Post by Lady Eirian Gwenyth Apollius on Jul 1, 2008 16:44:55 GMT -6
"M'Lady, will my son marry the girl he loves? Will there be many grand children?"
The Lady of the Estate puts down her spindle to look over her shoulder at the neighboring women. One of them has grown bold enough to ask a question instead of leaving it to the gossips to pick apart or youth to decide. They are busy at the task of using the spindle to tame clouds of rough wool in to lines as soft as the silk the Crusader's once wrote of, flowing like water from the mouth's of worms on their own looms. She is dressed no less or better than any who are at the task. Her chemise and kirtle are died only with roots to a tawny yellow. Unshod feet play toe to toe in the cool grass that tickles the soles. The other women giggle in their groups. Reclining in the flowers, they spin, sew, card, talk. What makes this question different from all other questions is it doesn't depend upon the Lady's magnamous gesture of allowing the pair in the settlement to wed, or on anything at all except that the woman looks into her eyes with expectation.
The elder woman is fifty summers and has waited long for her son to cease his roving, woe-be-gotten ways. She wants to see their face on new life and smell milk-breath from a small mouth opening. It is not wrong to know if the figments of her imagination will manifest; how does she know to trust that the woman some twenty-six years in difference knows when she is only swollen with her first child?
The younger woman's mouth becomes a silent sign of happiness as she leans over to her elder companion. The woman has come from the lowest of the settlements and walked when her bones ached to live in the place called Arianna Hymerodraeth. Veiled at first, slowly, parchment lid pulls back like the beating of butterfly's wing to reveal the sapphire pools. The Eyes of Heaven, some have whispered. Spirit Mirrors, they have been called all her life. If emotions of the soul, if truth, lives in the eyes than what is expressed is immortal and infinite.
"He will have 8 strapping children. Your legacy will go on so long and you will be very proud! This is what the dream at the loom said to me when the strings were being woven. I will give you the bolt of fabric that was made. It holds the dream in it."
"God bless ye," the woman claps their hands together as they both smile. So is the make of many of her days now since the fire inside was driven to infinite heights by the unborn. What was a closely guarded secret to some, a rumor among others, is the peace of several. The baby is wise, taking mother's hands to depict a vision, speak poetry of it.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The Lady of the Estate puts down her spindle to look over her shoulder at the neighboring women. One of them has grown bold enough to ask a question instead of leaving it to the gossips to pick apart or youth to decide. They are busy at the task of using the spindle to tame clouds of rough wool in to lines as soft as the silk the Crusader's once wrote of, flowing like water from the mouth's of worms on their own looms. She is dressed no less or better than any who are at the task. Her chemise and kirtle are died only with roots to a tawny yellow. Unshod feet play toe to toe in the cool grass that tickles the soles. The other women giggle in their groups. Reclining in the flowers, they spin, sew, card, talk. What makes this question different from all other questions is it doesn't depend upon the Lady's magnamous gesture of allowing the pair in the settlement to wed, or on anything at all except that the woman looks into her eyes with expectation.
The elder woman is fifty summers and has waited long for her son to cease his roving, woe-be-gotten ways. She wants to see their face on new life and smell milk-breath from a small mouth opening. It is not wrong to know if the figments of her imagination will manifest; how does she know to trust that the woman some twenty-six years in difference knows when she is only swollen with her first child?
The younger woman's mouth becomes a silent sign of happiness as she leans over to her elder companion. The woman has come from the lowest of the settlements and walked when her bones ached to live in the place called Arianna Hymerodraeth. Veiled at first, slowly, parchment lid pulls back like the beating of butterfly's wing to reveal the sapphire pools. The Eyes of Heaven, some have whispered. Spirit Mirrors, they have been called all her life. If emotions of the soul, if truth, lives in the eyes than what is expressed is immortal and infinite.
"He will have 8 strapping children. Your legacy will go on so long and you will be very proud! This is what the dream at the loom said to me when the strings were being woven. I will give you the bolt of fabric that was made. It holds the dream in it."
