History
Philomene Amanthe Declan
((While not quite a history, I will be posting excerpts from Mena's early life in this thread. When pieced together with her journal entries, I am hoping the reader will gain a deeper insight into what makes Mena tick, and what made her who she is.))
Last edited by Maasi the Devout on Aug. 29th, 2012 9:45 am; edited 2 times in total
The sound of childish whingeing filtered in through the open window. Amanthe turned her head, the bells in her hair jingling quietly. She opened her mouth then closed it again without saying anything – her husband was already getting to his feet.
Ruarid looked down at his wife. “I’ll go take a look. Like as not, she’s up in one of the trees again. You know how she is about apples.”
“You do that, husband mine,” came the reply. “Willah idolizes her, and the last thing we need is two children who insist on behaving like birds. Bad enough that Philomene will climb up anything that will stand still.”
Amanthe turned her attention back to her hand-mill. “I’ll be glad when they lift the tax on the town mill,” she muttered. “Won’t have to sit around illegally grinding bread flour.”
“It’s just until things calm down. You know they’ve had to raise funds for defense.” Ruarid paused to drop a kiss on the back of his wife’s neck.
She tilted her head; the bells chimed again as she threw a winsome smile over her shoulder. “Go on with you, you old beast. Might as well get them all in. Supper’s nearly ready,” she called after her husband.
---
“I can’t, Car… really, I’m too scared.” Philomene eyed the distance between bough and ground.
“Then why’d you go up there in the first place? Just jump down.” Cartheg smiled a bit crookedly. “But since you’re up there, toss me an apple, why don’t you?”
“No. It took me an hour to pick these.”
“C’mon, Mena. Just one apple. I know you’ve eaten at least three of them already. Not like you don’t have a whole bagful.”
“I want Ma to make apple butter with them. You come up here and get your own.”
Cartheg shook his head. “There’ll still be enough for apple butter. And apple tarts. And apple cider. Really.”
Philomene looked at the branch on which she stood. The hand holding the grain sack trembled. “Car, if I throw you the apples, will you promise not to eat them?”
Cartheg’s smile faded. “Why didn’t you just climb up and kick them down like I do? Not like it matters if they get dirt on them.”
“Ugh, Car. They’d get bruised. Don’t you know anything?” Philomene shuffled along the length of the bough, orienting herself above her brother. She leaned down, carefully lowering the sack of fruit. She dangled it over Cartheg, one hand still on the branch. “Ready?” she breathed.
He nodded, and she let go of her hard-won apples. Cartheg caught the bag neatly, then made a show of rummaging about for the largest one.
“You promised!” Philomene’s squeal was shrill, and delivered with considerable volume.
“I never did. Think of it as payment for services rendered.” He bit into the apple, then tossed it overhead, just out of his sister’s reach. “Want it back?”
“Cartheg, don’t tease.” Philomene swiped at the fruit, but her timing was off and she missed it.
“Come down here and get it, Mena. You take too long and I might eat all of them.” Her brother took another bite, then lobbed the apple again.
This time Philomene caught it. She had a moment to realize her predicament. The world slowed long enough for her mind to catch up. Then time skittered forward again, as it does in those instants, and the girl plummeted.
---
Willah looked up at the sound of that thump. But it was the screaming that galvanized her. She came pelting around the side of the barn right about the time that her father came into view. He scooped her up, not even breaking stride as they crossed the road. Willah yelped in surprise as she was hauled roughly into Ruarid’s arms; by the time they made it to the row of apple trees she was bawling full out.
---
Cartheg’s eyes went wide. The sack of apples forgotten, he reached for his sister, but only managed to collide with her on her way down. She flailed, and a sickening, wet crack issued forth as she hit the ground.
Philomene gasped. For a moment there was silence. And then she began to scream.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mena!” Cartheg fumbled at her, trying to gather her up. He was saved by having to do so by his father’s arrival.
Ruarid skittered to a stop and set Willah down before gently pushing his eldest aside. “Let me see to her,” he said, and began checking her over. “Go fetch Brother Leamer. She’s got an arm broken.” The son hesitated. “Light preserve, Cartheg Aloysius Declan, move! And take Willah back to your mother!” he barked.
---
Brother Leamer shook his head. “Bad break. I’ve cleaned the wound, but I need to set it before the muscles tighten up any further. I could give her something to soothe her, but we’d have to wait for it to take effect. I do a healing now, with the bones like this, she’ll lose the proper use of her arm.”
Amanthe came to stand next to her husband. “I’ll go tend to Cartheg. I told him to take Willah out of earshot.”
Ruarid and his wife shared one of those looks. Something passed between them, in the silent language of married people. As soon as she hurried out he looked down at his eldest daughter. “Little bird, are you ready? We need to do this now.”
Philomene let out a choked sob. “I can’t, Da, I’m too scared!”
Ruarid reached out, gently. He took hold of the wrist of her injured arm. With the other hand he touched her cheek, brushed away a tear. “Courage is not the absence of fear, Mena, but knowing fear and doing otherwise.”
The girl hiccupped, then stilled. She searched her father’s blue eyes. The seconds passed, and he watched her face go through a series of emotions. Finally, she spoke.
”Do it.”
Brother Leamer reached for her. Ruarid held on. And under their hands Philomene Declan learned her first lesson.
Ruarid looked down at his wife. “I’ll go take a look. Like as not, she’s up in one of the trees again. You know how she is about apples.”
“You do that, husband mine,” came the reply. “Willah idolizes her, and the last thing we need is two children who insist on behaving like birds. Bad enough that Philomene will climb up anything that will stand still.”
Amanthe turned her attention back to her hand-mill. “I’ll be glad when they lift the tax on the town mill,” she muttered. “Won’t have to sit around illegally grinding bread flour.”
“It’s just until things calm down. You know they’ve had to raise funds for defense.” Ruarid paused to drop a kiss on the back of his wife’s neck.
She tilted her head; the bells chimed again as she threw a winsome smile over her shoulder. “Go on with you, you old beast. Might as well get them all in. Supper’s nearly ready,” she called after her husband.
“I can’t, Car… really, I’m too scared.” Philomene eyed the distance between bough and ground.
“Then why’d you go up there in the first place? Just jump down.” Cartheg smiled a bit crookedly. “But since you’re up there, toss me an apple, why don’t you?”
“No. It took me an hour to pick these.”
“C’mon, Mena. Just one apple. I know you’ve eaten at least three of them already. Not like you don’t have a whole bagful.”
“I want Ma to make apple butter with them. You come up here and get your own.”
Cartheg shook his head. “There’ll still be enough for apple butter. And apple tarts. And apple cider. Really.”
Philomene looked at the branch on which she stood. The hand holding the grain sack trembled. “Car, if I throw you the apples, will you promise not to eat them?”
Cartheg’s smile faded. “Why didn’t you just climb up and kick them down like I do? Not like it matters if they get dirt on them.”
“Ugh, Car. They’d get bruised. Don’t you know anything?” Philomene shuffled along the length of the bough, orienting herself above her brother. She leaned down, carefully lowering the sack of fruit. She dangled it over Cartheg, one hand still on the branch. “Ready?” she breathed.
He nodded, and she let go of her hard-won apples. Cartheg caught the bag neatly, then made a show of rummaging about for the largest one.
“You promised!” Philomene’s squeal was shrill, and delivered with considerable volume.
“I never did. Think of it as payment for services rendered.” He bit into the apple, then tossed it overhead, just out of his sister’s reach. “Want it back?”
“Cartheg, don’t tease.” Philomene swiped at the fruit, but her timing was off and she missed it.
“Come down here and get it, Mena. You take too long and I might eat all of them.” Her brother took another bite, then lobbed the apple again.
This time Philomene caught it. She had a moment to realize her predicament. The world slowed long enough for her mind to catch up. Then time skittered forward again, as it does in those instants, and the girl plummeted.
Willah looked up at the sound of that thump. But it was the screaming that galvanized her. She came pelting around the side of the barn right about the time that her father came into view. He scooped her up, not even breaking stride as they crossed the road. Willah yelped in surprise as she was hauled roughly into Ruarid’s arms; by the time they made it to the row of apple trees she was bawling full out.
Cartheg’s eyes went wide. The sack of apples forgotten, he reached for his sister, but only managed to collide with her on her way down. She flailed, and a sickening, wet crack issued forth as she hit the ground.
Philomene gasped. For a moment there was silence. And then she began to scream.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mena!” Cartheg fumbled at her, trying to gather her up. He was saved by having to do so by his father’s arrival.
Ruarid skittered to a stop and set Willah down before gently pushing his eldest aside. “Let me see to her,” he said, and began checking her over. “Go fetch Brother Leamer. She’s got an arm broken.” The son hesitated. “Light preserve, Cartheg Aloysius Declan, move! And take Willah back to your mother!” he barked.
Brother Leamer shook his head. “Bad break. I’ve cleaned the wound, but I need to set it before the muscles tighten up any further. I could give her something to soothe her, but we’d have to wait for it to take effect. I do a healing now, with the bones like this, she’ll lose the proper use of her arm.”
Amanthe came to stand next to her husband. “I’ll go tend to Cartheg. I told him to take Willah out of earshot.”
Ruarid and his wife shared one of those looks. Something passed between them, in the silent language of married people. As soon as she hurried out he looked down at his eldest daughter. “Little bird, are you ready? We need to do this now.”
Philomene let out a choked sob. “I can’t, Da, I’m too scared!”
Ruarid reached out, gently. He took hold of the wrist of her injured arm. With the other hand he touched her cheek, brushed away a tear. “Courage is not the absence of fear, Mena, but knowing fear and doing otherwise.”
The girl hiccupped, then stilled. She searched her father’s blue eyes. The seconds passed, and he watched her face go through a series of emotions. Finally, she spoke.
”Do it.”
Brother Leamer reached for her. Ruarid held on. And under their hands Philomene Declan learned her first lesson.
((If this excerpt seems a bit disjointed, it's supposed to. Mena does indeed omit much of what happened, but what actually occurred on the day she learned to fish is set down as follows:))
Philomene and Ser lay side-by-side on Mena’s carpet. Hairpins and clothing are strewn about; moments pass in silence as they stare up at Nagrandi skies. Ser props himself up on one elbow, lazily; there is love in his eyes when he looks upon her.
