medicine, and bid her a good day, ignoring my disappointment when she didn’t answer.
My curiosity nagged at me for the rest of the day, distracting me so much that I had to rip out several inches of knitting when I noticed that every single cable was crossed backwards. I reached my limit when I caught myself, after a day filled with mishaps, about to pour salt in my tea, and decided that I would find Rosethorn and, if necessary force the truth out of her, for the sake of my craft and my food.
I found her in a tiny garden hidden behind a forge. She wasn’t hoeing or planting, just sitting there, and as I slowly approached, I heard the sounds of near silent sobbing. I almost left right then – I was an intruder– but she looked so small, and so alone, that I couldn’t bring myself to abandon her, even if I was sure that this intrusion would shatter our burgeoning friendship like a hammer on glass. During my moment of indecision she must have noticed my presence, because she said, “You can sit down Lark. I promise not to bite.” Her voice was admirably steady, but I could hear the telltale quivering of someone who has been recently crying, and her eyes were red and puffy.
I opened my mouth to ask what had happened, but found myself unable to form the words, too shocked at seeing the normally indestructible woman so broken. She seemed to understand, and said, “I got word that my mother died today. It, it’s silly – I haven’t seen her in years. I shouldn’t be so, so emotional about it.” She spat the words like a curse even as tears began to well up in her eyes again.
I did the only thing that I could think of; I shifted closer and pulled her into a tight hug, letting her cry into my habit.
Four magpies took flight as we stood, hours later, together.
Five for silver,
“Moonstream asked me to make a place for those who don’t do well with the novices. Young ambient mages for the most part, but some nonmages, and academic mages too, probably. She gave me a piece of land, but I’ll need to build a cottage, and the garden is horrific, and, I was wondering if you might want to, to, help me? Moonstream said that if I wanted to approach anyone, I could, and I knew that you were just made a dedicate, and Moonstream will pay for the supplies that Winding Circle can’t provide, and -“
I almost had to smile - Rosethorn rambled so rarely that it was a rare wonder to witness, and I was touched that I was important enough to make her this nervous, but I took pity and cut her off, “I would love to help you Rosethorn. Would you mind showing me the place?”
A small stack of silver coins, some land and a friendship. All the ingredients to weave a home. And weave a home we did, with blood and sweat and tears, and just a little bit of magic.
When Rosethorn brought me out to the garden, blooming for the first time, there were five magpies strutting about in it.
Six for gold,
To this day, I don’t know what prompted me to do it. It was some combination of Rosethorn’s smile, the liquid gold of the setting sun on the thatch, and my giddiness over the completion of Discipline. But whatever it was, I kissed her as we lay on the freshly thatched roof, the scent of dry straw around us. I had thought about it before, on occasion, but had never managed to work up the nerve to actually do the deed. She tasted like strong tea, and cinnamon, and magic. It felt like tumbling or flying, free and fantastic, but always with the possibility of falling.
The jeering calls of half a dozen magpies startled us apart, but only temporarily.
Seven for a secret, never to be told
We never told anyone about our relationship. Everyone who was important, everyone who mattered figured it out on their own.
And as best I can remember, every time, there was a flock of magpies to herald their realization.