FI: A Rose By Any Other Name, PG-13
Sept 30, 2020 16:54:44 GMT 10
mistrali and devilinthedetails like this
Post by Seek on Sept 30, 2020 16:54:44 GMT 10
Title: A Rose By Any Other Name
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2590 words
Summary (and any Warnings): Sarra Beneksra is faced with a difficult choice. Discussion of abortion included.
Notes: I've mentioned this before, but the -sri/-sra naming system is inconsistent. In the books, it's Benek Todorsra, Inar Hadensra, Koramin Ingensra, and Sarra Beneksri. Daine is Veralidaine Sarrasri, but we also know she contemplated calling herself Veralidaine Weirynsra after she found out who her da was. We're told Sarrasri means "Sarra's daughter," indicating bastardy. There are several possibilities: '-sri' denotes daughter, and 'Sarra' denotes the fact she has no claimed father. This doesn't work because of Kora, as well as the fact that Daine considered changing her family name to 'Weirynsra.' We could think that maybe '-sri/-sra' just means child and it is inflected based on the known parent: if there's a father, it's Fathernamesra, if it's maternal name, then it's Mothernamesri. In this case, bastardy is denoted by the use of the Mothernamesri over the Fathernamesra. But this doesn't help us with Sarra because we canonically know her father is Benek Todorsra. I think there's a third option: that '-sri' means illegitimate child, while '-sra' also means child but denotes legitimacy. This means that although Sarra has a known father, she is still considered illegitimate. This fic speculates why and attempts to fix that.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2590 words
Summary (and any Warnings): Sarra Beneksra is faced with a difficult choice. Discussion of abortion included.
Notes: I've mentioned this before, but the -sri/-sra naming system is inconsistent. In the books, it's Benek Todorsra, Inar Hadensra, Koramin Ingensra, and Sarra Beneksri. Daine is Veralidaine Sarrasri, but we also know she contemplated calling herself Veralidaine Weirynsra after she found out who her da was. We're told Sarrasri means "Sarra's daughter," indicating bastardy. There are several possibilities: '-sri' denotes daughter, and 'Sarra' denotes the fact she has no claimed father. This doesn't work because of Kora, as well as the fact that Daine considered changing her family name to 'Weirynsra.' We could think that maybe '-sri/-sra' just means child and it is inflected based on the known parent: if there's a father, it's Fathernamesra, if it's maternal name, then it's Mothernamesri. In this case, bastardy is denoted by the use of the Mothernamesri over the Fathernamesra. But this doesn't help us with Sarra because we canonically know her father is Benek Todorsra. I think there's a third option: that '-sri' means illegitimate child, while '-sra' also means child but denotes legitimacy. This means that although Sarra has a known father, she is still considered illegitimate. This fic speculates why and attempts to fix that.
Sarra knows, because she’s helped her ma with enough births by that time. She knows the signs, when she begins to show them. When the sickness comes in the mornings, and when her monthlies—irregular, but never missing—vanish for moonturns on end.
Her da comments that she’s putting on weight. Liessa frowns at her as she stirs the pot of porridge, steam drifting lazily out the top. Her ma makes the best porridge; says the recipe has run through their family for generations. Her grandma’s ma taught her grandma, who taught her ma, who’s taught her. A whole unbroken chain of women, all healers, all passing down the recipe, and the knowledge, and the healing Gift.
Sarra’s blood runs cold. If her ma knew…
But her ma doesn’t, of course. She doesn’t know because everyone knows that Sarra Beneksra has no sweetheart, no one to leap the Beltane fires with, no one to lie with in the dark as they watch the fires burn in the valley from the slopes.
But Sarra knows, and she’s terrified to check, but she does. This is after she excuses herself, and steals off to use the toilet. Her Gift answers her call, blooming about her fingers in rose pink light. It’s the easiest thing to check, ever; she’s done this enough times that she could check in her sleep, and then Sarra knows, and she sits there, and lets her Gift fade, leaving her in the dawn light falling in through the windows.
