[Wild Roses] a bit from the second war
Title: muddy water
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; people in the Trickwood
Prompt: 'betrayal', 'second war, small-scale dynamics' - non list requests
Word Count: 785 839
Notes: I don't know this family, yet. Otherwise, if you have questions, ask.
He rose at daylight, accidentally woke her when he dropped his shin knife on the tile, whispered an apology just loud enough for her to hear. After a belly clenched moment of adrenaline-fueled calculation, she rolled out of bed, dressed in yesterday's clothes, tying a skirt on over her trousers as she padded barefoot into the kitchen. His boots were missing from their space by the door, and the door itself was only barely closed.
He wasn't gone long, barely long enough for the door to settle back into its reinforced hinges before it came open again. She peered at him over an open cupboard door, head tilted at a quizzical angle.
"Pack up the kids and anything else you don't want to live without," he told her, words that should have been angry and were instead tired, toneless. The kind of exhausted she usually only saw after he came home from fighting fires . . or floods.
She moved, splashed the water she'd have used for eggs over the fire to put it out, started pulling dyes and salt from the storage cabinets, what bread they had, and dropping toys into leftover spaces in her cases as she came across them.
"River's rising," was all he said, at first, then, as he tracked mud across the floor to pull a sack of salt out of a box, "I didn't get far before I started sinking, and there's water in the valley--wasn't there last night. The stones are out of sight."
" . . Oh, no," she breathed, and changed her packing, hurrying more. They could make more salt if they needed it, buy saffron dyes, but no amount of packing would get his father's marking stone out of the water, would rescue the seeds she'd scattered down near the river to hold the soil down.
Spring floods were one thing; they were long used to those. He dug banks and dragged fallen trees around to redirect those far upstream from where they could threaten house and the gardens around it. He was good at it, too, good enough that he was gone in springtime, most years.
The leaves were out and pure green; they'd had no warnings of heavy rain or an early apple season . . but the river was rising, fast, and inexorable.
She touched his cheek as he passed her, brushed a thumb up the bone to his temple, silent sympathy that he shrugged off.
Her hand still outstretched, she thought a moment, then reached out farther, touched the wooden bones of the house, the carvings he'd put in corners and lintels before they met, the newer, sharper carvings he'd worked in winters after she'd come here to stay.
A sleepy squawk came from another room, jerking her out of memory, and she pulled her hand away from the sun-in-glory by the door as he emerged with a squirming child under each arm, dropping them on their feet as he straightened up briefly, then knelt to face them.
"River's rising," he told them, softly, "and we won't be back to start over. Take what you can carry, and what you don't want to leave for the water."
"I don't want to leave anything for the water--" the younger protested, and her father almost smiled.
"We can't take the whole house with us, baby girl. I wish we could."
"What can I do to help?" the elder of their children whispered in his mother's ear, and ducked the reflexive startled swipe.
"Get your boots on, first, then go and get the books, the records--" she calmed her breathing, shaking her head slightly. "Clear out your secret spaces and the arsenal."
Her son nodded, and disappeared in a blur of mussed hair and his father's too-big clothes.
Her daughter followed, pulling away from a tight hug around her father's neck to scramble after her brother and clatter down the stairs.
"The road is gone, isn't it," she said, very softly, and closed her eyes as he nodded.
Scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to keep from crying, then opened her eyes again. "Alright. Go and get the travois--the ones the riders left, when they came through. There's a riders' camp on the crest of the ridge--they should have a way to call someone for help there, if we can't get passage on a boat or all the rivers are rising like ours. Oh--" she caught at his shoulder as he rose, pulled him into a brief, fierce hug of her own. "Remember to bring your carving things, if you can get to them?"
He nodded, and went outside again, leaving her alone for the moment.
For all the things still in it, she couldn't shake the feeling of standing in an abandoned, dying shell, waiting for the water to come and wash it away.
She forced herself to move again, to go and get her own records, woven cords and braids.
She left her skirt behind in the bedroom.