“So. Promised you a tale, did I not, Minstrel? Or are you too tired to listen?”
Ser brushes a few strands of hair from Philomene’s face. “Mmm. I'm not tired,” he says. Philomene shifts, rolling onto her side.
“Well...” she begins, “What sort of thing would you like to hear?”
Edgthorn traces a finger lazily along Mena's hip. "Tell me something... about your brother. A good memory."
Philomene winces as Promise begins to chew on a lock of dark hair. "Light preserve, would you take her, before she eats me a strand at a time?"
Her companion chuckles and coaxes the kitten away. Promise goes willingly, tempted with the prospect of a glove to gnaw on instead.
The priestess snorts, watching the kitten’s antics. "Alright,” she murmurs, “let me think..."
---
Cartheg caught his sister by a wrist. He smiled down at her, blue eyes flashing. “Come along now, little bird. Da says to catch him some nightfin. We have to hurry, can’t stay out too late.”
“Why? He never lets me stay out fer dusk fishing. And why hurry?”
“Well,” Cartheg replied, “he said if we don’t dawdle, Ma'll have a present fer you when we get home.”
Philomene’s brow furrowed. “Present? But it’s not even my birthing day.”
“No, Mena, but it’s someone else’s. That’s the present.”
~
Ruarid surveyed Amanthe’s face in the firelight. Sweat beaded on her brow; face white, she paced the room. Brother Leamer’s wife, Noann, busied herself laying out a sheet of waxed canvas on the strawtick, then spread fresh linens over it for the birthing.
“Soon, soon,” Noann said, hands working. “You’ve brought two forth a’ready, Ama. Your body will remember, you’ll see.”
Amanthe’s grip on her husband’s hand tightened. They shared a look at Noann’s mention of ‘two’. Something passed between them, and Amanthe shook her head. Ruarid’s lips thinned into a line. The pregnant woman made as if to say something, then paused as another contraction washed over her. But this time it came with an imperative. She waited until the worst had passed, then spoke. “Go get my drum, Ruarid. It’s time, I think.”
Brother Leamer nodded. “That close, then? Let’s get you to the straw, Amanthe. Ruarid, I’ll help her while you fetch it. Go on.”
~
“No, Mena, we have to make a fire first, so they come up. My friend Dinnevan says they like the light.”
“But I thought we were going to catch them wit bugs, Car.”
Cartheg paused in his search for kindling. “We will, we will. Just get me some more branches. Don’t go too far. Ma’ll skin me if you drown.”
“Fiiine,” she muttered as she ambled down the shore of the oxbow. Presently she returned with a rather paltry bundle of twigs. “You know, Car, fishing is boring. Did you bring food?”
Her brother nodded then used a stick to point at the covered basket sitting some ways above the waterline. “Of course. You never stop eating. There’s a cheese and other stuff in there. Just don’t eat all of it.” He bent his head to the task of making fire.
Before long they had a roaring blaze going on the shore. Cartheg checked his sister’s knots, redid a few of the more clumsy ones, then as the sun set behind them he proceeded to give Philomene her first lesson in fly fishing.
~
Ruarid departed, wordlessly, though as soon as he rounded the corner to the common room his pace quickened. Frantically he searched, opening boxes, poking in cabinets. He found the small hand drum in a niche in the corner shelf, but was careful to slow his feet before he neared the bedroom again.
Within, Noann held one of Amanthe’s arms, Brother Leamer the other. They lowered her sweat-slicked form to the bed.
“Open,” Amanthe gasped. “Stuffy in here.” Ruarid crossed to the window. He threw up the sash with a bit too much haste, for her next words were, “I’m fine, husband mine. Now give the drum to Noann, and sing our child into the world.”
Brother Leamer laughed. “You Declans and your traditions.” Nevertheless, he knelt between Amanthe’s knees. “Acch, she’s right. Get to your music-making, you two. I can see a head.”
Ruarid went to his wife then. He caught one of her hands in his own as he settled in next to her, dropping a kiss on her forehead. “I love you, wife. Are you ready?”
Amanthe’s face contorted in pain. “Yes, now.”
Noann caught Amanthe’s other hand. She placed a hand on the back of the laboring woman’s neck, gently guiding her chin down to her chest.
Ruarid Declan drew breath, and as Brother Leamer’s wife set the tempo he began to sing.
“We are here and we wait
For you, love, at the gate.
Will you come, will you come
To the sound of the drum.
We lift our voices in song
That you might find your way,
Though your journey is long
Come to us, this we pray…”
---
Eventually, Philomene speaks. “His name is Cartheg. He is four years older than I am.” Her voice is halting, at first. “On the day that... one day Cartheg took me fishing. I'd never been.”
Edgthorn listens quietly. He makes no move to distract her from the tale, though he makes a mental note as he watches her self-edit. After a few moments she continues. "It was the Thondroril River, actually. He taught me to bait a hook with bugs, and how to snap my wrist..."
Philomene laughs aloud. "I was abominable at it. Just... terrible. We were fishing for nightfin around dusk. We had a fire going on shore to draw them...” Ser rolls onto his side. He studies Philomene’s face carefully.
“I remember he said to me at some point…” The priestess' voice deepens, and the cadence of her speech changes. “He said, ‘Little bird, just act like you're throwing something. Make the line dance on the water... they'll come.’" Edgthorn's ears perk up. His lips shape the words 'little bird' soundlessly to himself.
Philomene reddens. "With that, I threw my pole into the water."
---
Cartheg and his sister turned as one to watch the pole arc through the air into the night. It slipped beneath the surface of the oxbow lake with a faint plashing. Cartheg turned on his sister. “Mena! I said act like you’re throwing something, not throw the whole rig into the water!”
Philomene turned her face toward her brother. Her lip quivered for a moment. “I’m sorry, Car. I was trying to snap my wrist.” She watched the widening ripples for a moment. “Da’s going to eat us for dinner, isn’t he?”
---
Edgthorn chuckles. Promise gnaws on his glove with total self-absorption. Philomene goes back to talking after a brief spell of embarrassed laughter. “And that was the end of my fishing for the evening. Cartheg caught a stringer of nightfin, but not quite enough to appease Da when we drug in past full-dark, filthy and lacking one of the family's two poles.”
Philomene toys idly with a lock of hair. Her eyes appear fixed upon something unseen. "We had soup that night, and Ma had our hides when she heard about the pole..."
“But Cartheg...” The priestess shakes her head a bit ruefully. “He's stubborn like my mother. He kept yelling, ‘I'll get it back! I promise!’”
Edgthorn quirks a brow. “...and did he?”
---
Amanthe’s husband took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark. He leaned against the side of the house, his expression haunted. “Never, never again,” he muttered. “This is the last one. So stubborn.”
Ruarid Declan, father of three, picked up the small bundle and the spade next to the door. He made for the wheat fields, and there in the moonlight he buried the afterbirth. As he worked he prayed for his family, and prayed his thanks that he was burying proof of life in his fields, and not another infant in the churchyard.
He murmured one last prayer, set his spade aside against the barn, then turned his feet to the south.
~
“Noann, thank you so much fer playing the drum.” Amanthe looked down at the hard-won daughter in her arms and smiled wearily. The girlchild’s eyes stared up at her, gaze unfocused.
“Think nothing of it, Ama,” Brother Leamer’s wife replied. “Now that I see how much it helps you, I might consider something like it fer my sister.” Noann nodded in the direction of the infant. “What’s her name?”
Amanthe brushed her fingertips against her daughter’s nose. “I will name her Willah,” she said. “After Ruarid’s mother.”
~
“Declans, where are you?” Ruarid’s voice carried across the water. The children turned as one, seeking the source of the voice. Their response was shrill. Eventually their father hove into view. “Come along now, it’s getting late. Car, thanks for minding your sister. Your Ma’s waiting to see you both. And someone else, too.”
---
Philomene sighed, shifting about on their makeshift bed. "My brother snuck off every chance he got for... well, seven weeks is forever to the child I was then... sometimes my father would come out to the oxbow in the Thondroril and watch as he dove for it.”
Edgthorn carefully sets the now-sleeping kitten to one side, shifting closer to his lover. He studies her face as he listens.
“And one day I was at home. I'd given up by then, forgotten, in the manner that little girls do...” Philomene smiles abstractedly. "He marched right in and knelt, smirking, before my mother. She was grinding flour at the time on her hand mill. The look on her face –"
Philomene pauses; her companion looks at her curiously. After a time she continues. "He knelt with the fishing pole as an offering, and she took it and 'knighted' him with it, very graciously. And then she proceeded to chase him around the kitchen for dripping on her clean floor."
Edgthorn lays a hand gently against her side. Philomene dips her head slightly, hair falling across her face. "And that was that."
The druid’s fingers trace a slow spiral along Philomene's hip. "It sounds as though he was a good brother to you."
“Sometimes. Sometimes not. In the way that young boys are.”
---
“Well, persistence pays off, Cartheg. Well done, son.” Ruarid smiled down at his eldest.
But Amanthe just shook her head. “Absolutely not,” she replied. “In the two months that he’s been searching fer that pole he could have made or traded for another, and been fishing and not diving all this time.” Amanthe pulled Willah from her breast and put the infant to her shoulder.
“Persistence pays. Truth, that is. But it’s wisdom you should be investing in, Cartheg Declan.”
Ruarid laughed. He began to dish out second helpings of nightfin soup. His other daughter looked up from her bowl. She studied her mother’s face as she absorbed this lesson, but said nothing.
---
Edgthorn 's hands wander over Philomene's ribs. "Perhaps he knew he was abandoning you, but could not face it. You should not blame yourself, Mena." Her fingers begin to braid a lock of hair, almost of their own accord. She chews her lip contemplatively. “But you've been back every year since,” he continues. “And he has not.”
Philomene turns her head. Her eyes fall upon the tattoo. She looks at the words inscribed in her flesh: 'Words are wind.' Her voice holds grief as she says, "Perhaps, Minstrel."