She should’ve used the charm, Sarra thinks. She forgot, of course—that was the trouble, she forgot, and she had been too lost in him, too focused on the joy of the moment to think about the charm, even though she could cast it, and men never did think, and men never did care about those consequences, and now Sarra was left with the babe growing inside of her.
There are herbs for this. She knows about them—all hedgewitches do—and bites at her lip and thinks, seriously, about using them. It will be gentle, she thinks. She will make sure of it.
She does not like the thought of hurting the babe. It is not her nature to be cruel.
She returns to the breakfast table, having wiped streaks of tears from her face and rinsed off with cool water from the washbasin. “You alright?” Benek Todorsra asks, gruffly.
“Yes, Da,” Sarra says, firmly. “I’m fine.”
I will be.
Her da comments that she’s putting on weight. Liessa frowns at her as she stirs the pot of porridge, steam drifting lazily out the top. Her ma makes the best porridge; says the recipe has run through their family for generations. Her grandma’s ma taught her grandma, who taught her ma, who’s taught her. A whole unbroken chain of women, all healers, all passing down the recipe, and the knowledge, and the healing Gift.
Sarra’s blood runs cold. If her ma knew…
But her ma doesn’t, of course. She doesn’t know because everyone knows that Sarra Beneksra has no sweetheart, no one to leap the Beltane fires with, no one to lie with in the dark as they watch the fires burn in the valley from the slopes.
But Sarra knows, and she’s terrified to check, but she does. This is after she excuses herself, and steals off to use the toilet. Her Gift answers her call, blooming about her fingers in rose pink light. It’s the easiest thing to check, ever; she’s done this enough times that she could check in her sleep, and then Sarra knows, and she sits there, and lets her Gift fade, leaving her in the dawn light falling in through the windows.
She should’ve used the charm, Sarra thinks. She forgot, of course—that was the trouble, she forgot, and she had been too lost in him, too focused on the joy of the moment to think about the charm, even though she could cast it, and men never did think, and men never did care about those consequences, and now Sarra was left with the babe growing inside of her.
There are herbs for this. She knows about them—all hedgewitches do—and bites at her lip and thinks, seriously, about using them. It will be gentle, she thinks. She will make sure of it.
She does not like the thought of hurting the babe. It is not her nature to be cruel.
She returns to the breakfast table, having wiped streaks of tears from her face and rinsed off with cool water from the washbasin. “You alright?” Benek Todorsra asks, gruffly.
“Yes, Da,” Sarra says, firmly. “I’m fine.”
I will be.
-
It’s Beltane, and there is no work for the day. Sarra has spent the days leading to Beltane weaving, weaving, and weaving, and the doors and windows of their home are festooned with brightly-coloured May flowers, picked from the valley.
Her da braids flowers into the pony’s mane, and then waves her off when Sarra offers to help. “It’s Beltane,” Benek says. “Get some fresh air into your lungs. Run around. Meet some young men.” Their dog, Vashek, is curled up at his feet.
Sarra rolls her eyes. She’s of age now, and though she enjoys the company of Hakkon Falconer and Danil Edvarsra, Sarra isn’t sure she’s quite ready to accept their courtship, for all her da—and Hakkon!—have been dropping hints. Danil comes by when she tends to the garden, and truth be told, Sarra enjoys the idle chatter and the help, especially with weeding.
She leaves small nosegays of flowers at doors: some of the villagers already have seen multiple Beltane visits, with old Nora’s porch in particular drowning in a sea of yellow-blue-violet blooms. Sarra smiles to see the cheer, leaves her own bundle there, and moves on.
The fires won’t be lit until dusk, but Snowsdale has come to life with woven ribbons and flowers. The maypole stands tall on the green, and laughing, Isa and Emer call out to Sarra to join them. The fiddler has struck up a lively dance, though the true festivities have not yet begun.