"God bless ye," the woman claps their hands together as they both smile. So is the make of many of her days now since the fire inside was driven to infinite heights by the unborn. What was a closely guarded secret to some, a rumor among others, is the peace of several. The baby is wise, taking mother's hands to depict a vision, speak poetry of it.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The ink on the quill was fluid on the page to make the words curl, twist, and flow in the sought after order that would make reading them a song. Eirian had time to let her hand carry the depth and breadth of fascination. Artistic the passage, but the words were not a lie. Over her shoulder sat the invisible muse that told her to make a story of a story. What would the purpose of it be, the reason?
On that, she was not as clear.
It had been nearly ten days since the carriage crossed the requisite number of miles and she had not crossed them again in the morning to reach Turas Lan. Instructions were left, accounts settled, commisions finished. There was no debt to pay nor accolade to deliver. No lesson to teach. The moon turned so now the months were seven that Hope lay forming in her womb. The two dreamed of one another; she replaced the whisper over the left shoulder with a sprite's laugh. Whenever Eirian would turn around she found the face of a girl with jet-black hair. Mysterious eyes were set in the slant of her blood father, but even he, gifted of some foresight, could not detect that sapphire would break through the dark brown eyes of his youth in the right lights. She was lumiscent; tiny hands pressed into the willow-worn limbs of her mother, "Are you frail," she'd say, "Am I frail?" Eirian would answer her no, that she was far stronger now with her, and that Hope would have a lion's strength in the body of a sparrow. They talked of where the stars are born, how the ewe give's birth to a sheep, and why jasmine should be made to grow on trellaces in Europe. "Will you take me to the far side of the world to see where my blood father gave me slant eyes?" "Aye, and you will see the Emperor's court." "Will I see the land of your mother, and the land of the Avarian King?" "You will live in them each as the princess you are."
"What is my name, mother, all of it?"
"A Hope, an Impression of God."
She wanted her mother to know many things, and curled far back in the womb, pressing towards the spine in times of trouble. Her feet kicked out often when their cousin touched her womb, and she felt the hands of the Ranger-King embrace her mother in her sleep from time to time.
As the ink came to another line, Eirian could not help but to feel that something more was to come before the birth of this child, as if the whole of the world were opening to recieve it.
On that, she was not as clear.
It had been nearly ten days since the carriage crossed the requisite number of miles and she had not crossed them again in the morning to reach Turas Lan. Instructions were left, accounts settled, commisions finished. There was no debt to pay nor accolade to deliver. No lesson to teach. The moon turned so now the months were seven that Hope lay forming in her womb. The two dreamed of one another; she replaced the whisper over the left shoulder with a sprite's laugh. Whenever Eirian would turn around she found the face of a girl with jet-black hair. Mysterious eyes were set in the slant of her blood father, but even he, gifted of some foresight, could not detect that sapphire would break through the dark brown eyes of his youth in the right lights. She was lumiscent; tiny hands pressed into the willow-worn limbs of her mother, "Are you frail," she'd say, "Am I frail?" Eirian would answer her no, that she was far stronger now with her, and that Hope would have a lion's strength in the body of a sparrow. They talked of where the stars are born, how the ewe give's birth to a sheep, and why jasmine should be made to grow on trellaces in Europe. "Will you take me to the far side of the world to see where my blood father gave me slant eyes?" "Aye, and you will see the Emperor's court." "Will I see the land of your mother, and the land of the Avarian King?" "You will live in them each as the princess you are."
"What is my name, mother, all of it?"
"A Hope, an Impression of God."
She wanted her mother to know many things, and curled far back in the womb, pressing towards the spine in times of trouble. Her feet kicked out often when their cousin touched her womb, and she felt the hands of the Ranger-King embrace her mother in her sleep from time to time.
As the ink came to another line, Eirian could not help but to feel that something more was to come before the birth of this child, as if the whole of the world were opening to recieve it.