The druid gathers his lover gently into his arms. She quakes near-imperceptibly as she cries. Edgthorn curls around Philomene protectively, murmuring soothing things. Promise wakes up and looks for something to pounce on.
“... it's slim, I know,” she manages to choke out. “But it's all I have.”
“Shh, shh. We'll find him, Mena.”
Philomene and Ser lay side-by-side on Mena’s carpet. Hairpins and clothing are strewn about; moments pass in silence as they stare up at Nagrandi skies. Ser props himself up on one elbow, lazily; there is love in his eyes when he looks upon her.
“So. Promised you a tale, did I not, Minstrel? Or are you too tired to listen?”
Ser brushes a few strands of hair from Philomene’s face. “Mmm. I'm not tired,” he says. Philomene shifts, rolling onto her side.
“Well...” she begins, “What sort of thing would you like to hear?”
Edgthorn traces a finger lazily along Mena's hip. "Tell me something... about your brother. A good memory."
Philomene winces as Promise begins to chew on a lock of dark hair. "Light preserve, would you take her, before she eats me a strand at a time?"
Her companion chuckles and coaxes the kitten away. Promise goes willingly, tempted with the prospect of a glove to gnaw on instead.
The priestess snorts, watching the kitten’s antics. "Alright,” she murmurs, “let me think..."
Cartheg caught his sister by a wrist. He smiled down at her, blue eyes flashing. “Come along now, little bird. Da says to catch him some nightfin. We have to hurry, can’t stay out too late.”
“Why? He never lets me stay out fer dusk fishing. And why hurry?”
“Well,” Cartheg replied, “he said if we don’t dawdle, Ma'll have a present fer you when we get home.”
Philomene’s brow furrowed. “Present? But it’s not even my birthing day.”
“No, Mena, but it’s someone else’s. That’s the present.”
~
Ruarid surveyed Amanthe’s face in the firelight. Sweat beaded on her brow; face white, she paced the room. Brother Leamer’s wife, Noann, busied herself laying out a sheet of waxed canvas on the strawtick, then spread fresh linens over it for the birthing.
“Soon, soon,” Noann said, hands working. “You’ve brought two forth a’ready, Ama. Your body will remember, you’ll see.”
Amanthe’s grip on her husband’s hand tightened. They shared a look at Noann’s mention of ‘two’. Something passed between them, and Amanthe shook her head. Ruarid’s lips thinned into a line. The pregnant woman made as if to say something, then paused as another contraction washed over her. But this time it came with an imperative. She waited until the worst had passed, then spoke. “Go get my drum, Ruarid. It’s time, I think.”
Brother Leamer nodded. “That close, then? Let’s get you to the straw, Amanthe. Ruarid, I’ll help her while you fetch it. Go on.”
~
“No, Mena, we have to make a fire first, so they come up. My friend Dinnevan says they like the light.”
“But I thought we were going to catch them wit bugs, Car.”
Cartheg paused in his search for kindling. “We will, we will. Just get me some more branches. Don’t go too far. Ma’ll skin me if you drown.”
“Fiiine,” she muttered as she ambled down the shore of the oxbow. Presently she returned with a rather paltry bundle of twigs. “You know, Car, fishing is boring. Did you bring food?”
Her brother nodded then used a stick to point at the covered basket sitting some ways above the waterline. “Of course. You never stop eating. There’s a cheese and other stuff in there. Just don’t eat all of it.” He bent his head to the task of making fire.
Before long they had a roaring blaze going on the shore. Cartheg checked his sister’s knots, redid a few of the more clumsy ones, then as the sun set behind them he proceeded to give Philomene her first lesson in fly fishing.
~
Ruarid departed, wordlessly, though as soon as he rounded the corner to the common room his pace quickened. Frantically he searched, opening boxes, poking in cabinets. He found the small hand drum in a niche in the corner shelf, but was careful to slow his feet before he neared the bedroom again.
Within, Noann held one of Amanthe’s arms, Brother Leamer the other. They lowered her sweat-slicked form to the bed.
“Open,” Amanthe gasped. “Stuffy in here.” Ruarid crossed to the window. He threw up the sash with a bit too much haste, for her next words were, “I’m fine, husband mine. Now give the drum to Noann, and sing our child into the world.”
Brother Leamer laughed. “You Declans and your traditions.” Nevertheless, he knelt between Amanthe’s knees. “Acch, she’s right. Get to your music-making, you two. I can see a head.”
Ruarid went to his wife then. He caught one of her hands in his own as he settled in next to her, dropping a kiss on her forehead. “I love you, wife. Are you ready?”
Amanthe’s face contorted in pain. “Yes, now.”
Noann caught Amanthe’s other hand. She placed a hand on the back of the laboring woman’s neck, gently guiding her chin down to her chest.
Ruarid Declan drew breath, and as Brother Leamer’s wife set the tempo he began to sing.
“We are here and we wait
For you, love, at the gate.
Will you come, will you come
To the sound of the drum.
We lift our voices in song
That you might find your way,
Though your journey is long
Come to us, this we pray…”
Eventually, Philomene speaks. “His name is Cartheg. He is four years older than I am.” Her voice is halting, at first. “On the day that... one day Cartheg took me fishing. I'd never been.”
Edgthorn listens quietly. He makes no move to distract her from the tale, though he makes a mental note as he watches her self-edit. After a few moments she continues. "It was the Thondroril River, actually. He taught me to bait a hook with bugs, and how to snap my wrist..."
Philomene laughs aloud. "I was abominable at it. Just... terrible. We were fishing for nightfin around dusk. We had a fire going on shore to draw them...” Ser rolls onto his side. He studies Philomene’s face carefully.
“I remember he said to me at some point…” The priestess' voice deepens, and the cadence of her speech changes. “He said, ‘Little bird, just act like you're throwing something. Make the line dance on the water... they'll come.’" Edgthorn's ears perk up. His lips shape the words 'little bird' soundlessly to himself.
Philomene reddens. "With that, I threw my pole into the water."
Cartheg and his sister turned as one to watch the pole arc through the air into the night. It slipped beneath the surface of the oxbow lake with a faint plashing. Cartheg turned on his sister. “Mena! I said act like you’re throwing something, not throw the whole rig into the water!”
Philomene turned her face toward her brother. Her lip quivered for a moment. “I’m sorry, Car. I was trying to snap my wrist.” She watched the widening ripples for a moment. “Da’s going to eat us for dinner, isn’t he?”
Edgthorn chuckles. Promise gnaws on his glove with total self-absorption. Philomene goes back to talking after a brief spell of embarrassed laughter. “And that was the end of my fishing for the evening. Cartheg caught a stringer of nightfin, but not quite enough to appease Da when we drug in past full-dark, filthy and lacking one of the family's two poles.”
Philomene toys idly with a lock of hair. Her eyes appear fixed upon something unseen. "We had soup that night, and Ma had our hides when she heard about the pole..."
“But Cartheg...” The priestess shakes her head a bit ruefully. “He's stubborn like my mother. He kept yelling, ‘I'll get it back! I promise!’”
Edgthorn quirks a brow. “...and did he?”
Amanthe’s husband took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark. He leaned against the side of the house, his expression haunted. “Never, never again,” he muttered. “This is the last one. So stubborn.”
Ruarid Declan, father of three, picked up the small bundle and the spade next to the door. He made for the wheat fields, and there in the moonlight he buried the afterbirth. As he worked he prayed for his family, and prayed his thanks that he was burying proof of life in his fields, and not another infant in the churchyard.
He murmured one last prayer, set his spade aside against the barn, then turned his feet to the south.
~
“Noann, thank you so much fer playing the drum.” Amanthe looked down at the hard-won daughter in her arms and smiled wearily. The girlchild’s eyes stared up at her, gaze unfocused.
“Think nothing of it, Ama,” Brother Leamer’s wife replied. “Now that I see how much it helps you, I might consider something like it fer my sister.” Noann nodded in the direction of the infant. “What’s her name?”
Amanthe brushed her fingertips against her daughter’s nose. “I will name her Willah,” she said. “After Ruarid’s mother.”
~
“Declans, where are you?” Ruarid’s voice carried across the water. The children turned as one, seeking the source of the voice. Their response was shrill. Eventually their father hove into view. “Come along now, it’s getting late. Car, thanks for minding your sister. Your Ma’s waiting to see you both. And someone else, too.”
Philomene sighed, shifting about on their makeshift bed. "My brother snuck off every chance he got for... well, seven weeks is forever to the child I was then... sometimes my father would come out to the oxbow in the Thondroril and watch as he dove for it.”
Edgthorn carefully sets the now-sleeping kitten to one side, shifting closer to his lover. He studies her face as he listens.
“And one day I was at home. I'd given up by then, forgotten, in the manner that little girls do...” Philomene smiles abstractedly. "He marched right in and knelt, smirking, before my mother. She was grinding flour at the time on her hand mill. The look on her face –"
Philomene pauses; her companion looks at her curiously. After a time she continues. "He knelt with the fishing pole as an offering, and she took it and 'knighted' him with it, very graciously. And then she proceeded to chase him around the kitchen for dripping on her clean floor."
Edgthorn lays a hand gently against her side. Philomene dips her head slightly, hair falling across her face. "And that was that."
The druid’s fingers trace a slow spiral along Philomene's hip. "It sounds as though he was a good brother to you."
“Sometimes. Sometimes not. In the way that young boys are.”
“Well, persistence pays off, Cartheg. Well done, son.” Ruarid smiled down at his eldest.
But Amanthe just shook her head. “Absolutely not,” she replied. “In the two months that he’s been searching fer that pole he could have made or traded for another, and been fishing and not diving all this time.” Amanthe pulled Willah from her breast and put the infant to her shoulder.
“Persistence pays. Truth, that is. But it’s wisdom you should be investing in, Cartheg Declan.”
Ruarid laughed. He began to dish out second helpings of nightfin soup. His other daughter looked up from her bowl. She studied her mother’s face as she absorbed this lesson, but said nothing.