Sarra runs out to the greensward, and Emer reaches out, and tugs her and whirls her about. “I thought you’d never come!” she cries.
“Of course I’d come,” Sarra smiles. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Isa spins around and around, her skirts flaring out. She’s seen Isa working on that skirt for weeks—Isa’s been looking forward to Beltane, of course. She’ll jump the fires with someone tonight, Sarra finds herself thinking. But it’s Beltane, and not a time for thought; a time for joy as the Spring Maiden blesses the land and the herds and the folk, and so she puts all thoughts of the fires away for now and joins the other laughing women and men in the dancing.
Her da braids flowers into the pony’s mane, and then waves her off when Sarra offers to help. “It’s Beltane,” Benek says. “Get some fresh air into your lungs. Run around. Meet some young men.” Their dog, Vashek, is curled up at his feet.
Sarra rolls her eyes. She’s of age now, and though she enjoys the company of Hakkon Falconer and Danil Edvarsra, Sarra isn’t sure she’s quite ready to accept their courtship, for all her da—and Hakkon!—have been dropping hints. Danil comes by when she tends to the garden, and truth be told, Sarra enjoys the idle chatter and the help, especially with weeding.
She leaves small nosegays of flowers at doors: some of the villagers already have seen multiple Beltane visits, with old Nora’s porch in particular drowning in a sea of yellow-blue-violet blooms. Sarra smiles to see the cheer, leaves her own bundle there, and moves on.
The fires won’t be lit until dusk, but Snowsdale has come to life with woven ribbons and flowers. The maypole stands tall on the green, and laughing, Isa and Emer call out to Sarra to join them. The fiddler has struck up a lively dance, though the true festivities have not yet begun.
Sarra runs out to the greensward, and Emer reaches out, and tugs her and whirls her about. “I thought you’d never come!” she cries.
“Of course I’d come,” Sarra smiles. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Isa spins around and around, her skirts flaring out. She’s seen Isa working on that skirt for weeks—Isa’s been looking forward to Beltane, of course. She’ll jump the fires with someone tonight, Sarra finds herself thinking. But it’s Beltane, and not a time for thought; a time for joy as the Spring Maiden blesses the land and the herds and the folk, and so she puts all thoughts of the fires away for now and joins the other laughing women and men in the dancing.
-
She gathers the herbs she needs. No reason to delay, since Sarra has decided she’s not keeping the child. She could pilfer from her ma’s herb stores, but then her ma’d know, and something twists inside of Sarra’s chest at what Liessa will say if she knows what happened, what Sarra has done, that Sarra is with child, that the da is a man Sarra has never met before and will never meet again.
A chance encounter, at nightfall on Beltane, when the shadows touched the trees, where Sarra was dancing alone, in the cool air on the slopes, watching the fires.
A single encounter. How much could it change a life?
“Heading out?” Liessa asks, eyebrows raised, as Sarra washes the last of the dishes and then hangs the apron back up on the wall hook. “Mara’s been asking after the salve for her hands—I was thinking you should accompany me to see how bone-salve is made.”
Not now. She’s made her decision, and Sarra wants to be done, before her heart can soften, before she can decide again and again in her indecision. “After lunch, ma? I want to look at something.”
Liessa’s lips press together, but her ma nods as she dries her hands on a washcloth. “Be off with you, then. Take care, don’t wander.”
“I know, ma.”
“Headed out?” Benek asks, as she passes the dining table. One of the sheep will be slaughtered, come nightfall. He’s scraping a hunting knife against a whetstone—scrape, scrape, scrape—and somehow, Sarra finds the sound unsettling. Maybe because she’s never held with hunting. Or killing, for all her da’s tried to teach her to string and draw a bow.
Men’s work, that. Easy enough to kill, to take a life. But as her ma’s always told her, it’s the women alone who bring life into this world in a welter of blood and pain, and it’s the women alone who make and create and build. Sarra understands that, intimately, even as she burns incense to the Great Mother Goddess and prays for the safety of her charges, that Irena will deliver safely, that the Goddess will ease Mara’s pain, that Anke’s persistent cough will not be the sign of something more deadly.
