[Witches' Horses] Swallow's Tail
Title: sunshine and oranges
'Verse/characters: Swallow's Tail; Taarstad, Theodora, Kyriake, Helena
Prompt: 85B "sun"
Word Count: 952
Notes: Concludes the requests for the Swallow's Tail bits. Includes an image from a comment snip.
A sound of distant singing woke him, women's voices echoing against what for all the world sounded like stone.
It was a strange sort of not-familiarity; his mother had sung to him when he was small, but among the Swallow's crew singing simply didn't happen. Helena simply didn't. If Sascha did, it was soft and tuneless, whispered words over filters or intakes, more spell than song. The Captain, he suspected, had given up song in the war. There was something about the way he didn't speak about faith, about gods or saints or churches or hymns.
None of which explained why he was alone in a weirdly soft bed, and listening to women singing.
So he got up, dressed, and went looking.
"You're up early," one of the singers greeted him, laughing and losing her place in the harmony. "Coffee? Tea? Kasha? I'm afraid the morning bread's not yet out of the oven."
"--What's coffee?" he asked, coming down the last step and arriving in the kitchen, which was subtly neither one like home nor like the Russian ones he'd encountered. He'd met the singers--he thought--last night, when they'd arrived, and been bustled off to bed. Their hair was familiar, anyway, the smaller-boned of the two had her hair neatly parted into tiny dark braids that ended before they brushed her shoulders, and the bigger had reddened dreadlocks knotted neatly back from her face. Both were dark as Helena, and it was surreal to catch movement out of the corner of his eye that both was and wasn't hers.
"Oh, for--Theodora, you are not going to spring coffee on Aunt Helena's young man without warning!" the smaller exclaimed, swatting at Theodora with a dish cloth.
Theodora laughed, her face splitting into a grin that reminded him, just a little, of Helena's, and retreated out of range. "You just don't want me corrupting him to my traditional vice."
"Picking up a habit from Great-grandfather does not make it a tradition," the smaller woman said, putting her hands on her hips and frowning ferociously.
"You only say this, sister mine, because you think it's much too expensive to keep as a habit for yourself, and the smell drives you crazy," Theodora said, still grinning. "What do you say?" she continued, turning the grin on him.
"I'll try most things once?"
"Wonderful!" She --pounced, there was no other word for it--towards the cold storage, got a small, tightly sealed bag out, and started doing arcane things to it on the counter. "Don't mind Kyriake," Theodora said over her shoulder, "she likes to boss."
"Boss," her sister began dangerously, and he carefully slid in a request for kasha before the argument could really get going.
They bantered back and forth the entire time, like the conversation was a ball being bounced around. He couldn't decide if he was a second ball, a target, or a pointskeeper of some kind, and gave up trying to work it out when he kept seeing surreal little flashes of Helena in word or gesture.
Coffee was . . an experience, he decided. Theodora served it hot, dark and sweet, in a tiny cup, with a second one for herself. He was glad he'd forgone sweetening the kasha.
"I'll wait until your second cup to ask an opinion," Theodora told him, smiling at him over the rim of her own cup. "Aunt Helena's in the garden, last I knew."
He gave her a grateful smile back, and she blinked.
"No, no," she waved a hand when he started to ask what was wrong, "I'm just discovering something I share with her. What's your name?"
"Sv-Taarstad," he quickly corrected himself, only stumbling a little. He was usually introduced--if at all--with a jerked thumb from Helena or the Captain, and the name he was using around them.
She considered him for a long moment. "Didn't like your first name?"
"I'm not actually sure why 'Sverre' didn't pass muster," he replied, eying the inky dregs of the tiny cup with a certain amount of worry. "I don't mind," he added, looking up.
"Well," Kyriake said, "It's nice to meet you. Now shoo--we need the space for the bread."
He cleared his dishes quickly, got chased out when Theodora snagged the towel and flicked it in his general direction, and found himself at the edge of a garden, just after sunrise.
Helena was at the garden wall, and he froze when he saw her.
She wore black, most of the time, black and gray and steeled blues, and she didn't look bad in them.
But she turned towards him in the garden of her nieces dressed in gold and brown and bright orange, her hair wet and combed through with some bright scent that reminded him of the farm he'd left for the sky, when she came and kissed him hello. He worried, just a little, that his heart would pound from his chest, found his hands were shaking.
She looked good, better than good, her hair long and wet and curled into ringlets by the scent and the water, gold against her skin and reflecting in her eyes. But the way she smiled at him was the best of all, like she knew some secret she'd share if he asked.
Then she leaned in kissing-close, sniffed at his mouth, and her smile grew, became something more like Theodora's. "Introduced you to coffee, did she?"
"Um, yes?"
She reached out, captured one of his hands in one of hers. She didn't seem to mind the tremor. "She warn you it's a stimulant?"
"No?"
"Breathe, Taarstad," she said, and he obeyed, feeling his blood begin to pound through his neck and his temples as he did. "It's a stimulant, and she drinks it stronger than her great-grandfather did. Don't work on anything that needs fine motor control."
