Fic: The Fire of Vesta
Title: The Fire of Vesta
Fandom: Rosemary Sutcliff, Eagle of the Ninth
Rating: G
Beta: carmarthen
Disclaimer: So not mine. :(
Prompt: hc_bingo, orphans
Summary: “Marcus, you never speak of your mother," said Cottia. “Yes; what was she like?”
It had been so long since he had spoken of his mother that he did not know how to answer; and the force of that long habit gave him a strange reluctance to speak of her now. “Why do you ask?” he said, at last.
Cottia shifted restlessly. “Only I have been thinking about my mother,” she said, and her hand rested a moment on her belly.
This is kind of a sequel to A Wedding Gift, only not exactly.
Also at AO3, here.
After the last of the planting, when Esca and Cub had gone off to fish, Marcus and Cottia lay in the grass by the garden. It was a pleasure to him to have this chance to look at her: her belly swelling with child, her face fuller now and not so fox-sharp, and beautiful in the warm gold light of late afternoon.
“Your son is kicking me again,” she told him, with a mock glare, and he swooped down and kissed her face. She laughed and pushed him lightly away, and swung herself to sit up; and as swiftly as she turned, her face grew grave, and she said, “Marcus, what was your mother like?”
“My mother?” he echoed stupidly.
“Yes; you never speak of her,” she said.
Indeed, it had been so long since he had spoken of his mother that he did not know how to answer; and the force of that long habit gave him a strange reluctance to speak of her now. “Why do you ask?” he asked, at last.
Cottia shifted restlessly. “Only I have been thinking about my mother,” she said, and her hand rested a moment on her belly. “And about being a mother, and - Clio does not remember her mother, and I don’t like to ask Esca…”
“I thought you were getting along better?” Marcus said. They had been wary at first, circling like two hunting dogs, for Esca did not easily open his heart. But in the winter they had grown warmer to each other, or so Marcus had thought.
“Yes; only I thought the memories might be painful to him,” she said, and plucked at the grass. “So I could not ask him; and I think you don’t like to speak of your mother either,” she said wistfully. “Was she like mine?”
“No!” said Marcus. “No, my mother was…” But still he did not have words for what his mother had been. She remained in his mind a glowing ember that might be blown out if he brought her into the open. “No, it is not that. I am just…she died of a winter fever not long after my father died, and then I went to live with my mother’s sister, and her husband. He was an official,” he said, extraneously, and his mouth turned down at the memory of him.
“Was she as bad as all that?” Cottia asked.
“Who?” said Marcus. “Oh. My aunt? No. She grieved my mother, in her way. But she was guided in most things by her husband, and he was...I did not speak of my mother when I lived in his house.”
He stopped, but Cottia said nothing. She had grown conversant with silence, from living with Esca; and for once he wished she had not, and would fill the silence for him.
In his mind he heard the rattle of his mother’s breath in her chest as her last swift illness took hold, and felt an echo of the pain in his own chest, which had clawed at his throat for months after she’d died.
He had grieved for his father too, of course; but as an everyday thing, his father’s absence felt like all his other journeys with the Eagles, and it was hard to feel that he was never coming back. His mother’s death, on the other hand…
His mother’s death had thrown him in the official’s house. He had tended his grief like the fire of Vesta, and fed it with anger; because the official had not cared a sesterce that she was dead. “What a lucky boy you are,” he had said, when Marcus arrived, dusty and red-faced with suppressed tears. “You’ll have every advantage your mother threw away.”
And Marcus had stood, dumb under the burden of grief and enforced gratitude, and thought: lucky?
But that story would enrage Cottia, and it embarrassed him to think of her enraged on his behalf. Yet he must give her some explanation.
“My aunt was much older than my mother, and when their parents died, my aunt and her husband looked after my mother. He thought my mother ought to marry an official, or someone who could have furthered his own career; but they knew each other from childhood, my mother and father, and no one would do for her but him,” Marcus said, at last, and his voice was almost as steady as he wanted. “My aunt’s husband thought - ” He cleared his throat. “He thought her a fool for it. Both of them.”
“And he said these things to you?” cried Cottia, furious. “Of your own mother?”
Her tone warmed Marcus, with pleasure but also a furtive shame that she should feel he needed sympathy. “It was very long ago,” he said. “And it was…training, in a way: a soldier should not say everything he feels.”
“No,” said Cottia, thoughtfully, and she plucked a primrose from the grass and twirled it between her fingers. “So he was like Aunt Valaria to you, then.”
“No; he was not as bad as all that,” Marcus protested, half-heartedly, and stared into the grass, because he could not bear her sympathy anymore.
