Chokeberry, Fudge Ripple and Pistachio
Author: ellis12
Story: Threads ( Background | Index)
Rating: PG
Word count: 1143 (together, excluding prompts)
Summary: A glimpse into Yann's past
Challenge: Fudge Ripple #25 (confidence), Pistachio #9 (birth/birthday)
A/N: I wrote all this as separate scenes, aiming for a pocky-chain at first, except I didn't manage to fit all I wanted to write in 100 words. So I resolved to let it as is and hope it isn't too confusing to grasp.
“What’s made you go so gloomy all of a sudden?”
Yann looked over his shoulder, turning away from the spectacular view that unfolded in front of him. Beyond the double defence walls of the castle, the morning light glimmered over the red-tiled roofs of Haverig, nestled in the valley beyond.
The weather had been dark and rainy over the past few days, unusually so for the season, so close to the celebration of Enyovdin, the mid-summer rites. It felt a relief to see the sun again, even if only fleetingly, through puffy, white clouds. Rain on Enyovdin was a bad sign for the year to come.
From his vantage point on the windowsill he watched Aislinn cross the great hall. The dress she wore - dark green with golden embroidery up the sleeves and around the neck could not disguise how far along her pregnancy was. She was due in a month or so, and every time he thought about it he got the same painful knot in his stomach. Krystyn, their youngest, was five and healthy, but Aislinn had miscarried twice before that and the son she bore after Krystyn had been stillborn.
Even now, she didn’t look good. There was something frail about her, something like a bad omen that had not been there before and reminded him they were not so young anymore. And he was getting tired of it, to fear for her life each time.
If only he could bring himself to do the right thing, he thought. Having a concubine - or more than one - was common enough among clan and family chiefs. Marriages forged alliances and blood links, but once succession was secured, whom one bedded was entirely another matter. He shouldn’t have put Aislinn at risk anymore. Except he had wanted no other woman but her for a long time.
“Nothing,” Yann said, and shifted his gaze away again, knowing that she could read him like an open book. He had brought that matter up once, two years before, after he had feared he would bury her too with their stillborn child. Their grief was fresh then and they bandied harsh words, and afterwards Aislinn cried, which was not something she often did. They had never resumed that discussion afterwards.
“You are a poor liar, my heart,” Aislinn mocked him. She eased herself in one of the chairs near the fireplace, patiently arranging the folds of the dress over her knees.
“You don’t know when to just let something go,” Yann sighed, and regretted the words the next moment. He gave her a smile, hoping to soften them up. “I guess this weather is getting to me.”
The twitch to her lips said she did not believe him.
“You’ve stayed cooped up here for too long,” Aislinn offered after a moment. “When do you plan to start for the Vale?
“I’m not.”
Her eyes went wide in surprise.
“You cannot miss the Rites!” she argued, crossing her arms and trying to look him down even from her sitting position. “You have a duty to your people, Yann! Who will sit in the circle to give the offering, I wonder?”
“It is only a ritual,” Yann said, climbing down from the window. Aislinn’s gaze followed him in quiet appraisal. God, she was beautiful, even if not quite in the same way she had been more than thirteen years before, when he’d first laid his eyes on her, in her father’s house, and knew he had to have her. Some things were the same - the intricate braid pulled over her shoulder and the inquisitive look in those deep, hazel eyes. The small lines around her lips that betrayed the new habit of a bitter smile were, however, new. They didn’t make her look anything else but beautiful, yet they too reminded him of how time had passed. This, he decided, glancing at her waist, would be the last time.
“You can’t,” she said softly. “You know you shouldn’t even be considering it.” Her tone turned stubborn, even if in subtle ways. “Besides, it would do you good to be out of Haverig for a few days.”
“I won’t argue this with you, Lin.”
“Don’t argue,” she countered. “Just go and do what you must. It’s only a few days, Yann. I’m not due for another month, you won’t miss anything.”