Edgthorn 's hands wander over Philomene's ribs. "Perhaps he knew he was abandoning you, but could not face it. You should not blame yourself, Mena." Her fingers begin to braid a lock of hair, almost of their own accord. She chews her lip contemplatively. “But you've been back every year since,” he continues. “And he has not.”
Philomene turns her head. Her eyes fall upon the tattoo. She looks at the words inscribed in her flesh: 'Words are wind.' Her voice holds grief as she says, "Perhaps, Minstrel."
The druid gathers his lover gently into his arms. She quakes near-imperceptibly as she cries. Edgthorn curls around Philomene protectively, murmuring soothing things. Promise wakes up and looks for something to pounce on.
“... it's slim, I know,” she manages to choke out. “But it's all I have.”
“Shh, shh. We'll find him, Mena.”
Last edited by Maasi the Devout on Jan. 8th, 2010 4:23 am; edited 1 time in total
As Edgthorn slid up behind Philomene and Nuitlune his eyes dropped to their hands. He watched their fingertalk for a time before clearing his throat. The rogue turned. Something unspoken passed between the two Kal’dorei; Nuitlune’s hands moved in response to it. I think I’ll leave the two of you alone, she signaled.
Philomene watched Nuitlune’s retreating back for a few moments before turning to face Edgthorn. He saw something – fear, possibly – slide behind the priestess’ eyes. It gave the lie to her placid expression, her careful mask, just as much as the way her hands clutched the leatherbound diary.
I must tread carefully, he thought. His tone was neutral, light as he addressed his beloved. “Tonight, then?”
Philomene merely smiled gravely; it did not meet her eyes. She touched the inconspicuous silver pendant at her throat through the fabric of her jerkin. My courage is failing me, Minstrel. She paused briefly before continuing. I am afraid of what I will learn, but it occurs to me that all knowledge is worth having. Your words coming back to me, perhaps.
Edgthorn looked over his shoulder. A few of the other Servitors still milled about outside the building that held the meeting rooms and mess hall. The druid’s nine-fingered hands flickered in silent response. Here, my Starling? I would think you’d want more privacy.
Where better? I'll be forced to behave myself, she signed, if I find some painful memory within these pages.
In that case, I am here, Mena. Lean on me.
Philomene nodded near-imperceptibly. She turned to face the sea, and Edgthorn settled in on the sand next to her. The silence drew out. Eventually the priestess turned to face her lover. Almost as if reading her thoughts Edgthorn spoke. “I could read it aloud to you, though I fear my accent will be laughable.”
Emotions flashed across her countenance almost too rapidly to follow. But the druid had the measure of her; he watched her face carefully, gauging her response.
Philomene handed him the diary.
---
<an inscription appears to have been made on the inside of the cover; it is written painstakingly, as if the author was not well-lettered>
To my wife Amanthe,
Happy Winter Veil, my moon and stars. May there be many more.
Wit love,
Ruarid
<on the following pages appears to be a mishmash of recipes, songs, household accounts, shopping lists, and diary entries; they are written in a tidy and precise script>
19 February
Dear Diary,
Spring's a-coming and the fields'll soon be green. Ruarid's outside beginning the tilling, and Mena's (Light praise) still asleep for once. Sun'll rise soon and I'll have to get out of this bed; but fer now the room is warm and Cartheg's in the kitchen playing wit his bottles. So long as he keeps making noise I'll know he's not at anything.
Shoulda done this before now, written in a book. Thoughtful pressie, this was. Not that I have the time to be writing in it, fer the most part.
He's gone quiet. Best see what he's gotten up to. Likely into the jam again.
23 May
Dear Diary,
Never saw a bairn what moved wit such purpose witin me. Ruarid says he has no hopes for boy or girl, but I'd like to give him another living bairn.
Since I'll be keeping my cares in these pages I might as well tell that as smooth as this pregnancy goes, I fear fer the birth. After the last two I thought to see the herbalist and put an end to it. Never did, which is why I'm expecting yet again.
But the Light gives where it will. This will be the last one, I hope.
---
Edgthorn watched Philomene as he began his recitation in halting, accented Common. Though he spoke the tongue well enough, his reading comprehension was not yet what it could be, and it showed in his voice.
Philomene’s face remained oddly blank, though her hands began to move in a nervous dance between her hairpins, the hem of her tabard, and the sand at her feet. Her lover took some pains to keep his eyes away from the evidence of her discomposure; they remained firmly trained on the diary as he moved from one entry to the next.
---
4 July
Dear Diary,
Planting is well, well over, Light praise.
Fire Festival now. Mena's first time as one of the summer maidens. Still need to finish her dress fer the circle dance. Matron Cirth asked Ruarid and I to help wit the music-making.
Cartheg's been a terror of late. Always wit that horn since Ruarid had it made fer him. Don't know what the man was thinking.
The bairn's moving so much I can scarce sleep. Soon.
<this page seems to have been used mainly for sums and figures, though at the bottom is a bit of verse>
We are here and we wait
For you, love, at the gate.
Will you come, will you come
To the sound of the drum.
We lift our voices in song
That you might find your way,
Though your journey is long
Come to us, this we pray...
---
Philomene blinked as Edgthorn repeated the words in a calm, lyrical cant. As he finished he looked to the priestess for explanation.
The woman looked over her shoulder; satisfied that she would not be overheard, she began to sing the words in the correct key, though there was no musical notation upon the page in question.
As she finished the first verse and the chorus, some memory swam upward in her mind; she supplied the rest of the song without hesitation:
“From our love you were made;
Be welcome, know your worth.
For your life, how we’ve prayed:
Our reward is your birth.
If you hear us then heed –
Hear our hope and our need.
Oh, but come, oh but come,
To the sound of the drum.”
Edgthorn closed his eyes as the priestess sang. His lips moved silently as he committed the lyrics to memory.
Philomene’s haunting voice fell silent as she reached the tethers of remembrance. Silently she supplied the explanation.
In my family, we always greeted a new child with music. That is our birthing song. I thought I had forgotten it; I only ever heard it sang once.
Philomene’s gnomish communication device chose that exact moment to squawk to life. She grimaced as Commander Garravore’s voice poured forth, then dug the GCD out of her pocket. She held a terse but polite exchange with the voice on the other end, though her eyes were all for her lover’s face.
Edgthorn’s ears perked up. “Trouble?” Philomene shook her head. I do not think so, but I must go to him. She got to her feet and brushed the sand from her leggings.
Her beloved calmly marked his place in the diary and signed a one-handed response. I can wait for you. I will be here when you return.
He waited until she was out of view before opening the diary again. He flipped through a series of mundane entries idly until he came to the end of the leatherbound book.
Edgthorn’s eyes surveyed the page briefly; without thinking his gloved fingertips moved to touch the ragged end of the parchment. The words written upon the next page glared up at the druid from where the missing portion of the current page should have been. He cast a look over his shoulder and turned the page.
---
<this page holds only one sentence, written over and over in a stark, masculine hand>
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
---
Edgthorn closed the diary with a snap. Alarm contorted his features. After a long internal battle his hands moved, almost of their own volition. He opened the book and carefully tore out the last page. His fingers worked rapidly; he folded the message – for a message it certainly was – and stowed it in his tunic.
The druid had scarcely finished his work before the sound of booted feet approached from behind. He had only instants to choose what his face would show to Philomene before she was upon him. He looked at her and smiled, knowing it was his court face, his ‘hail fellow well met’ mask; he smiled that smile at his beloved, all the while praying she would not notice. When she settled in next to him her gaze had already fallen upon the diary in his hands.
Relief flowed through him. To obfuscate his agitation he leaned over, gathering Philomene to his side. Through some miracle he managed a deceptively casual tone. “Shall we continue, my Starling?”
The priestess nodded, and Edgthorn opened the book once more.
---
13 July
Dear Diary,
We have a living daughter. Named her Willah, after Ruarid's ma. Haven't seen them fer an age, what wit them living so far out near the city now.
Birthing was harder than I let on. Ruarid is pleased. Willah has the plumpest legs we've ever seen on a girlchild.
My Philomene's already in love with her sister. Cartheg acts above it all, being about at that age. He took Mena fishing and lost one of the poles. Would have had his hide fer it, but Ruarid says the boy'll make amends.
---
Edgthorn stumbled over the unfamiliar name as he read. No sooner than the word ‘Willah’ left his lips did Philomene stiffen in his arms. Her response to his questioning look was very carefully measured.
I will tell you after. Continue, if you please.
The druid nodded his assent, but his arm around her tightened. “As you wish.” He resumed his recitation of the text.
---
19 August
Dear Diary,
It is the hottest it's been in an age! We spent the heat of the day on the banks of the Thondoril just lazing. My Philomene calls Willah 'tadpole' now because of the way the girl wiggles in the water. Cartheg calls Mena 'frogface' in return. Ever the champion of his youngest sister, that one.
Ruarid got me a new drum for our anniversary.
We're moving the household soon. Ruarid's been choking coppers fer some time now. So we'll be getting the old stead back any day now.
<the next four or five entries are of no interest; namely a few recipes and a ‘to do’ list, followed by a blank page, after which the normal entries resume>
18 May
Dear Diary,
Been years since I've written, I'm ashamed to say. After the move I misplaced this diary and it only recently came to hand again. Fer some time I've been keeping a short family log in wit the accounts, but it's not the same as having my own place fer my own thoughts.
Cartheg is fourteen soon, Philomene is ten, and Willah is four in two months. Our new house is not so new any more.
Little bird broke her arm last week. Ruarid had to help set it. He cried more than she did, after.
1 June
Dear Diary,
Summer market brings a great many travelers of late. Some're refugees, what I've been hearing. Taken to grinding flour at home again what wit the tariff increase on the mill. Needing to rebuild Stormwind, I gather.
Rumors of some cult as well. I'll be writing about it when I know more.
My ma sent a letter down. She'll be a-coming witin the sennight fer a visit and to see my youngest. Willah, the bairn what hates to bathe and only cries when she's awake.
20 July
Dear Diary,
Something terrible is happening. A thing I do not understand. A name, Kel'Thuzad, has been on the mouth of every grown person. I cannot credit the news from Andorhal; beggars belief, the tales we've been getting here.