He raised their joined hands, kissed the back of hers delicately. "Yes'm."
'Verse/characters: Swallow's Tail; Taarstad, Theodora, Kyriake, Helena
Prompt: 85B "sun"
Word Count: 952
Notes: Concludes the requests for the Swallow's Tail bits. Includes an image from a comment snip.
A sound of distant singing woke him, women's voices echoing against what for all the world sounded like stone.
It was a strange sort of not-familiarity; his mother had sung to him when he was small, but among the Swallow's crew singing simply didn't happen. Helena simply didn't. If Sascha did, it was soft and tuneless, whispered words over filters or intakes, more spell than song. The Captain, he suspected, had given up song in the war. There was something about the way he didn't speak about faith, about gods or saints or churches or hymns.
None of which explained why he was alone in a weirdly soft bed, and listening to women singing.
So he got up, dressed, and went looking.
"You're up early," one of the singers greeted him, laughing and losing her place in the harmony. "Coffee? Tea? Kasha? I'm afraid the morning bread's not yet out of the oven."
"--What's coffee?" he asked, coming down the last step and arriving in the kitchen, which was subtly neither one like home nor like the Russian ones he'd encountered. He'd met the singers--he thought--last night, when they'd arrived, and been bustled off to bed. Their hair was familiar, anyway, the smaller-boned of the two had her hair neatly parted into tiny dark braids that ended before they brushed her shoulders, and the bigger had reddened dreadlocks knotted neatly back from her face. Both were dark as Helena, and it was surreal to catch movement out of the corner of his eye that both was and wasn't hers.
"Oh, for--Theodora, you are not going to spring coffee on Aunt Helena's young man without warning!" the smaller exclaimed, swatting at Theodora with a dish cloth.
Theodora laughed, her face splitting into a grin that reminded him, just a little, of Helena's, and retreated out of range. "You just don't want me corrupting him to my traditional vice."
"Picking up a habit from Great-grandfather does not make it a tradition," the smaller woman said, putting her hands on her hips and frowning ferociously.
"You only say this, sister mine, because you think it's much too expensive to keep as a habit for yourself, and the smell drives you crazy," Theodora said, still grinning. "What do you say?" she continued, turning the grin on him.
"I'll try most things once?"
"Wonderful!" She --pounced, there was no other word for it--towards the cold storage, got a small, tightly sealed bag out, and started doing arcane things to it on the counter. "Don't mind Kyriake," Theodora said over her shoulder, "she likes to boss."
"Boss," her sister began dangerously, and he carefully slid in a request for kasha before the argument could really get going.
They bantered back and forth the entire time, like the conversation was a ball being bounced around. He couldn't decide if he was a second ball, a target, or a pointskeeper of some kind, and gave up trying to work it out when he kept seeing surreal little flashes of Helena in word or gesture.
Coffee was . . an experience, he decided. Theodora served it hot, dark and sweet, in a tiny cup, with a second one for herself. He was glad he'd forgone sweetening the kasha.
"I'll wait until your second cup to ask an opinion," Theodora told him, smiling at him over the rim of her own cup. "Aunt Helena's in the garden, last I knew."
He gave her a grateful smile back, and she blinked.
"No, no," she waved a hand when he started to ask what was wrong, "I'm just discovering something I share with her. What's your name?"
"Sv-Taarstad," he quickly corrected himself, only stumbling a little. He was usually introduced--if at all--with a jerked thumb from Helena or the Captain, and the name he was using around them.
She considered him for a long moment. "Didn't like your first name?"
"I'm not actually sure why 'Sverre' didn't pass muster," he replied, eying the inky dregs of the tiny cup with a certain amount of worry. "I don't mind," he added, looking up.
"Well," Kyriake said, "It's nice to meet you. Now shoo--we need the space for the bread."
He cleared his dishes quickly, got chased out when Theodora snagged the towel and flicked it in his general direction, and found himself at the edge of a garden, just after sunrise.
Helena was at the garden wall, and he froze when he saw her.
She wore black, most of the time, black and gray and steeled blues, and she didn't look bad in them.
But she turned towards him in the garden of her nieces dressed in gold and brown and bright orange, her hair wet and combed through with some bright scent that reminded him of the farm he'd left for the sky, when she came and kissed him hello. He worried, just a little, that his heart would pound from his chest, found his hands were shaking.
She looked good, better than good, her hair long and wet and curled into ringlets by the scent and the water, gold against her skin and reflecting in her eyes. But the way she smiled at him was the best of all, like she knew some secret she'd share if he asked.
Then she leaned in kissing-close, sniffed at his mouth, and her smile grew, became something more like Theodora's. "Introduced you to coffee, did she?"
"Um, yes?"
She reached out, captured one of his hands in one of hers. She didn't seem to mind the tremor. "She warn you it's a stimulant?"
"No?"
"Breathe, Taarstad," she said, and he obeyed, feeling his blood begin to pound through his neck and his temples as he did. "It's a stimulant, and she drinks it stronger than her great-grandfather did. Don't work on anything that needs fine motor control."
He raised their joined hands, kissed the back of hers delicately. "Yes'm."