'Verse/characters: Wild Roses; people in the Trickwood
Prompt: 'betrayal', 'second war, small-scale dynamics' - non list requests
Word Count: 785 839
Notes: I don't know this family, yet. Otherwise, if you have questions, ask.
He rose at daylight, accidentally woke her when he dropped his shin knife on the tile, whispered an apology just loud enough for her to hear. After a belly clenched moment of adrenaline-fueled calculation, she rolled out of bed, dressed in yesterday's clothes, tying a skirt on over her trousers as she padded barefoot into the kitchen. His boots were missing from their space by the door, and the door itself was only barely closed.
He wasn't gone long, barely long enough for the door to settle back into its reinforced hinges before it came open again. She peered at him over an open cupboard door, head tilted at a quizzical angle.
"Pack up the kids and anything else you don't want to live without," he told her, words that should have been angry and were instead tired, toneless. The kind of exhausted she usually only saw after he came home from fighting fires . . or floods.
She moved, splashed the water she'd have used for eggs over the fire to put it out, started pulling dyes and salt from the storage cabinets, what bread they had, and dropping toys into leftover spaces in her cases as she came across them.
"River's rising," was all he said, at first, then, as he tracked mud across the floor to pull a sack of salt out of a box, "I didn't get far before I started sinking, and there's water in the valley--wasn't there last night. The stones are out of sight."
" . . Oh, no," she breathed, and changed her packing, hurrying more. They could make more salt if they needed it, buy saffron dyes, but no amount of packing would get his father's marking stone out of the water, would rescue the seeds she'd scattered down near the river to hold the soil down.
Spring floods were one thing; they were long used to those. He dug banks and dragged fallen trees around to redirect those far upstream from where they could threaten house and the gardens around it. He was good at it, too, good enough that he was gone in springtime, most years.
The leaves were out and pure green; they'd had no warnings of heavy rain or an early apple season . . but the river was rising, fast, and inexorable.
She touched his cheek as he passed her, brushed a thumb up the bone to his temple, silent sympathy that he shrugged off.
Her hand still outstretched, she thought a moment, then reached out farther, touched the wooden bones of the house, the carvings he'd put in corners and lintels before they met, the newer, sharper carvings he'd worked in winters after she'd come here to stay.
A sleepy squawk came from another room, jerking her out of memory, and she pulled her hand away from the sun-in-glory by the door as he emerged with a squirming child under each arm, dropping them on their feet as he straightened up briefly, then knelt to face them.
"River's rising," he told them, softly, "and we won't be back to start over. Take what you can carry, and what you don't want to leave for the water."
"I don't want to leave anything for the water--" the younger protested, and her father almost smiled.
"We can't take the whole house with us, baby girl. I wish we could."
"What can I do to help?" the elder of their children whispered in his mother's ear, and ducked the reflexive startled swipe.
"Get your boots on, first, then go and get the books, the records--" she calmed her breathing, shaking her head slightly. "Clear out your secret spaces and the arsenal."
Her son nodded, and disappeared in a blur of mussed hair and his father's too-big clothes.
Her daughter followed, pulling away from a tight hug around her father's neck to scramble after her brother and clatter down the stairs.
"The road is gone, isn't it," she said, very softly, and closed her eyes as he nodded.
Scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to keep from crying, then opened her eyes again. "Alright. Go and get the travois--the ones the riders left, when they came through. There's a riders' camp on the crest of the ridge--they should have a way to call someone for help there, if we can't get passage on a boat or all the rivers are rising like ours. Oh--" she caught at his shoulder as he rose, pulled him into a brief, fierce hug of her own. "Remember to bring your carving things, if you can get to them?"
He nodded, and went outside again, leaving her alone for the moment.
For all the things still in it, she couldn't shake the feeling of standing in an abandoned, dying shell, waiting for the water to come and wash it away.
She forced herself to move again, to go and get her own records, woven cords and braids.
She left her skirt behind in the bedroom.