Another legion is being raised, I hear. Only thing what keeps Ruarid home is that grain contract with the Crown. Even armies must eat.
Tonight there's going to be a town meeting. Brother Leamer wishes to speak on the latest word from Brill.
---
Philomene’s interest sharpened as her beloved recited a few more entries; she motioned hurriedly for him to continue. Edgthorn looked over his shoulder; the island seemed deserted, now. The druid’s hand hesitated briefly before turning the page in a fluid motion. As most of the single remaining entry had been torn away, he merely turned the diary towards her. Her eyes fell upon the ‘last’ page.
---
29 October
Dear Diary,
Cartheg has been
<the remainder of this page has been forcibly removed; the jagged edge of the parchment seems old>
---
Edgthorn caught himself holding his breath; he forced himself to exhale quietly and smoothly. His gloved fingertips moved, almost carelessly, to the torn pages. “I’m sorry, Mena,” he said, his tone earnest. Philomene dipped her head; as she tucked her face in beneath his chin, cheek moving against his neck, he continued.
“I think your question can be answered, though. This was tampered with, and left deliberately for you to find.”
Philomene shook her head minutely. She closed her eyes; her response was frantic, though silent. This is… I will have to spend some time deciphering this. What is the message? That someone came, that someone found my mother’s hiding place – that someone saw this record of a life long turned to dust?
The priestess’ nervous hands betrayed the smoothness of her manner. Edgthorn’s eyes scanned the sea; he put a hand the back of her neck in a gesture meant to seem comforting, but also served the purpose of preventing her from lifting her head to see his face.
“Not someone. Look at the words on the last page. A signature, of sorts.”
Philomene opened her eyes. She shifted in her lover’s arms to scan the final, foreshortened entry. After a moment Edgthorn closed the book, resting it on one knee under a gloved hand. A look of fierce concentration passed over his features, unbeknownst to Philomene.
If only I had known when this tearing, this message occurred, Minstrel. How long ago… Cartheg would have come for me, if he were alive, if he took the trouble to leave that.
The druid’s expression went from contemplative to apprehensive. His hand on the back of her neck tightened ever-so-slightly. I must steer her from this course, he thought frantically. He cast about for a solution, then spoke aloud. ”Mena. There is something you wished to tell me when we were finished.”
Philomene dropped her gaze to her gloved hands. She pulled away slightly, perhaps needing physical distance. Willah was the name of my sister.
She paused for what felt like an eternity; when she resumed her narrative the words nearly spilled from her. Edgthorn turned his head slightly, the better to view her face.
She died not long after my parents. I resented Cartheg for leaving us. I learned how to hate, I think, on the day he left… I did not wish to be Willah’s sister and her mother. I wished to run away, like Cartheg.
On the day that the Scarlets marched on Hearthglen we watched from the road, she and I…
Philomene’s face grew a touch slack. Something in her seemed to alter, and Edgthorn watched with rapidly heightening alarm as any vestige of emotion drained from her eyes.
We watched from the road as the column drew near. Willah cried in fright at the sound of all the armor and hooves, the rattling of the wains. We moved out of the roadway; I tried half-heartedly to comfort her, I recall. But when I told her that they were coming to save us she ran forward…
Philomene’s throat worked convulsively, and Edgthorn’s grip upon her tightened. To cut her off he spoke rapidly, “Mena. That is not your fault. You were a child, you could not be blamed, could never be blamed for that.”
You don’t understand. I felt relief, Ser. I left the same night; I did not so much as bury her. The accident I could forgive myself for, but the relief, after… when they began to turn people out of their homes – suspected Plague carriers, they said, but they needed to quarter their men – I jumped at the chance. I was in the first caravan out of Hearthglen. I was happy to be gone, because I was afraid Cartheg would be with them, that he might have se—
She stared at nothing, for a time. The druid moved to fill the silence. “It is right that you grieve for her. But it is wrong to hold it inside.” One of his hands touched her hair. He gathered her to himself, carefully.
I am a priestess, Ser. I am supposed to dispense forgiveness, yet I cannot even forgive myself. I am well-aware of the hypocrisy.
“Sometimes one must seek benediction in the eyes of another. That is the real reason you seek out your brother, isn’t it? So he can forgive you.”
It never occurred to me to question it, in truth. It is the habit of years for me to avoid examining anything connected to her too closely. It has required some strange mental acrobatics.
Edgthorn sighed. He dropped a kiss onto her forehead. “Yes. It seems clear you have walled away much of this. But it is out in the sun now, my Starling, and you must learn to master it somehow.”
There are some days when I almost regret making you the repository of my sins, Minstrel. Does the weight of it bother you?
Philomene lifted her gaze to Edgthorn’s face. He watched as she began to rebuild herself almost before his eyes; the force of personality pouring back into her countenance. His response was a quiet, soothing murmur as he curled protectively around her. “I would trade it for no other burden in the world, my love.”
The priestess made an anguished sound, caught somewhere between a sigh and a hiss. One of her hands moved to intertwine itself in Edgthorn’s hair.
I would ask one more thing of you this evening, my Minstrel.
He pulled away, just a fraction, just enough to see her face again. “Ask, my beloved. Only ask.”
Philomene’s cheeks began to burn. I would ask that you make it pain for me, tonight. Because I wish for oblivion.
Edgthorn shivered against her. His voice was terribly, terribly careful as he spoke into her ear. “You wish… penance?”
I wish for you to remind me of who and what you are. If penance comes of it, it will be an added blessing.
The druid’s lips brushed her neck as he breathed his response. The weight of his words hit Philomene like a velvet slap, and her eyes grew slightly unfocused as both fear and an odd sort of anticipation chased one another across her features. A strange light came into Edgthorn’s eyes as he continued to murmur into her ear.
---
Philomene Declan learned a new lesson that night:
Pain is often the coin of love.
Philomene watched Nuitlune’s retreating back for a few moments before turning to face Edgthorn. He saw something – fear, possibly – slide behind the priestess’ eyes. It gave the lie to her placid expression, her careful mask, just as much as the way her hands clutched the leatherbound diary.
I must tread carefully, he thought. His tone was neutral, light as he addressed his beloved. “Tonight, then?”
Philomene merely smiled gravely; it did not meet her eyes. She touched the inconspicuous silver pendant at her throat through the fabric of her jerkin. My courage is failing me, Minstrel. She paused briefly before continuing. I am afraid of what I will learn, but it occurs to me that all knowledge is worth having. Your words coming back to me, perhaps.
Edgthorn looked over his shoulder. A few of the other Servitors still milled about outside the building that held the meeting rooms and mess hall. The druid’s nine-fingered hands flickered in silent response. Here, my Starling? I would think you’d want more privacy.
Where better? I'll be forced to behave myself, she signed, if I find some painful memory within these pages.
In that case, I am here, Mena. Lean on me.
Philomene nodded near-imperceptibly. She turned to face the sea, and Edgthorn settled in on the sand next to her. The silence drew out. Eventually the priestess turned to face her lover. Almost as if reading her thoughts Edgthorn spoke. “I could read it aloud to you, though I fear my accent will be laughable.”
Emotions flashed across her countenance almost too rapidly to follow. But the druid had the measure of her; he watched her face carefully, gauging her response.
Philomene handed him the diary.
<an inscription appears to have been made on the inside of the cover; it is written painstakingly, as if the author was not well-lettered>
To my wife Amanthe,
Happy Winter Veil, my moon and stars. May there be many more.
Wit love,
Ruarid
19 February
Dear Diary,
Spring's a-coming and the fields'll soon be green. Ruarid's outside beginning the tilling, and Mena's (Light praise) still asleep for once. Sun'll rise soon and I'll have to get out of this bed; but fer now the room is warm and Cartheg's in the kitchen playing wit his bottles. So long as he keeps making noise I'll know he's not at anything.
Shoulda done this before now, written in a book. Thoughtful pressie, this was. Not that I have the time to be writing in it, fer the most part.
He's gone quiet. Best see what he's gotten up to. Likely into the jam again.
23 May
Dear Diary,
Never saw a bairn what moved wit such purpose witin me. Ruarid says he has no hopes for boy or girl, but I'd like to give him another living bairn.
Since I'll be keeping my cares in these pages I might as well tell that as smooth as this pregnancy goes, I fear fer the birth. After the last two I thought to see the herbalist and put an end to it. Never did, which is why I'm expecting yet again.
But the Light gives where it will. This will be the last one, I hope.
Edgthorn watched Philomene as he began his recitation in halting, accented Common. Though he spoke the tongue well enough, his reading comprehension was not yet what it could be, and it showed in his voice.
Philomene’s face remained oddly blank, though her hands began to move in a nervous dance between her hairpins, the hem of her tabard, and the sand at her feet. Her lover took some pains to keep his eyes away from the evidence of her discomposure; they remained firmly trained on the diary as he moved from one entry to the next.
4 July
Dear Diary,
Planting is well, well over, Light praise.
Fire Festival now. Mena's first time as one of the summer maidens. Still need to finish her dress fer the circle dance. Matron Cirth asked Ruarid and I to help wit the music-making.
Cartheg's been a terror of late. Always wit that horn since Ruarid had it made fer him. Don't know what the man was thinking.
The bairn's moving so much I can scarce sleep. Soon.
We are here and we wait
For you, love, at the gate.
Will you come, will you come
To the sound of the drum.
We lift our voices in song
That you might find your way,
Though your journey is long
Come to us, this we pray...
Philomene blinked as Edgthorn repeated the words in a calm, lyrical cant. As he finished he looked to the priestess for explanation.
The woman looked over her shoulder; satisfied that she would not be overheard, she began to sing the words in the correct key, though there was no musical notation upon the page in question.
As she finished the first verse and the chorus, some memory swam upward in her mind; she supplied the rest of the song without hesitation:
“From our love you were made;
Be welcome, know your worth.
For your life, how we’ve prayed:
Our reward is your birth.
If you hear us then heed –
Hear our hope and our need.
Oh, but come, oh but come,
To the sound of the drum.”
Edgthorn closed his eyes as the priestess sang. His lips moved silently as he committed the lyrics to memory.