Cottia’s attention fell away from him. She stripped the primrose of its petals, and dropped them on her swelling belly. “Neither was Aunt Valaria,” she said, at length. “She took me in quite kindly, when my mother put me out.”
“Your mother did not have a choice, I thought,” Marcus said, and laid his arm around his shoulders. Her hair smelled of the chamomile she rinsed through it. “I thought it was her hunter, who made her send you away?”
“She could have fought to keep me,” said Cottia. “Probably she would not have won; but only cowards refuse to fight just because they will lose.” She sat up suddenly, breaking the circle of his arms. “If you died, I would marry Esca; and he would never send your children away,” she said fiercely.
Marcus laughed, a little uneasy. “You’ve thought it through, then?” he said, half-teasing, twining his hand through her hair to pull her gently back to his chest.
“Only just in case,” she said; and kissed his face, and burrowed against him, head under his chin.
And it was in that moment, of course, that Clio’s voice rose through the farm. “Ladybird! Ladybird! Oh, ladybird, where have you disappeared to?”
Cottia shut her eyes tight. “Clio,” she muttered darkly; and opened her eyes, smoothed her face into a smile, and sat up to call, “Clio! We are right here.”
Clio rushed over to them, a striped rug in her hands, and knelt to drape it over Cottia’s shoulders. “You mustn’t sit in the grass, especially now, Cottia sweet. Why, I remember one time my Lady Tertia got such a chill she couldn’t leave her bed for a week, poor thing - ”
“I have Marcus to warm me, as you see,” interrupted Cottia. But she settled the rug about her shoulders and stood up. “We should start supper; Esca will return soon, I should think.”
And as if her words had conjured him, Esca emerged from the forest, a string of fish dangling from one hand, the other swatting Cub away from his half-play leaps at the fish. “Esca!” called Cottia, raising a hand, and she hastened across the field to him. Cub met her midway, running circles around her legs; and she almost tripped, and Esca had to steady her.
It warmed Marcus to see their ease with each other: Esca with his string of fish, and Cottia laughing up at him, and Cub dashing around them both. Yet a new uneasiness flickered beneath it, just for the space of a breath before he pushed it aside.
Thinking of the official always unsettled him, he reminded himself. Marcus got to his feet, more slowly, and left the feeling behind as he went to join them both.
Fandom: Rosemary Sutcliff, Eagle of the Ninth
Rating: G
Beta: carmarthen
Disclaimer: So not mine. :(
Prompt: hc_bingo, orphans
Summary: “Marcus, you never speak of your mother," said Cottia. “Yes; what was she like?”
It had been so long since he had spoken of his mother that he did not know how to answer; and the force of that long habit gave him a strange reluctance to speak of her now. “Why do you ask?” he said, at last.
Cottia shifted restlessly. “Only I have been thinking about my mother,” she said, and her hand rested a moment on her belly.
This is kind of a sequel to A Wedding Gift, only not exactly.
Also at AO3, here.
After the last of the planting, when Esca and Cub had gone off to fish, Marcus and Cottia lay in the grass by the garden. It was a pleasure to him to have this chance to look at her: her belly swelling with child, her face fuller now and not so fox-sharp, and beautiful in the warm gold light of late afternoon.
“Your son is kicking me again,” she told him, with a mock glare, and he swooped down and kissed her face. She laughed and pushed him lightly away, and swung herself to sit up; and as swiftly as she turned, her face grew grave, and she said, “Marcus, what was your mother like?”
“My mother?” he echoed stupidly.
“Yes; you never speak of her,” she said.
Indeed, it had been so long since he had spoken of his mother that he did not know how to answer; and the force of that long habit gave him a strange reluctance to speak of her now. “Why do you ask?” he asked, at last.
Cottia shifted restlessly. “Only I have been thinking about my mother,” she said, and her hand rested a moment on her belly. “And about being a mother, and - Clio does not remember her mother, and I don’t like to ask Esca…”
“I thought you were getting along better?” Marcus said. They had been wary at first, circling like two hunting dogs, for Esca did not easily open his heart. But in the winter they had grown warmer to each other, or so Marcus had thought.
“Yes; only I thought the memories might be painful to him,” she said, and plucked at the grass. “So I could not ask him; and I think you don’t like to speak of your mother either,” she said wistfully. “Was she like mine?”
“No!” said Marcus. “No, my mother was…” But still he did not have words for what his mother had been. She remained in his mind a glowing ember that might be blown out if he brought her into the open. “No, it is not that. I am just…she died of a winter fever not long after my father died, and then I went to live with my mother’s sister, and her husband. He was an official,” he said, extraneously, and his mouth turned down at the memory of him.