“I don’t -“ He paused, unwilling to voice his fears. It was bad luck to speak of such things. Words were real, they could summon things into existence, especially so close to Enyovdin, when, so the elder Weavers said, the skies opened. He disguised his hesitation in a frown. “You don’t get to order me around, Lin.”
She smiled crookedly up at him, so you think. She had never been the quiet, proper wife. Not that he would have wanted it any other way.
“I’ve told you, you’re a poor liar. I know what you think.” Her hair, when he circled the chair and rested his hand on her shoulder, smelled of cinnamon and flowers. He bent to place a kiss on top of her head and she craned her neck to meet his eyes again, leaning into his touch. “It’s Enyovdin, Yann, the time when everything grows at its fullest. Nothing bad can happen.”
Challenge: Fudge Ripple #17 (playfulness)
“I want to go too,” Ynga argued, with a pout. At twelve, she stood almost her mother’s height. She still wore colourful ribbons in her hair, as young girls did, yet she was fast changing into a woman. In fact, each time Yann saw her again, after returning from a journey, he was surprised by how much she had grown.
““Not this year,” Aislinn answered in Yann’s place, turning a stern gaze towards their daughter. But when she looked back to him there was the hint of a smile playing over her lips. The candlelight drew shadows across her face, bathing it in a soft, golden glow. “You’re too young for the Rites yet.”
“Maybe next year,” Yann said. Girls only a little older than Ynga would dance around the fires, wearing wreaths of summer flowers. And after the fires died, for many people there would be a different sort of celebration under the whispering branches of the old oak trees. Aislinn’s smile told him that she was thinking the same.
“Next year,” he repeated, the words meant only for her, and Aislinn nodded back, her eyes as mischievous as those of a young girl.
Challenge: Chokeberry #8 (there are no words sweeter than these)
“Don’t,” Aislinn warned him in a whisper before he had time to open his mouth. “I’ll be waiting for you, my love.” Her lips touched his - a kiss as light as a breath, and then she took a step back. “May your way be safe,” she said louder, and when he turned, and started on the stairs he kept wanting to glance over his shoulder, one last time.
Story: Threads ( Background | Index)
Rating: PG
Word count: 1143 (together, excluding prompts)
Summary: A glimpse into Yann's past
Challenge: Fudge Ripple #25 (confidence), Pistachio #9 (birth/birthday)
A/N: I wrote all this as separate scenes, aiming for a pocky-chain at first, except I didn't manage to fit all I wanted to write in 100 words. So I resolved to let it as is and hope it isn't too confusing to grasp.
“What’s made you go so gloomy all of a sudden?”
Yann looked over his shoulder, turning away from the spectacular view that unfolded in front of him. Beyond the double defence walls of the castle, the morning light glimmered over the red-tiled roofs of Haverig, nestled in the valley beyond.
The weather had been dark and rainy over the past few days, unusually so for the season, so close to the celebration of Enyovdin, the mid-summer rites. It felt a relief to see the sun again, even if only fleetingly, through puffy, white clouds. Rain on Enyovdin was a bad sign for the year to come.
From his vantage point on the windowsill he watched Aislinn cross the great hall. The dress she wore - dark green with golden embroidery up the sleeves and around the neck could not disguise how far along her pregnancy was. She was due in a month or so, and every time he thought about it he got the same painful knot in his stomach. Krystyn, their youngest, was five and healthy, but Aislinn had miscarried twice before that and the son she bore after Krystyn had been stillborn.
Even now, she didn’t look good. There was something frail about her, something like a bad omen that had not been there before and reminded him they were not so young anymore. And he was getting tired of it, to fear for her life each time.
If only he could bring himself to do the right thing, he thought. Having a concubine - or more than one - was common enough among clan and family chiefs. Marriages forged alliances and blood links, but once succession was secured, whom one bedded was entirely another matter. He shouldn’t have put Aislinn at risk anymore. Except he had wanted no other woman but her for a long time.