Philomene’s haunting voice fell silent as she reached the tethers of remembrance. Silently she supplied the explanation.
In my family, we always greeted a new child with music. That is our birthing song. I thought I had forgotten it; I only ever heard it sang once.
Philomene’s gnomish communication device chose that exact moment to squawk to life. She grimaced as Commander Garravore’s voice poured forth, then dug the GCD out of her pocket. She held a terse but polite exchange with the voice on the other end, though her eyes were all for her lover’s face.
Edgthorn’s ears perked up. “Trouble?” Philomene shook her head. I do not think so, but I must go to him. She got to her feet and brushed the sand from her leggings.
Her beloved calmly marked his place in the diary and signed a one-handed response. I can wait for you. I will be here when you return.
He waited until she was out of view before opening the diary again. He flipped through a series of mundane entries idly until he came to the end of the leatherbound book.
Edgthorn’s eyes surveyed the page briefly; without thinking his gloved fingertips moved to touch the ragged end of the parchment. The words written upon the next page glared up at the druid from where the missing portion of the current page should have been. He cast a look over his shoulder and turned the page.
<this page holds only one sentence, written over and over in a stark, masculine hand>
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
WHERE IS WILLAH?
Edgthorn closed the diary with a snap. Alarm contorted his features. After a long internal battle his hands moved, almost of their own volition. He opened the book and carefully tore out the last page. His fingers worked rapidly; he folded the message – for a message it certainly was – and stowed it in his tunic.
The druid had scarcely finished his work before the sound of booted feet approached from behind. He had only instants to choose what his face would show to Philomene before she was upon him. He looked at her and smiled, knowing it was his court face, his ‘hail fellow well met’ mask; he smiled that smile at his beloved, all the while praying she would not notice. When she settled in next to him her gaze had already fallen upon the diary in his hands.
Relief flowed through him. To obfuscate his agitation he leaned over, gathering Philomene to his side. Through some miracle he managed a deceptively casual tone. “Shall we continue, my Starling?”
The priestess nodded, and Edgthorn opened the book once more.
13 July
Dear Diary,
We have a living daughter. Named her Willah, after Ruarid's ma. Haven't seen them fer an age, what wit them living so far out near the city now.
Birthing was harder than I let on. Ruarid is pleased. Willah has the plumpest legs we've ever seen on a girlchild.
My Philomene's already in love with her sister. Cartheg acts above it all, being about at that age. He took Mena fishing and lost one of the poles. Would have had his hide fer it, but Ruarid says the boy'll make amends.
Edgthorn stumbled over the unfamiliar name as he read. No sooner than the word ‘Willah’ left his lips did Philomene stiffen in his arms. Her response to his questioning look was very carefully measured.
I will tell you after. Continue, if you please.
The druid nodded his assent, but his arm around her tightened. “As you wish.” He resumed his recitation of the text.
19 August
Dear Diary,
It is the hottest it's been in an age! We spent the heat of the day on the banks of the Thondoril just lazing. My Philomene calls Willah 'tadpole' now because of the way the girl wiggles in the water. Cartheg calls Mena 'frogface' in return. Ever the champion of his youngest sister, that one.
Ruarid got me a new drum for our anniversary.
We're moving the household soon. Ruarid's been choking coppers fer some time now. So we'll be getting the old stead back any day now.
18 May
Dear Diary,
Been years since I've written, I'm ashamed to say. After the move I misplaced this diary and it only recently came to hand again. Fer some time I've been keeping a short family log in wit the accounts, but it's not the same as having my own place fer my own thoughts.
Cartheg is fourteen soon, Philomene is ten, and Willah is four in two months. Our new house is not so new any more.
Little bird broke her arm last week. Ruarid had to help set it. He cried more than she did, after.
1 June
Dear Diary,
Summer market brings a great many travelers of late. Some're refugees, what I've been hearing. Taken to grinding flour at home again what wit the tariff increase on the mill. Needing to rebuild Stormwind, I gather.
Rumors of some cult as well. I'll be writing about it when I know more.
My ma sent a letter down. She'll be a-coming witin the sennight fer a visit and to see my youngest. Willah, the bairn what hates to bathe and only cries when she's awake.
20 July
Dear Diary,
Something terrible is happening. A thing I do not understand. A name, Kel'Thuzad, has been on the mouth of every grown person. I cannot credit the news from Andorhal; beggars belief, the tales we've been getting here.
Another legion is being raised, I hear. Only thing what keeps Ruarid home is that grain contract with the Crown. Even armies must eat.
Tonight there's going to be a town meeting. Brother Leamer wishes to speak on the latest word from Brill.
Philomene’s interest sharpened as her beloved recited a few more entries; she motioned hurriedly for him to continue. Edgthorn looked over his shoulder; the island seemed deserted, now. The druid’s hand hesitated briefly before turning the page in a fluid motion. As most of the single remaining entry had been torn away, he merely turned the diary towards her. Her eyes fell upon the ‘last’ page.
29 October
Dear Diary,
Cartheg has been
---
Edgthorn caught himself holding his breath; he forced himself to exhale quietly and smoothly. His gloved fingertips moved, almost carelessly, to the torn pages. “I’m sorry, Mena,” he said, his tone earnest. Philomene dipped her head; as she tucked her face in beneath his chin, cheek moving against his neck, he continued.
“I think your question can be answered, though. This was tampered with, and left deliberately for you to find.”
Philomene shook her head minutely. She closed her eyes; her response was frantic, though silent. This is… I will have to spend some time deciphering this. What is the message? That someone came, that someone found my mother’s hiding place – that someone saw this record of a life long turned to dust?
The priestess’ nervous hands betrayed the smoothness of her manner. Edgthorn’s eyes scanned the sea; he put a hand the back of her neck in a gesture meant to seem comforting, but also served the purpose of preventing her from lifting her head to see his face.
“Not someone. Look at the words on the last page. A signature, of sorts.”
Philomene opened her eyes. She shifted in her lover’s arms to scan the final, foreshortened entry. After a moment Edgthorn closed the book, resting it on one knee under a gloved hand. A look of fierce concentration passed over his features, unbeknownst to Philomene.
If only I had known when this tearing, this message occurred, Minstrel. How long ago… Cartheg would have come for me, if he were alive, if he took the trouble to leave that.
The druid’s expression went from contemplative to apprehensive. His hand on the back of her neck tightened ever-so-slightly. I must steer her from this course, he thought frantically. He cast about for a solution, then spoke aloud. ”Mena. There is something you wished to tell me when we were finished.”
Philomene dropped her gaze to her gloved hands. She pulled away slightly, perhaps needing physical distance. Willah was the name of my sister.
She paused for what felt like an eternity; when she resumed her narrative the words nearly spilled from her. Edgthorn turned his head slightly, the better to view her face.
She died not long after my parents. I resented Cartheg for leaving us. I learned how to hate, I think, on the day he left… I did not wish to be Willah’s sister and her mother. I wished to run away, like Cartheg.
On the day that the Scarlets marched on Hearthglen we watched from the road, she and I…
Philomene’s face grew a touch slack. Something in her seemed to alter, and Edgthorn watched with rapidly heightening alarm as any vestige of emotion drained from her eyes.
We watched from the road as the column drew near. Willah cried in fright at the sound of all the armor and hooves, the rattling of the wains. We moved out of the roadway; I tried half-heartedly to comfort her, I recall. But when I told her that they were coming to save us she ran forward…
Philomene’s throat worked convulsively, and Edgthorn’s grip upon her tightened. To cut her off he spoke rapidly, “Mena. That is not your fault. You were a child, you could not be blamed, could never be blamed for that.”
You don’t understand. I felt relief, Ser. I left the same night; I did not so much as bury her. The accident I could forgive myself for, but the relief, after… when they began to turn people out of their homes – suspected Plague carriers, they said, but they needed to quarter their men – I jumped at the chance. I was in the first caravan out of Hearthglen. I was happy to be gone, because I was afraid Cartheg would be with them, that he might have se—
She stared at nothing, for a time. The druid moved to fill the silence. “It is right that you grieve for her. But it is wrong to hold it inside.” One of his hands touched her hair. He gathered her to himself, carefully.
I am a priestess, Ser. I am supposed to dispense forgiveness, yet I cannot even forgive myself. I am well-aware of the hypocrisy.
“Sometimes one must seek benediction in the eyes of another. That is the real reason you seek out your brother, isn’t it? So he can forgive you.”
It never occurred to me to question it, in truth. It is the habit of years for me to avoid examining anything connected to her too closely. It has required some strange mental acrobatics.
Edgthorn sighed. He dropped a kiss onto her forehead. “Yes. It seems clear you have walled away much of this. But it is out in the sun now, my Starling, and you must learn to master it somehow.”
There are some days when I almost regret making you the repository of my sins, Minstrel. Does the weight of it bother you?
Philomene lifted her gaze to Edgthorn’s face. He watched as she began to rebuild herself almost before his eyes; the force of personality pouring back into her countenance. His response was a quiet, soothing murmur as he curled protectively around her. “I would trade it for no other burden in the world, my love.”
The priestess made an anguished sound, caught somewhere between a sigh and a hiss. One of her hands moved to intertwine itself in Edgthorn’s hair.
I would ask one more thing of you this evening, my Minstrel.
He pulled away, just a fraction, just enough to see her face again. “Ask, my beloved. Only ask.”
Philomene’s cheeks began to burn. I would ask that you make it pain for me, tonight. Because I wish for oblivion.
Edgthorn shivered against her. His voice was terribly, terribly careful as he spoke into her ear. “You wish… penance?”
I wish for you to remind me of who and what you are. If penance comes of it, it will be an added blessing.
The druid’s lips brushed her neck as he breathed his response. The weight of his words hit Philomene like a velvet slap, and her eyes grew slightly unfocused as both fear and an odd sort of anticipation chased one another across her features. A strange light came into Edgthorn’s eyes as he continued to murmur into her ear.
Philomene Declan learned a new lesson that night:
Pain is often the coin of love.
Not again. Thrice today.