There’s a small nook in their home, dedicated to the Goddess, and Sarra always lays fresh valley flowers before it every spring and dried herbs every winter. The Goddess has her priestesses, but the midwives and hedgewitches are as much sacred to the Goddess as the Daughters, as her ma keeps saying.
“Yes,” says Sarra, and keeps on walking. She grabs the woven basket from its hook. She’ll need to be able to carry the herbs, after all.
The smoke rises from the roof of her home as Sarra closes the wooden door and crosses the sunlit meadow, green stalks of grass brushing against the hem of her dress. The sun is bright, cornflower blue, with clouds drifting like puffy white sheep.
It’s a beautiful day.
Sarra just wishes—wishes, she supposes, that the knowledge of what she must do weighs a little lighter on her heart. She has never liked the idea of wishing harm, of hurt, of suffering. Her ma’s taught her to bring life into the world, to heal, to make anew, not to take life out of it, or to destroy.
A chance encounter, at nightfall on Beltane, when the shadows touched the trees, where Sarra was dancing alone, in the cool air on the slopes, watching the fires.
A single encounter. How much could it change a life?
“Heading out?” Liessa asks, eyebrows raised, as Sarra washes the last of the dishes and then hangs the apron back up on the wall hook. “Mara’s been asking after the salve for her hands—I was thinking you should accompany me to see how bone-salve is made.”
Not now. She’s made her decision, and Sarra wants to be done, before her heart can soften, before she can decide again and again in her indecision. “After lunch, ma? I want to look at something.”
Liessa’s lips press together, but her ma nods as she dries her hands on a washcloth. “Be off with you, then. Take care, don’t wander.”
“I know, ma.”
“Headed out?” Benek asks, as she passes the dining table. One of the sheep will be slaughtered, come nightfall. He’s scraping a hunting knife against a whetstone—scrape, scrape, scrape—and somehow, Sarra finds the sound unsettling. Maybe because she’s never held with hunting. Or killing, for all her da’s tried to teach her to string and draw a bow.
Men’s work, that. Easy enough to kill, to take a life. But as her ma’s always told her, it’s the women alone who bring life into this world in a welter of blood and pain, and it’s the women alone who make and create and build. Sarra understands that, intimately, even as she burns incense to the Great Mother Goddess and prays for the safety of her charges, that Irena will deliver safely, that the Goddess will ease Mara’s pain, that Anke’s persistent cough will not be the sign of something more deadly.
There’s a small nook in their home, dedicated to the Goddess, and Sarra always lays fresh valley flowers before it every spring and dried herbs every winter. The Goddess has her priestesses, but the midwives and hedgewitches are as much sacred to the Goddess as the Daughters, as her ma keeps saying.
“Yes,” says Sarra, and keeps on walking. She grabs the woven basket from its hook. She’ll need to be able to carry the herbs, after all.
The smoke rises from the roof of her home as Sarra closes the wooden door and crosses the sunlit meadow, green stalks of grass brushing against the hem of her dress. The sun is bright, cornflower blue, with clouds drifting like puffy white sheep.
It’s a beautiful day.
Sarra just wishes—wishes, she supposes, that the knowledge of what she must do weighs a little lighter on her heart. She has never liked the idea of wishing harm, of hurt, of suffering. Her ma’s taught her to bring life into the world, to heal, to make anew, not to take life out of it, or to destroy.
-
As dusk falls, the villagers of Snowsdale prepare to light the bonfires. Isa, wearing the garland of May Queen, from the earlier dancing at the maypole, stooped to light the coals with a torch.
Sarra isn’t there.
She’s hiked up the old goat trail along the slope—the one used by the hunters, sometimes—and now she watches the warm glow of the bonfires. She doesn’t know what, exactly, has led her here, unprompted. She has always liked people, and company, but this Beltane, Sarra feels strangely removed, as though the world of Snowsdale has receded behind a veil, as though she is watching them from an entirely different place altogether.
