Stew and Stories
((Reposted.))
Netha padded into the kitchen on little bare feet and pulled a chair over to stand on so that she could watch her father cutting vegetables for tonight's dinner. His eyes flicked up from the knife for a moment at the sound but then returned to the task at hand. He did, however, push a small pile of the freshly cut carrot chunks over to the spot where she would soon be standing. Netha popped one into her mouth and crunched happily as she watched the steady swishing of the blade. The snack was part of the ritual, as were the words when her mouth was empty enough to speak them.
"Tell me a story, Father."
A flicker of a smile. The knife pushed the chopped bits aside to make room for the next stalk of celery on the cutting board. "What would you like this story to be about, Little Bird?"
Netha's smile widened a bit at the nickname. It was her special name. Only her father ever called her that and she was the only one he gave such a pet name to. All of her other siblings he simply called by name. Down in the selfish parts of her heart she had always hoped that it meant that she was his favorite child.
"Tell me how you met Mother."
A quick glance up from the board and another, wider, smile. "You already know this story, Jelleneth." The knife click-clacked across the board, turning the long stalk into neat little chunks. "I used to live in a tall tall tower with no doors and only one window in the very topmost room. And then one day, your mother was riding through the forest and-"
"Not the silly made-up story!" Netha cut in with a vigorous shake of her head that made her hair fall into her eyes. She brushed it back with impatient hands. "I want the real story. The true one."
Her father had glanced up again at that, tilting his head to study her small face. A touch of sadness seemed to cloud his eyes for a moment but it was gone so quickly she could not be certain it had ever really been there at all and the smile returned. He carried the cutting board over to the stove, scraping the vegetable chunks off and into the stew pot. A few muttered words and the fire crackled into life, setting the pot to bubbling and hissing over the flames. "For that tale we will have to ask your Mother. It is her story as much as mine and I would not deprive her of the chance to tell it."
Netha's ears wilted a bit at that. "She's in her study. She doesn't like us to go there when she's working."
A somber nod from her father as he seemed to consider this. Then he reached up into the cupboard and pulled down a cup. "We will bring her some tea then. I cannot think she would object to that."
Mother's study was a forbidden place, full of strange devices and ominously glowing crystals and books filled with page after page of meaningless runes. Her mother stood in the middle of all of this, tracing one of these runic patterns in the air with her hand, a soft glow of blue light hanging behind it, pulsing with arcane power.
Netha crossed the room hesitantly, half of her concentration on balancing the cup in her hands so as not to spill the tea, the other half being gnawed upon by desperate curiosity as she watched her mother work. She had never been permitted to do so in the past.
The rattle of the cup as she placed it on the desk seemed to shatter her mother's concentration and the glowing sigil was dismissed with an impatient wave of her hand. She turned then, eyes flashing with irritation, but a soft kiss on the cheek from her husband took that away. "Time for a break, love." He said gently. "Jelleneth made you some tea."
In truth Netha had only boiled the water. The mixing of the leaves with the herbs and spices, the careful steeping, the delicate additions of cream and honey to achieve just the right smell and color.. all of that had been her father's work. Her mother knew this, but she thanked her youngest daughter anyway, eyes closing with pleasure as she took the first sip.
"And she would like to hear the tale of how we first met." her father continued, guiding her mother down into the chair beside the desk, hands already beginning to work at the troublesome knots in her shoulders. The Magistrix sighed contentedly, allowing the priest to do his gentle healing.
"Mm.. I thought she knew that story."
Another flicker of that same sadness, gone again quickly. "She feels she is old enough for the -true- tale."
"Does she?" her mother's eyes locked on her for a moment, studying, then she smiled. "Perhaps she is." She sat up, shrugging his hands away, taking one of them in her own and pulling him to sit on the arm of the chair beside her, resting her head against him as she spoke. "I was not much older then than you are now, Netha. And I had just begun my training. The other young apprentices, I fear, were not very kind to me."
Netha had never heard her mother speak of her days at the Academy, she curled her knees up to her chest and listened, wide-eyed.
"One of them, a boy, had just mastered his first fire spells. And he had been using them to set fire to my robes or my hair whenever the Master was not looking. I was singed, and humiliated because the last time he had done it the flame had been much larger and I had screamed and thrashed about and the Master had thought that it had been -my- carelessness that caused the blaze. I was punished. And I had run away and gone to hide in the temple gardens where none of my classmates would think to look for me and so they would not see me crying. But someone did see."
Netha's eyes flicked up to her father and he nodded, a wistful smile of reminiscence on his lips. "I saw her from the window of my rooms. I was meant to be studying but a beautiful girl crying in the gardens was far more interesting to me than the various properties of peacebloom in healing salves."
Her mother blushed and squeezed his hand. "He came down to sit beside me. And he told me the story of the little frog that fell in love with the moon."
Netha grinned. That was one of her favorites.
"And after that I would often sneak into the gardens whenever I was sad, or lonely, or angry. That is how we became friends." Her parents were smiling at one another, and the warmth of the gentle love between them was like a blanket Netha could feel settling onto her shoulders.
"But when did you fall in love?"
Her mother turned, blinking at her, and then laughed. "That story we will save for another time, I think. When you are a bit older."
"Go and call Ilthus to help you set the table." Her father smiled as he pulled her mother up and into his arms. "Dinner will be ready soon."