“Was she as bad as all that?” Cottia asked.
“Who?” said Marcus. “Oh. My aunt? No. She grieved my mother, in her way. But she was guided in most things by her husband, and he was...I did not speak of my mother when I lived in his house.”
He stopped, but Cottia said nothing. She had grown conversant with silence, from living with Esca; and for once he wished she had not, and would fill the silence for him.
In his mind he heard the rattle of his mother’s breath in her chest as her last swift illness took hold, and felt an echo of the pain in his own chest, which had clawed at his throat for months after she’d died.
He had grieved for his father too, of course; but as an everyday thing, his father’s absence felt like all his other journeys with the Eagles, and it was hard to feel that he was never coming back. His mother’s death, on the other hand…
His mother’s death had thrown him in the official’s house. He had tended his grief like the fire of Vesta, and fed it with anger; because the official had not cared a sesterce that she was dead. “What a lucky boy you are,” he had said, when Marcus arrived, dusty and red-faced with suppressed tears. “You’ll have every advantage your mother threw away.”
And Marcus had stood, dumb under the burden of grief and enforced gratitude, and thought: lucky?
But that story would enrage Cottia, and it embarrassed him to think of her enraged on his behalf. Yet he must give her some explanation.
“My aunt was much older than my mother, and when their parents died, my aunt and her husband looked after my mother. He thought my mother ought to marry an official, or someone who could have furthered his own career; but they knew each other from childhood, my mother and father, and no one would do for her but him,” Marcus said, at last, and his voice was almost as steady as he wanted. “My aunt’s husband thought - ” He cleared his throat. “He thought her a fool for it. Both of them.”
“And he said these things to you?” cried Cottia, furious. “Of your own mother?”
Her tone warmed Marcus, with pleasure but also a furtive shame that she should feel he needed sympathy. “It was very long ago,” he said. “And it was…training, in a way: a soldier should not say everything he feels.”
“No,” said Cottia, thoughtfully, and she plucked a primrose from the grass and twirled it between her fingers. “So he was like Aunt Valaria to you, then.”
“No; he was not as bad as all that,” Marcus protested, half-heartedly, and stared into the grass, because he could not bear her sympathy anymore.
Cottia’s attention fell away from him. She stripped the primrose of its petals, and dropped them on her swelling belly. “Neither was Aunt Valaria,” she said, at length. “She took me in quite kindly, when my mother put me out.”
“Your mother did not have a choice, I thought,” Marcus said, and laid his arm around his shoulders. Her hair smelled of the chamomile she rinsed through it. “I thought it was her hunter, who made her send you away?”
“She could have fought to keep me,” said Cottia. “Probably she would not have won; but only cowards refuse to fight just because they will lose.” She sat up suddenly, breaking the circle of his arms. “If you died, I would marry Esca; and he would never send your children away,” she said fiercely.
Marcus laughed, a little uneasy. “You’ve thought it through, then?” he said, half-teasing, twining his hand through her hair to pull her gently back to his chest.
“Only just in case,” she said; and kissed his face, and burrowed against him, head under his chin.
And it was in that moment, of course, that Clio’s voice rose through the farm. “Ladybird! Ladybird! Oh, ladybird, where have you disappeared to?”
Cottia shut her eyes tight. “Clio,” she muttered darkly; and opened her eyes, smoothed her face into a smile, and sat up to call, “Clio! We are right here.”
Clio rushed over to them, a striped rug in her hands, and knelt to drape it over Cottia’s shoulders. “You mustn’t sit in the grass, especially now, Cottia sweet. Why, I remember one time my Lady Tertia got such a chill she couldn’t leave her bed for a week, poor thing - ”
“I have Marcus to warm me, as you see,” interrupted Cottia. But she settled the rug about her shoulders and stood up. “We should start supper; Esca will return soon, I should think.”
And as if her words had conjured him, Esca emerged from the forest, a string of fish dangling from one hand, the other swatting Cub away from his half-play leaps at the fish. “Esca!” called Cottia, raising a hand, and she hastened across the field to him. Cub met her midway, running circles around her legs; and she almost tripped, and Esca had to steady her.
It warmed Marcus to see their ease with each other: Esca with his string of fish, and Cottia laughing up at him, and Cub dashing around them both. Yet a new uneasiness flickered beneath it, just for the space of a breath before he pushed it aside.
Thinking of the official always unsettled him, he reminded himself. Marcus got to his feet, more slowly, and left the feeling behind as he went to join them both.