It is a strange feeling, watching Snowsdale go on without her. Kennen and Ilara will be jumping the embers together, of course. As will her parents—she’s never known Benek and Liessa to miss a year. They’ll pray for good harvests, and for the Spring Maiden to bless their sheep.
Sarra breathes the cool mountain air and leans again the bole of the old pine. The moon has not yet emerged, but even guided by her light, she will need to be cautious on the eventual descent.
“Curious,” says a man’s deep voice, and Sarra does in fact startle. “Why do you not take part in the festivities?”
The stranger is relatively tall, dark-skinned, though Sarra thinks she can see hints of olive in his complexion. His hair is a riot of dark curls, and the hard muscle of his body would have maidens clamouring to jump the bonfires with him, this night.
There are many questions Sarra could ask. She could ask how he moved so quietly on the ascent up the trail. She could ask what he is doing here—travellers staying in Snowsdale to celebrate Beltane typically arrive days before, and in a village as small as Snowsdale, she’d know if a stranger had come.
She could ask what his intentions are, or why he gazes at her as though she is—worthy of regard. Sarra doesn’t know if she quite understands. “Why do you not?” she asks, instead.
The man laughs, and the sound is like the sonorous call of a hunting horn.
“An arrow well-aimed,” he replies. “Will you jump the fires this night?”
Sarra chuckles. Hakkon would ask, of course. So would Danil, and maybe Per. “There’s always next Beltane,” she says, instead. And then, strangely bold because dear Goddess, this man is attractive, and it’s just a leap of the flames: “Unless you’re offering, Master…?”
“Hunter,” says the man, with a slightly secretive smile. “I would very much like to, indeed.”
He offers her his hand, and she takes it.
Sarra isn’t there.
She’s hiked up the old goat trail along the slope—the one used by the hunters, sometimes—and now she watches the warm glow of the bonfires. She doesn’t know what, exactly, has led her here, unprompted. She has always liked people, and company, but this Beltane, Sarra feels strangely removed, as though the world of Snowsdale has receded behind a veil, as though she is watching them from an entirely different place altogether.
It is a strange feeling, watching Snowsdale go on without her. Kennen and Ilara will be jumping the embers together, of course. As will her parents—she’s never known Benek and Liessa to miss a year. They’ll pray for good harvests, and for the Spring Maiden to bless their sheep.
Sarra breathes the cool mountain air and leans again the bole of the old pine. The moon has not yet emerged, but even guided by her light, she will need to be cautious on the eventual descent.
“Curious,” says a man’s deep voice, and Sarra does in fact startle. “Why do you not take part in the festivities?”
The stranger is relatively tall, dark-skinned, though Sarra thinks she can see hints of olive in his complexion. His hair is a riot of dark curls, and the hard muscle of his body would have maidens clamouring to jump the bonfires with him, this night.
There are many questions Sarra could ask. She could ask how he moved so quietly on the ascent up the trail. She could ask what he is doing here—travellers staying in Snowsdale to celebrate Beltane typically arrive days before, and in a village as small as Snowsdale, she’d know if a stranger had come.
She could ask what his intentions are, or why he gazes at her as though she is—worthy of regard. Sarra doesn’t know if she quite understands. “Why do you not?” she asks, instead.
The man laughs, and the sound is like the sonorous call of a hunting horn.
“An arrow well-aimed,” he replies. “Will you jump the fires this night?”
Sarra chuckles. Hakkon would ask, of course. So would Danil, and maybe Per. “There’s always next Beltane,” she says, instead. And then, strangely bold because dear Goddess, this man is attractive, and it’s just a leap of the flames: “Unless you’re offering, Master…?”
“Hunter,” says the man, with a slightly secretive smile. “I would very much like to, indeed.”
He offers her his hand, and she takes it.