Netha padded into the kitchen on little bare feet and pulled a chair over to stand on so that she could watch her father cutting vegetables for tonight's dinner. His eyes flicked up from the knife for a moment at the sound but then returned to the task at hand. He did, however, push a small pile of the freshly cut carrot chunks over to the spot where she would soon be standing. Netha popped one into her mouth and crunched happily as she watched the steady swishing of the blade. The snack was part of the ritual, as were the words when her mouth was empty enough to speak them.
"Tell me a story, Father."
A flicker of a smile. The knife pushed the chopped bits aside to make room for the next stalk of celery on the cutting board. "What would you like this story to be about, Little Bird?"
Netha's smile widened a bit at the nickname. It was her special name. Only her father ever called her that and she was the only one he gave such a pet name to. All of her other siblings he simply called by name. Down in the selfish parts of her heart she had always hoped that it meant that she was his favorite child.
"Tell me how you met Mother."
A quick glance up from the board and another, wider, smile. "You already know this story, Jelleneth." The knife click-clacked across the board, turning the long stalk into neat little chunks. "I used to live in a tall tall tower with no doors and only one window in the very topmost room. And then one day, your mother was riding through the forest and-"
"Not the silly made-up story!" Netha cut in with a vigorous shake of her head that made her hair fall into her eyes. She brushed it back with impatient hands. "I want the real story. The true one."
Her father had glanced up again at that, tilting his head to study her small face. A touch of sadness seemed to cloud his eyes for a moment but it was gone so quickly she could not be certain it had ever really been there at all and the smile returned. He carried the cutting board over to the stove, scraping the vegetable chunks off and into the stew pot. A few muttered words and the fire crackled into life, setting the pot to bubbling and hissing over the flames. "For that tale we will have to ask your Mother. It is her story as much as mine and I would not deprive her of the chance to tell it."
Netha's ears wilted a bit at that. "She's in her study. She doesn't like us to go there when she's working."
A somber nod from her father as he seemed to consider this. Then he reached up into the cupboard and pulled down a cup. "We will bring her some tea then. I cannot think she would object to that."
Mother's study was a forbidden place, full of strange devices and ominously glowing crystals and books filled with page after page of meaningless runes. Her mother stood in the middle of all of this, tracing one of these runic patterns in the air with her hand, a soft glow of blue light hanging behind it, pulsing with arcane power.
Netha crossed the room hesitantly, half of her concentration on balancing the cup in her hands so as not to spill the tea, the other half being gnawed upon by desperate curiosity as she watched her mother work. She had never been permitted to do so in the past.
The rattle of the cup as she placed it on the desk seemed to shatter her mother's concentration and the glowing sigil was dismissed with an impatient wave of her hand. She turned then, eyes flashing with irritation, but a soft kiss on the cheek from her husband took that away. "Time for a break, love." He said gently. "Jelleneth made you some tea."
In truth Netha had only boiled the water. The mixing of the leaves with the herbs and spices, the careful steeping, the delicate additions of cream and honey to achieve just the right smell and color.. all of that had been her father's work. Her mother knew this, but she thanked her youngest daughter anyway, eyes closing with pleasure as she took the first sip.
"And she would like to hear the tale of how we first met." her father continued, guiding her mother down into the chair beside the desk, hands already beginning to work at the troublesome knots in her shoulders. The Magistrix sighed contentedly, allowing the priest to do his gentle healing.
"Mm.. I thought she knew that story."
Another flicker of that same sadness, gone again quickly. "She feels she is old enough for the -true- tale."
"Does she?" her mother's eyes locked on her for a moment, studying, then she smiled. "Perhaps she is." She sat up, shrugging his hands away, taking one of them in her own and pulling him to sit on the arm of the chair beside her, resting her head against him as she spoke. "I was not much older then than you are now, Netha. And I had just begun my training. The other young apprentices, I fear, were not very kind to me."
Netha had never heard her mother speak of her days at the Academy, she curled her knees up to her chest and listened, wide-eyed.
"One of them, a boy, had just mastered his first fire spells. And he had been using them to set fire to my robes or my hair whenever the Master was not looking. I was singed, and humiliated because the last time he had done it the flame had been much larger and I had screamed and thrashed about and the Master had thought that it had been -my- carelessness that caused the blaze. I was punished. And I had run away and gone to hide in the temple gardens where none of my classmates would think to look for me and so they would not see me crying. But someone did see."
Netha's eyes flicked up to her father and he nodded, a wistful smile of reminiscence on his lips. "I saw her from the window of my rooms. I was meant to be studying but a beautiful girl crying in the gardens was far more interesting to me than the various properties of peacebloom in healing salves."
Her mother blushed and squeezed his hand. "He came down to sit beside me. And he told me the story of the little frog that fell in love with the moon."
Netha grinned. That was one of her favorites.
"And after that I would often sneak into the gardens whenever I was sad, or lonely, or angry. That is how we became friends." Her parents were smiling at one another, and the warmth of the gentle love between them was like a blanket Netha could feel settling onto her shoulders.
"But when did you fall in love?"
Her mother turned, blinking at her, and then laughed. "That story we will save for another time, I think. When you are a bit older."
"Go and call Ilthus to help you set the table." Her father smiled as he pulled her mother up and into his arms. "Dinner will be ready soon."