"Be careful what you wish for."
DECEMBER 20th, R.S.T
The wind howled its triumph around the tiny cabin. Glass windows, a luxory insisted upon by her husband years ago, rattled as chattering teeth in places. The sun was going down and it was fast approaching night. In a raging snow-storm such as this, there wasn't much warning as seething gray skies during the day simply dimmed, then darkened at night. Dusk or dawn became an afterthought in the place of howling snow.
Mary felt draft-fingers of ice curl from around the window. One last look at the fading gray of outside and she withdrew, tightening her worn shawl about her shoulders to return to the blazing fire in the hearth. The inside of the cabin was sparse and bespoke of simple living; a table off to the side of the hearth for preparing and eating meals, a small fold-out counter top for Mary's herbs and preserves in the corner near it. Her bed and the children s bed places nearest the cobble fire place to keep them warm as much as possible, leaving much space near the front door for her son's and daughter's boots, kiln and wood piled near ceiling high to keep dry and ready for winter and a dresser for clothing. Otherwise the cabin was bare wood and bare bones.
Except for a single chair placed directly in front of the fire place, a peculiar thing of gilded brass and crushed purple velour. The chair was a great wing-back for a king's son.
Mary's children slept soundly through the storm. A blessing and a trait children everywhere seemed to have--it did not matter to them what went on around them when they tired; they simply slept. Mary, settling long drab skirts dust-smudged, envied them greatly.
A few pokes at the fire crackling below the empty cauldron hanging over it, a few more logs stuffed as tight as it could go without smothering the fire. Poor they may be, Mary would not have them freeze to death this winter. Mary leaned down to grab the tea warming on the hearth-stone and leaned back into the chair.
The one thing I simply couldn't get rid of, she thought. I could have sold it for a weeks? worth of food, she reminded herself. But I simply couldn't get rid of the one thing that reminded me of him. She took a deep breath, despite the sharp bite of winter's chill and wood smoke from the fire place, the chair still smelled of her husband, a faint musk and sandalwood, the pine he logged to build the cabin and simply him. Mary was willing to, and had sacrificed everything to feed her two young children when he died, selling his sword, his suit of armor and eventually even the coat-of-arms banner that had been tucked away in the corner of the dresser.
But the chair...She simply couldn't make herself part with it.
Mary dropped her hand to the chair's armrest, a great claw of a griffon's arm. The arm was attached to a griffin carved in wood above her, on the back of the chair, frozen eternally in a fierce cry. On the arm-rest was an odd, red and white hat she'd been handed earlier in the market place by a very strange, short little man who spoke fast and made little sense.
Mary was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say, and she'd taken it and brought it home. Distantly, as she ran her fingers across the sturdy material, she thought it would make a fine winter hat for her son if she let a few stitches out here and a few there.
The hat and the fire before her wavered suddenly, "Oh, damn it all," reaching up to dash the back of her hand across her eyes. I won't cry anymore, she told herself. This Yule will be a good Yule, she urged, and I won't cry in front of the children.
But the tide of tears did not stop, and Mary buried her eyes into the ratty end of her shawl. "Oh, Jardan," miserably whispered, "I wish you were here with us!"
The fire crackled and the wind moaned, as empty and hollow as Mary felt.
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces of yesterday?s life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind, it cries Mary
((Part of the Gigglebringer Gnomin' school playable!))
((Lyrics credit: The Wind Cries Mary, by Jimi Hendrix))
DECEMBER 20th, R.S.T
The wind howled its triumph around the tiny cabin. Glass windows, a luxory insisted upon by her husband years ago, rattled as chattering teeth in places. The sun was going down and it was fast approaching night. In a raging snow-storm such as this, there wasn't much warning as seething gray skies during the day simply dimmed, then darkened at night. Dusk or dawn became an afterthought in the place of howling snow.
Mary felt draft-fingers of ice curl from around the window. One last look at the fading gray of outside and she withdrew, tightening her worn shawl about her shoulders to return to the blazing fire in the hearth. The inside of the cabin was sparse and bespoke of simple living; a table off to the side of the hearth for preparing and eating meals, a small fold-out counter top for Mary's herbs and preserves in the corner near it. Her bed and the children s bed places nearest the cobble fire place to keep them warm as much as possible, leaving much space near the front door for her son's and daughter's boots, kiln and wood piled near ceiling high to keep dry and ready for winter and a dresser for clothing. Otherwise the cabin was bare wood and bare bones.
Except for a single chair placed directly in front of the fire place, a peculiar thing of gilded brass and crushed purple velour. The chair was a great wing-back for a king's son.
Mary's children slept soundly through the storm. A blessing and a trait children everywhere seemed to have--it did not matter to them what went on around them when they tired; they simply slept. Mary, settling long drab skirts dust-smudged, envied them greatly.
A few pokes at the fire crackling below the empty cauldron hanging over it, a few more logs stuffed as tight as it could go without smothering the fire. Poor they may be, Mary would not have them freeze to death this winter. Mary leaned down to grab the tea warming on the hearth-stone and leaned back into the chair.
The one thing I simply couldn't get rid of, she thought. I could have sold it for a weeks? worth of food, she reminded herself. But I simply couldn't get rid of the one thing that reminded me of him. She took a deep breath, despite the sharp bite of winter's chill and wood smoke from the fire place, the chair still smelled of her husband, a faint musk and sandalwood, the pine he logged to build the cabin and simply him. Mary was willing to, and had sacrificed everything to feed her two young children when he died, selling his sword, his suit of armor and eventually even the coat-of-arms banner that had been tucked away in the corner of the dresser.
But the chair...She simply couldn't make herself part with it.
Mary dropped her hand to the chair's armrest, a great claw of a griffon's arm. The arm was attached to a griffin carved in wood above her, on the back of the chair, frozen eternally in a fierce cry. On the arm-rest was an odd, red and white hat she'd been handed earlier in the market place by a very strange, short little man who spoke fast and made little sense.
Mary was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say, and she'd taken it and brought it home. Distantly, as she ran her fingers across the sturdy material, she thought it would make a fine winter hat for her son if she let a few stitches out here and a few there.
The hat and the fire before her wavered suddenly, "Oh, damn it all," reaching up to dash the back of her hand across her eyes. I won't cry anymore, she told herself. This Yule will be a good Yule, she urged, and I won't cry in front of the children.
But the tide of tears did not stop, and Mary buried her eyes into the ratty end of her shawl. "Oh, Jardan," miserably whispered, "I wish you were here with us!"
The fire crackled and the wind moaned, as empty and hollow as Mary felt.
A broom is drearily sweeping
Up the broken pieces of yesterday?s life
Somewhere a queen is weeping
Somewhere a king has no wife
And the wind, it cries Mary
((Part of the Gigglebringer Gnomin' school playable!))
((Lyrics credit: The Wind Cries Mary, by Jimi Hendrix))