-
Wormwood, pennyroyal, and calamint. Sarra adds violets, and rue, and grinds them with the mortar and pestle. She has made this before, in this same workroom. There are women in Snowsdale who, for one reason or other, approach Liessa for the brew.
More often, they ask for the charm against pregnancy, and Liessa presses it into their hands. She never asks for payment, not for something as that. “Every woman deserves the choice,” her ma tells her, though young Sarra has never asked.
Sarra grinds them, again and again.
She has never begrudged those women who have asked for the brew. She knows why some of them choose not to bring a child into the world. She herself is making this choice.
And yet it sits heavily in her heart.
The pot of herbs steeps slowly over the fire. Sarra walks over to it and empties out the mortar and pestle, scattering the last of the herbs in, a little at a time. Her Gift has never been particularly strong, so the flames turn rose pink, a little at a time, as she stirs.
She shapes the first of the signs over the pot. A prayer. A request. A beseeching.
Great Mother, Sarra begins, and she can’t continue. She’s used to blessing; signs for luck, prosperity, fertility. This, she cannot bear. She cannot.
She thinks of the child, and wonders if the child will have Hunter’s dark curls, or Sarra’s eyes. If the child will be a daughter, to carry on the Gift, the line of hedgewitch-healers making porridge stretching in a chain unbroken since Snowsdale began as a logging camp.
She cannot.
Sarra lets her Gift evaporate as she kneels on the floor and sobs. She has thought she could do this, but she cannot find it in herself.
It’s Liessa who pushes open the door to the workroom, and recognises the herbs brewing over the flames—normal fire now, not rose pink any longer. It’s Liessa who puts two and two together.
“Sweetling,” Liessa says, gently. “Are you—?”
“I forgot the charm, ma,” Sarra manages, between sobs. “I forgot the charm. And I can’t drink it. I can’t!”
“Shhh, sweetling,” Liessa murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “Shhh, shhh, it will come all right, in the end. No one will make you give up the child, if you don’t want to.”
More often, they ask for the charm against pregnancy, and Liessa presses it into their hands. She never asks for payment, not for something as that. “Every woman deserves the choice,” her ma tells her, though young Sarra has never asked.
Sarra grinds them, again and again.
She has never begrudged those women who have asked for the brew. She knows why some of them choose not to bring a child into the world. She herself is making this choice.
And yet it sits heavily in her heart.
The pot of herbs steeps slowly over the fire. Sarra walks over to it and empties out the mortar and pestle, scattering the last of the herbs in, a little at a time. Her Gift has never been particularly strong, so the flames turn rose pink, a little at a time, as she stirs.
She shapes the first of the signs over the pot. A prayer. A request. A beseeching.
Great Mother, Sarra begins, and she can’t continue. She’s used to blessing; signs for luck, prosperity, fertility. This, she cannot bear. She cannot.
She thinks of the child, and wonders if the child will have Hunter’s dark curls, or Sarra’s eyes. If the child will be a daughter, to carry on the Gift, the line of hedgewitch-healers making porridge stretching in a chain unbroken since Snowsdale began as a logging camp.
She cannot.
Sarra lets her Gift evaporate as she kneels on the floor and sobs. She has thought she could do this, but she cannot find it in herself.
It’s Liessa who pushes open the door to the workroom, and recognises the herbs brewing over the flames—normal fire now, not rose pink any longer. It’s Liessa who puts two and two together.
“Sweetling,” Liessa says, gently. “Are you—?”
“I forgot the charm, ma,” Sarra manages, between sobs. “I forgot the charm. And I can’t drink it. I can’t!”
“Shhh, sweetling,” Liessa murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on her back. “Shhh, shhh, it will come all right, in the end. No one will make you give up the child, if you don’t want to.”
-
Her da, though, is furious.
“Fool of a girl. You lay with a stranger on Beltane?” he demands, raking his fingers through his hair. “It’ll be the end of you. No one will marry someone quick with another man’s child. What were you thinking? He was a stranger. You’ll never see him again!”