Philomene hit the ground hard, throwing her arms out to either side and tucking her chin to dissipate the force of impact; she was scarcely able to prevent her head from striking the gravel of the sparring ring. Netherdust puffed upward as her hand scrabbled about, trying to find her spellblade. She gasped, inhaled dust, and began to wheeze, both tears and sweat tracing runnels on her grimy face. A pair of boots appeared by her head.
"Insufficient! Do you think your enemies will give you time to recover, Silent? Do you think they will step back from you and wait for you to regain your wind?" The voice of the Archmage's Apprentice was a scalpel. Philomene winced as her instructor used it to cut her down, yet again.
"You will have your length, stubby as it might be, measured in the dust every time you fail. And perhaps after you have fallen -- oh, I don't know, fifty more times or so -- you will be a bit quicker to ascertain the difference between a feint and a true strike!"
Philomene's gaze flickered from Lorchlar to Ravandwyr. The man was a panther, blue eyes ablaze as he stalked back and forth in front of her half-prone form. He rapped on the priestess' booted foot with his staff. "Now up! And again!"
The high elf waved a hand. "Same exercise. Other hand this time, Silent. Sab'aoth, come at her from behind as soon as Lorchlar has her overbalanced. She'll do it again, she's hopeless. Just bide your time." Ravandwyr shot the human woman a scathing look as he retreated to the far side of the dusty ring.
The Old Bear says this will improve me. I am fortunate none of the others have ever seen how feeble and incompetent I look during these sessions. The priestess grasped her chosen weapon, a dual-edged serrated blade, somewhere between a dirk and a shortsword in length. She switched it from her strong left hand to her weak right and forced her leaden limbs into the proper guard stance. Her brow furrowed as she willed Shadow forth. Darkness rippled along the blade. She looked to Lorchlar and waited.
There was no mercy in his face as he came on.
This time it was seven agonizing minutes before she found herself making friends with the ground again. This time she was on her knees, gasping from a vicious poke to the ribs.
"Enough!" Ravandwyr looked the dark-haired woman over. He quickly assessed her level of fatigue, evident by the fine trembling in her thighs and forearms. The Archmage's Apprentice then stepped near enough to whisper. He stooped, bringing his face in line with Philomene's beet red countenance. "Next week, Silent. If you please me we shall go afield." His long fingers snaked outward. He seized her chin. "You will get out of this what you put into it, Vargoth's Wing. I want to see the grace of the defense, not the effort behind it. Your limbs signal your intent too much. Next week, I want to see your body sing."
The high elf straightened, paying no further heed to the gasping, sweating bundle at his feet. He flicked his hair out of his eyes as he strode over to Sab'aoth and clapped a hand on the shorter man's shoulder. Lorchlar collected his saber, sheathed it, and moved to join the pair as they walked out of the ring. Ravandwyr called over his shoulder, "You get out what you put in!"
The priestess knelt, nearly sobbing with fatigue, on the gravel of the practice circle. She passed a hand across her face, then sheathed her blade. Her fingers moved automatically to secure the weapon as she absorbed this lesson.
The grace of the defense, not the effort behind it. I will get out what I put in. No indicators before the strike.
Philomene Declan got to her feet. She drew a shaky breath and started off in the direction of the guard shack.
Philomene hit the ground hard, throwing her arms out to either side and tucking her chin to dissipate the force of impact; she was scarcely able to prevent her head from striking the gravel of the sparring ring. Netherdust puffed upward as her hand scrabbled about, trying to find her spellblade. She gasped, inhaled dust, and began to wheeze, both tears and sweat tracing runnels on her grimy face. A pair of boots appeared by her head.
"Insufficient! Do you think your enemies will give you time to recover, Silent? Do you think they will step back from you and wait for you to regain your wind?" The voice of the Archmage's Apprentice was a scalpel. Philomene winced as her instructor used it to cut her down, yet again.
"You will have your length, stubby as it might be, measured in the dust every time you fail. And perhaps after you have fallen -- oh, I don't know, fifty more times or so -- you will be a bit quicker to ascertain the difference between a feint and a true strike!"
Philomene's gaze flickered from Lorchlar to Ravandwyr. The man was a panther, blue eyes ablaze as he stalked back and forth in front of her half-prone form. He rapped on the priestess' booted foot with his staff. "Now up! And again!"
The high elf waved a hand. "Same exercise. Other hand this time, Silent. Sab'aoth, come at her from behind as soon as Lorchlar has her overbalanced. She'll do it again, she's hopeless. Just bide your time." Ravandwyr shot the human woman a scathing look as he retreated to the far side of the dusty ring.
The Old Bear says this will improve me. I am fortunate none of the others have ever seen how feeble and incompetent I look during these sessions. The priestess grasped her chosen weapon, a dual-edged serrated blade, somewhere between a dirk and a shortsword in length. She switched it from her strong left hand to her weak right and forced her leaden limbs into the proper guard stance. Her brow furrowed as she willed Shadow forth. Darkness rippled along the blade. She looked to Lorchlar and waited.
There was no mercy in his face as he came on.
This time it was seven agonizing minutes before she found herself making friends with the ground again. This time she was on her knees, gasping from a vicious poke to the ribs.
"Enough!" Ravandwyr looked the dark-haired woman over. He quickly assessed her level of fatigue, evident by the fine trembling in her thighs and forearms. The Archmage's Apprentice then stepped near enough to whisper. He stooped, bringing his face in line with Philomene's beet red countenance. "Next week, Silent. If you please me we shall go afield." His long fingers snaked outward. He seized her chin. "You will get out of this what you put into it, Vargoth's Wing. I want to see the grace of the defense, not the effort behind it. Your limbs signal your intent too much. Next week, I want to see your body sing."
The high elf straightened, paying no further heed to the gasping, sweating bundle at his feet. He flicked his hair out of his eyes as he strode over to Sab'aoth and clapped a hand on the shorter man's shoulder. Lorchlar collected his saber, sheathed it, and moved to join the pair as they walked out of the ring. Ravandwyr called over his shoulder, "You get out what you put in!"
The priestess knelt, nearly sobbing with fatigue, on the gravel of the practice circle. She passed a hand across her face, then sheathed her blade. Her fingers moved automatically to secure the weapon as she absorbed this lesson.
The grace of the defense, not the effort behind it. I will get out what I put in. No indicators before the strike.
Philomene Declan got to her feet. She drew a shaky breath and started off in the direction of the guard shack.
((This little bit of history is written in the form of an excerpt from a project Mena's been working on in her spare time.))
Today, Ruamir, I believe I shall write to you of the events which occurred after I left Hearthglen, bundled aboard a wain with nine other children: the journey to Menethil. I have never written of this, and only once spoken of it in anything remotely resembling detail. But for you I will do this thing. Your fathers will speak well of your mother. But I shall give you truth, when you are old enough to understand these words.
Everyone was on the move in those days, during the end of the Third War. There had been word of a new port town being built for trade with Khaz Modan; many people wanted to make the journey. Winter was upon us and there was nothing left in Lordaeron.
I don't recall wanting for much as a young girl; while there was always conflict it didn't touch me in any meaningful way. Most of the grain farmed there ended up being shipped south to Stormwind in those days. Westfall's fields have lain fallow since the Second War so there were times when grain came to us out of Andorhal's surplus since ours went for export. I never questioned. I was too young, of course, too young to know any of the things I tell you now.
I learned hunger once the shadow of Mardenholde was claimed. First by the Plague, then by Uther's men, and finally by the Scarlets. They turned us out 'to check for signs of Plague', but what really happened was they'd promised their men roofs and safety if they would march to claim it from the undead. They needed to quarter their men, and the Keep at Hearthglen was a prime location for this fledgling group of fanatics.
We stuck together, clumps of refugees all streaming southward. We were all in flight. If you saw a group of people heading north you knew they were Scarlets and to get off the road. We were not amongst Jaina Proudmoore's group, of course, but we met with others who were planning on joining the exodus somehow, others who had missed the boats or been told there wasn't enough room.
By the time we reached Dun Modr we were in dire straits. Winter had come in hard and conditions would only deteriorate from there on out. Whilst we were moving southward it was not fast enough to outpace the storms out of the north. We met another caravan after crossing out of Lordaeron proper. Down to three, this group was... and like us, they had fallen to eating their dead to survive.
No resources in Algaz, they told the self-appointed leaders of our group. I remember picking lice out of my eyebrows and listening to their talk on the first night. Turn west, they said. Wiser to try and make for Menethil.
It was a tenday before we arrived. And instead of a new city we found a bunkhouse, a forge, and an as-yet uncompleted pier. Everything else was half-built or not built at all. I was one of three children alive, and the only one with all my fingers and toes left; we didn't have a proper healer with us. All of the highly-skilled folk had fled with Admiral Proudmoore's daughter.
But there was some good fortune in all of this, Ruamir. Since the city was unfinished it meant jobs for everyone. And since there was a bunkhouse and the courtyard of the keep was near-to-finished there was a place to sleep. Fishermen came as well, sent by merchants who'd done well by war profiteering. They plied the waters and filled the inn with silvers and coppers, with news and fish.
And that is the truth of it. Your mother was not noble by any stretch of the imagination, no matter how well-mannered people tell you she was at times or how stately her bearing. Your mother came south, and then further south, borne along without any choice or forethought in the back of one wagon or another. Your mother was a nit-ridden little urchin who sang in a tavern for coppers after having been the spoiled middle daughter of a wheat farmer for her formative years. Your mother was a nobody and a murderess, Ruamir Asteris. It was only through duty, love, and hope that she managed to make anything of herself at all.
But I am getting ahead of myself. I shall write the next part later, when you are not quite so restless inside of me.
Today, Ruamir, I believe I shall write to you of the events which occurred after I left Hearthglen, bundled aboard a wain with nine other children: the journey to Menethil. I have never written of this, and only once spoken of it in anything remotely resembling detail. But for you I will do this thing. Your fathers will speak well of your mother. But I shall give you truth, when you are old enough to understand these words.
Everyone was on the move in those days, during the end of the Third War. There had been word of a new port town being built for trade with Khaz Modan; many people wanted to make the journey. Winter was upon us and there was nothing left in Lordaeron.