“Nothing,” Yann said, and shifted his gaze away again, knowing that she could read him like an open book. He had brought that matter up once, two years before, after he had feared he would bury her too with their stillborn child. Their grief was fresh then and they bandied harsh words, and afterwards Aislinn cried, which was not something she often did. They had never resumed that discussion afterwards.
“You are a poor liar, my heart,” Aislinn mocked him. She eased herself in one of the chairs near the fireplace, patiently arranging the folds of the dress over her knees.
“You don’t know when to just let something go,” Yann sighed, and regretted the words the next moment. He gave her a smile, hoping to soften them up. “I guess this weather is getting to me.”
The twitch to her lips said she did not believe him.
“You’ve stayed cooped up here for too long,” Aislinn offered after a moment. “When do you plan to start for the Vale?
“I’m not.”
Her eyes went wide in surprise.
“You cannot miss the Rites!” she argued, crossing her arms and trying to look him down even from her sitting position. “You have a duty to your people, Yann! Who will sit in the circle to give the offering, I wonder?”
“It is only a ritual,” Yann said, climbing down from the window. Aislinn’s gaze followed him in quiet appraisal. God, she was beautiful, even if not quite in the same way she had been more than thirteen years before, when he’d first laid his eyes on her, in her father’s house, and knew he had to have her. Some things were the same - the intricate braid pulled over her shoulder and the inquisitive look in those deep, hazel eyes. The small lines around her lips that betrayed the new habit of a bitter smile were, however, new. They didn’t make her look anything else but beautiful, yet they too reminded him of how time had passed. This, he decided, glancing at her waist, would be the last time.
“You can’t,” she said softly. “You know you shouldn’t even be considering it.” Her tone turned stubborn, even if in subtle ways. “Besides, it would do you good to be out of Haverig for a few days.”
“I won’t argue this with you, Lin.”
“Don’t argue,” she countered. “Just go and do what you must. It’s only a few days, Yann. I’m not due for another month, you won’t miss anything.”
“I don’t -“ He paused, unwilling to voice his fears. It was bad luck to speak of such things. Words were real, they could summon things into existence, especially so close to Enyovdin, when, so the elder Weavers said, the skies opened. He disguised his hesitation in a frown. “You don’t get to order me around, Lin.”
She smiled crookedly up at him, so you think. She had never been the quiet, proper wife. Not that he would have wanted it any other way.
“I’ve told you, you’re a poor liar. I know what you think.” Her hair, when he circled the chair and rested his hand on her shoulder, smelled of cinnamon and flowers. He bent to place a kiss on top of her head and she craned her neck to meet his eyes again, leaning into his touch. “It’s Enyovdin, Yann, the time when everything grows at its fullest. Nothing bad can happen.”
Challenge: Fudge Ripple #17 (playfulness)
“I want to go too,” Ynga argued, with a pout. At twelve, she stood almost her mother’s height. She still wore colourful ribbons in her hair, as young girls did, yet she was fast changing into a woman. In fact, each time Yann saw her again, after returning from a journey, he was surprised by how much she had grown.
““Not this year,” Aislinn answered in Yann’s place, turning a stern gaze towards their daughter. But when she looked back to him there was the hint of a smile playing over her lips. The candlelight drew shadows across her face, bathing it in a soft, golden glow. “You’re too young for the Rites yet.”
“Maybe next year,” Yann said. Girls only a little older than Ynga would dance around the fires, wearing wreaths of summer flowers. And after the fires died, for many people there would be a different sort of celebration under the whispering branches of the old oak trees. Aislinn’s smile told him that she was thinking the same.
“Next year,” he repeated, the words meant only for her, and Aislinn nodded back, her eyes as mischievous as those of a young girl.
Challenge: Chokeberry #8 (there are no words sweeter than these)
“Don’t,” Aislinn warned him in a whisper before he had time to open his mouth. “I’ll be waiting for you, my love.” Her lips touched his - a kiss as light as a breath, and then she took a step back. “May your way be safe,” she said louder, and when he turned, and started on the stairs he kept wanting to glance over his shoulder, one last time.