Sarra keeps her chin up. “I forgot the charm.”
“Get rid of the babe,” Benek says, abruptly, leaning forward. His eyes, normally warm and dancing, are hard now. “Get rid of the babe, and no one will know. Some people saw you leap the fires with the stranger, but they don’t know you—” his mouth twisted with distate, “—lay with him and forgot the charm. Hakkon Falconer has been asking permission to court you.”
Sarra shook her head. “No, da. I’m keeping the child.”
His hands snap out, muscles taut as a strung bow, to grab her by the shoulders. “Are you listening to yourself?” Benek demands. “What will become of you, if it is known you bore a stranger a child outside of the marriage bed? No one will want you. You’ll become ruined, girl! Think it through!”
“Benek,” Liessa snaps, and Sarra knows her ma’s tone. Her da knows to jump at it, but not this time. “It is her choice, not yours.”
“If you refuse to get rid of the child,” Benek says, his tone as icy as the winter wind on the slopes, “Then you will be no daughter of mine. Do you understand me?”
The thought should have been terrifying. The severing of all ties. Being disowned, and cut off—only a little better than a bastard.
She’s stubborn, though. She inherited that from him, too.
Sarra thrusts out her chin and stands up. “So be it.”
“Get out.”
Liessa says, urgently, “Go and stay with Lory and Rand for a week. I’ll talk to him.”
“I’ll be fine,” Sarra says. “Don’t worry ma—”
“Get out!”
She faces her da squarely. “I am Sarra Beneksri,” she says. “And I am keeping the child.” Sarrasri, she thinks. The child, too, will be marked by being conceived out of wedlock. Sarrasri. Sarra’s child.
She imagines a son, with Hunter’s dark curls. She imagines a daughter, with the stubborn chin she inherited straight fom Benek. She imagines a child, with a heart full of Liessa’s love.
She walks out of her home.
“Fool of a girl. You lay with a stranger on Beltane?” he demands, raking his fingers through his hair. “It’ll be the end of you. No one will marry someone quick with another man’s child. What were you thinking? He was a stranger. You’ll never see him again!”
Sarra keeps her chin up. “I forgot the charm.”
“Get rid of the babe,” Benek says, abruptly, leaning forward. His eyes, normally warm and dancing, are hard now. “Get rid of the babe, and no one will know. Some people saw you leap the fires with the stranger, but they don’t know you—” his mouth twisted with distate, “—lay with him and forgot the charm. Hakkon Falconer has been asking permission to court you.”
Sarra shook her head. “No, da. I’m keeping the child.”
His hands snap out, muscles taut as a strung bow, to grab her by the shoulders. “Are you listening to yourself?” Benek demands. “What will become of you, if it is known you bore a stranger a child outside of the marriage bed? No one will want you. You’ll become ruined, girl! Think it through!”
“Benek,” Liessa snaps, and Sarra knows her ma’s tone. Her da knows to jump at it, but not this time. “It is her choice, not yours.”
“If you refuse to get rid of the child,” Benek says, his tone as icy as the winter wind on the slopes, “Then you will be no daughter of mine. Do you understand me?”
The thought should have been terrifying. The severing of all ties. Being disowned, and cut off—only a little better than a bastard.
She’s stubborn, though. She inherited that from him, too.
Sarra thrusts out her chin and stands up. “So be it.”
“Get out.”
Liessa says, urgently, “Go and stay with Lory and Rand for a week. I’ll talk to him.”
“I’ll be fine,” Sarra says. “Don’t worry ma—”
“Get out!”
She faces her da squarely. “I am Sarra Beneksri,” she says. “And I am keeping the child.” Sarrasri, she thinks. The child, too, will be marked by being conceived out of wedlock. Sarrasri. Sarra’s child.
She imagines a son, with Hunter’s dark curls. She imagines a daughter, with the stubborn chin she inherited straight fom Benek. She imagines a child, with a heart full of Liessa’s love.
She walks out of her home.