I don't recall wanting for much as a young girl; while there was always conflict it didn't touch me in any meaningful way. Most of the grain farmed there ended up being shipped south to Stormwind in those days. Westfall's fields have lain fallow since the Second War so there were times when grain came to us out of Andorhal's surplus since ours went for export. I never questioned. I was too young, of course, too young to know any of the things I tell you now.
I learned hunger once the shadow of Mardenholde was claimed. First by the Plague, then by Uther's men, and finally by the Scarlets. They turned us out 'to check for signs of Plague', but what really happened was they'd promised their men roofs and safety if they would march to claim it from the undead. They needed to quarter their men, and the Keep at Hearthglen was a prime location for this fledgling group of fanatics.
We stuck together, clumps of refugees all streaming southward. We were all in flight. If you saw a group of people heading north you knew they were Scarlets and to get off the road. We were not amongst Jaina Proudmoore's group, of course, but we met with others who were planning on joining the exodus somehow, others who had missed the boats or been told there wasn't enough room.
By the time we reached Dun Modr we were in dire straits. Winter had come in hard and conditions would only deteriorate from there on out. Whilst we were moving southward it was not fast enough to outpace the storms out of the north. We met another caravan after crossing out of Lordaeron proper. Down to three, this group was... and like us, they had fallen to eating their dead to survive.
No resources in Algaz, they told the self-appointed leaders of our group. I remember picking lice out of my eyebrows and listening to their talk on the first night. Turn west, they said. Wiser to try and make for Menethil.
It was a tenday before we arrived. And instead of a new city we found a bunkhouse, a forge, and an as-yet uncompleted pier. Everything else was half-built or not built at all. I was one of three children alive, and the only one with all my fingers and toes left; we didn't have a proper healer with us. All of the highly-skilled folk had fled with Admiral Proudmoore's daughter.
But there was some good fortune in all of this, Ruamir. Since the city was unfinished it meant jobs for everyone. And since there was a bunkhouse and the courtyard of the keep was near-to-finished there was a place to sleep. Fishermen came as well, sent by merchants who'd done well by war profiteering. They plied the waters and filled the inn with silvers and coppers, with news and fish.
And that is the truth of it. Your mother was not noble by any stretch of the imagination, no matter how well-mannered people tell you she was at times or how stately her bearing. Your mother came south, and then further south, borne along without any choice or forethought in the back of one wagon or another. Your mother was a nit-ridden little urchin who sang in a tavern for coppers after having been the spoiled middle daughter of a wheat farmer for her formative years. Your mother was a nobody and a murderess, Ruamir Asteris. It was only through duty, love, and hope that she managed to make anything of herself at all.
But I am getting ahead of myself. I shall write the next part later, when you are not quite so restless inside of me.
((Recommended listening.))
She came awake all at once to the scent of hot metal. Philomene sat up. Her sister Willah’s small hand held fast to the blanket. The little girl whimpered, shifted; Philomene laid a hand on the side of her face in a gesture meant to comfort as much as silence. Elder sister listened intently for the strains of kitchen sounds. When she did not find them she turned her face to the window. Though the panes were frosted she could see light outside.
daylight?
Philomene slid out from under the blanket, hand trailing across Willah’s cheek and down her neck as the elder sister withdrew.
-----
There was no sound save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. But there was a smell. As Philomene crept down the hallway she pondered the mystery of this smell. When she rounded the corner into the kitchen its source became evident: a heavy pan, contents boiled dry. The girl looked around. She looked at the flour mill on the counter. She looked at the apple on the cutting block, half in pieces already. She looked at the front door, ever-so-slightly ajar.
gone to fetch more water. she’ll be back. i should
Philomene jumped at the chubby hands suddenly clutching at her nightgown. “Mena. Where’s Ma? I wan’some biskits.” Elder sister turned, looking down. She caught a glimpse of gray fabric and looked up again immediately, gaze shifting to the hallway.
motherrrrr?
-----
Amanthe was drawn to the sounds. The breathing sounds. Its head rotated slowly on its axis in order to better orient on them. The torso followed, interminably slow at first, then turning more rapidly. Amanthe now faced the bedroom doorway. Amanthe gathered itself, body moving with ever-diminishing sluggishness. By the time it gained the hallway the movement of the legs was smooth, no longer a totter. Instinct channeled into physical momentum. Amanthe wanted the sounds.
-----
Philomene took a step toward her mother, Willah in tow; behind her the front door imploded.
“MaLittleBirdWillah!” It came out all in one great gasping sound and was punctuated by the door slamming against the wall. Cartheg stood panting in the doorway. His face was painted with soot. Philomene became aware of another smell, that of smoke. She turned her face toward her brother’s voice and blinked in surprise as she realized he was moving toward them and rapidly, and behind him through the doorway she could see light.
fire?
His voice was strident yet hoarse. His eyes were wild, wide as he strode up to them. Willah began to weep in confusion. “We have to leave. We have to leave now. Da… Da’s…” He choked, incapable of finishing. In that moment Amanthe moved forward. It made a hungry sound. Its teeth clicked once.
Philomene’s eyes widened.
motherrrrr?
-----
Cartheg Declan looked into his mother’s face. And howled. “No! Noooooooo!” He swept his sisters aside and Philomene cried out when she crashed into a cabinet, Willah pulled off-balance along with her. Cartheg’s eyes darted, searching, and elder sister gathered the younger to herself. Her own eyes tracked her brother’s movements.
frypan? what’s he going
Willah’s whimpering blossomed into a scream. It joined Cartheg’s own howls as he grasped the pan barehanded and swung. The foundry mark on the iron handle branded his palm; he swung anyway. He swung and he howled. “Noooo! No! No!”
One or two might not be enough. It took two men to pull his Da down. So he swung again.
Amanthe was hungry. But it remembered pain vaguely and flinched away. As son bore down on mother, as iron connected with bone, its hands scrabbled and clawed, tearing strips of flesh from Cartheg’s forearms. Its teeth made the clicking sound again.
“Nonono! NOOOOO!”
A fine mist of something that had once been blood sifted over the stone floor. Philomene reflexively pulled Willah closer, pulled her feet away from the forms of Cartheg and Amanthe. Now there were new smells. A cacophony of them to accompany the series of sickening thuds. The scents of cooking flesh and death joined the chorus of hot metal and smoke. Philomene turned her face away. Her hands covered Willah’s eyes.
i don’t understand i don’t underst
-----
Philomene did not understand that day. Or the next. But eventually she would.
She came awake all at once to the scent of hot metal. Philomene sat up. Her sister Willah’s small hand held fast to the blanket. The little girl whimpered, shifted; Philomene laid a hand on the side of her face in a gesture meant to comfort as much as silence. Elder sister listened intently for the strains of kitchen sounds. When she did not find them she turned her face to the window. Though the panes were frosted she could see light outside.
daylight?
Philomene slid out from under the blanket, hand trailing across Willah’s cheek and down her neck as the elder sister withdrew.
There was no sound save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. But there was a smell. As Philomene crept down the hallway she pondered the mystery of this smell. When she rounded the corner into the kitchen its source became evident: a heavy pan, contents boiled dry. The girl looked around. She looked at the flour mill on the counter. She looked at the apple on the cutting block, half in pieces already. She looked at the front door, ever-so-slightly ajar.
gone to fetch more water. she’ll be back. i should
Philomene jumped at the chubby hands suddenly clutching at her nightgown. “Mena. Where’s Ma? I wan’some biskits.” Elder sister turned, looking down. She caught a glimpse of gray fabric and looked up again immediately, gaze shifting to the hallway.
motherrrrr?
Amanthe was drawn to the sounds. The breathing sounds. Its head rotated slowly on its axis in order to better orient on them. The torso followed, interminably slow at first, then turning more rapidly. Amanthe now faced the bedroom doorway. Amanthe gathered itself, body moving with ever-diminishing sluggishness. By the time it gained the hallway the movement of the legs was smooth, no longer a totter. Instinct channeled into physical momentum. Amanthe wanted the sounds.
Philomene took a step toward her mother, Willah in tow; behind her the front door imploded.
“MaLittleBirdWillah!” It came out all in one great gasping sound and was punctuated by the door slamming against the wall. Cartheg stood panting in the doorway. His face was painted with soot. Philomene became aware of another smell, that of smoke. She turned her face toward her brother’s voice and blinked in surprise as she realized he was moving toward them and rapidly, and behind him through the doorway she could see light.
fire?
His voice was strident yet hoarse. His eyes were wild, wide as he strode up to them. Willah began to weep in confusion. “We have to leave. We have to leave now. Da… Da’s…” He choked, incapable of finishing. In that moment Amanthe moved forward. It made a hungry sound. Its teeth clicked once.
Philomene’s eyes widened.
motherrrrr?
Cartheg Declan looked into his mother’s face. And howled. “No! Noooooooo!” He swept his sisters aside and Philomene cried out when she crashed into a cabinet, Willah pulled off-balance along with her. Cartheg’s eyes darted, searching, and elder sister gathered the younger to herself. Her own eyes tracked her brother’s movements.
frypan? what’s he going
Willah’s whimpering blossomed into a scream. It joined Cartheg’s own howls as he grasped the pan barehanded and swung. The foundry mark on the iron handle branded his palm; he swung anyway. He swung and he howled. “Noooo! No! No!”
One or two might not be enough. It took two men to pull his Da down. So he swung again.
Amanthe was hungry. But it remembered pain vaguely and flinched away. As son bore down on mother, as iron connected with bone, its hands scrabbled and clawed, tearing strips of flesh from Cartheg’s forearms. Its teeth made the clicking sound again.
“Nonono! NOOOOO!”
A fine mist of something that had once been blood sifted over the stone floor. Philomene reflexively pulled Willah closer, pulled her feet away from the forms of Cartheg and Amanthe. Now there were new smells. A cacophony of them to accompany the series of sickening thuds. The scents of cooking flesh and death joined the chorus of hot metal and smoke. Philomene turned her face away. Her hands covered Willah’s eyes.
i don’t understand i don’t underst
Philomene did not understand that day. Or the next. But eventually she would.
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