A few days passed, but her longing for the south did not abate much. She found herself in her personal wagon, pulling something that was buried behind a stack of old tunics. She has not idea why she feels so guilty in this, it isn't a bad thing, just probably something that some people would laugh at her about.
She almost winces at the sound of the two pots clanking together as she pulled them out to set in her lap. Carefully she unwraps the fur that she had bundled them in, to keep them warm during the cold months. They were not much to look at, just two simple clay pots filled with the rich soil of the plains. Not even two of her best pots, in fact they were a bit cracked and worn, but were still special to her. She sat there, thinking about the contents of the pots and the story behind them.
When she had been pregnant with Also, Ba'atar and some of his brothers had felt the need to raid, rape and pillage so strongly, that he had left her to go do just that, promising he would be back in two hands time. Well, two hands had stretched into two moons, then two into three, and three into four, then five, then six. You get the picture.
Most had given them up for dead, fearing that they had been lost to the dangers of the plains. But not her. Now she did become almost crazy with worry, but she tried not to show it. When people would ask about him, she would smile and say that she expected him back just any day. And she knew the frowns, and the heads that shook when she would turn to walk away. She knew that others thought her a fool for having that kind of faith in him. In a man that she really had not been mated to all that long, but she had that faith. Don't ask her how, or why, but she did.
The moons had waxed and waned many times in his absence. When her time came, he was not there. It was Tarra that had helped her to give birth to his first son in his absence. It was Rook that had spent ahn upon ahn talking to her, helping her to cope. But it was her, and her alone that kept the faith, and watched, and waited.
When he had returned, so many emotions flowed through her, that she didn't know what to do first. Should she run to him, throw her arms around him and smother him with kisses. Or, should she walk right up to him and place a skillet upside his head and lash him with her tongue? Or should she just break down and cry tears of relief and joy? In that moment, she actually did none of those things. She had been standing at her fire, tending to a pot of something cooking, the new baby in her arms when she looked up to see him.
He was as nonchalant as he could be. He acted as if he had just come in from a nights patrol. It took them both a few moments to get their emotions in hand. And he asked the most asinine question. "Whose baby?" Whose baby? Good Sky above. But in that way of hers' she answered simply. "Our baby. Your first son." In that moment, the wellspring of emotions broke in them both. She ran to him, he did not seem able to embrace her close enough, and was even loathe to allow her to go so that he could get a good look at his first son.
Now, this story does have a point. On that trip, he had found that field of flowers, and had carefully dug some up from the earth, placed them into a carrier and carried them on his quest with him. And during that quest, even when danger stalked them, and death tip-toed around them, he had managed to water and tend to that precious carrier of blue flowers, and to deliver it to her in tact.
So you see, those flowers were and are very important to her. She had transferred them from the carrier into a pot, tended them, and enjoyed the blossoms and fragrance all that season. They had sat on the platform of her wagon, a joy to her. It almost broke her heart when the blooms fell from the stalks. She watched each day as the colder weather made the plant wither and die.
She had come upon juneau one day about to dump the dead contents into the fire in the course of her cleaning things up, and that was probably the first time she ever raised her voice to the girl. Taking the pot, she had held it close and gone into her personal wagon and sat for a time just staring at it, her brow furrowed in thought.
There is this quiet stubborn streak in her, that those that know her knows exists. And that stubbornness took over. In her mind, if the flowers of the field came back and bloomed each turning of the seasons, why could these not come back? Perhaps it was ingrained in the flowers to bloom, bring beauty and joy, then to die, to only live again, just as it was ingrained in her people to follow the grass.
Carefully she had tipped the contents out onto the floor and pondered them. The first thing that she noticed was that the roots seemed to be crowded together, tendrils turning back upon themselves for lack of anywhere else to go. Now what did she know about plants and planting? The only thing she had ever planted in her life was one foot in front of the other as she walked from here to there and back again. For the briefest moments, she pondered on how many pasangs she had walked in the worn boots she was wearing, but that was something to think upon another day.
She had gone out, found another pot, filled it with soil then returned to the wagon. She was almost holding her breath when she took her quiva and sliced the tangled ball of roots in twain. She could swear she heard them cry at the pain of separation.
And just as carefully, she had placed each ball of roots into a pot, covered them with soil and sat back, rather pleased with herself for a moment. She stared at them like she expected them to do something, but they didn't. All she could do is try to protect them from the cold, just as she protected her children from it. That meant wrapping them in fur, putting them in a safe place, and hope for the best.
Now with thoughts of spring tumbling around in her head, perhaps it was time to see if they were still there, and if any changes had taken place yet. Carefully she pulled the nesting of grass that she had put on the top of each pot and leaned over, her eyes peering into the pots. Nothing. Not a shoot, not a shadow of green, nothing. Perhaps it was too soon.
She sets the pots on a low chest, and uncorks a bota of water and dribbles a few drops into each pot. If there is one thing that this woman has, it is faith. And right now, in her minds eye, she can see the promise of spring in those two simple clay pots. She does not see the barren soil, she sits back and she can see them as they were last season, a riot of blue blossoms. Closing her eyes she can almost catch the fragrance of the blooms.
Opening her eyes, she smiles and leans towards the pots and speaks softly. "Ok, I have faith in you, all I need for you to do is have a little faith in me, that I will water you and tend to you, and when the air is a bit warmer, I will set you outside to catch the rays of the Central Fire."
Lifting to her feet she moved to the flaps and turned to take one last looks at those two simple clay pots that sat on the chest. Right now, to her, they were the harbingers of spring. Smiling, she stepped out and tied the flaps securely, hiding her strange little secret, but for some reason, her heart seemed lighter, and that transferred to her step being lighter, and brought a hum to her lips.
What is it they say......hope springs eternal? She just hopes right now the flowers bloom, for they are special to her.
She almost winces at the sound of the two pots clanking together as she pulled them out to set in her lap. Carefully she unwraps the fur that she had bundled them in, to keep them warm during the cold months. They were not much to look at, just two simple clay pots filled with the rich soil of the plains. Not even two of her best pots, in fact they were a bit cracked and worn, but were still special to her. She sat there, thinking about the contents of the pots and the story behind them.
When she had been pregnant with Also, Ba'atar and some of his brothers had felt the need to raid, rape and pillage so strongly, that he had left her to go do just that, promising he would be back in two hands time. Well, two hands had stretched into two moons, then two into three, and three into four, then five, then six. You get the picture.
Most had given them up for dead, fearing that they had been lost to the dangers of the plains. But not her. Now she did become almost crazy with worry, but she tried not to show it. When people would ask about him, she would smile and say that she expected him back just any day. And she knew the frowns, and the heads that shook when she would turn to walk away. She knew that others thought her a fool for having that kind of faith in him. In a man that she really had not been mated to all that long, but she had that faith. Don't ask her how, or why, but she did.
The moons had waxed and waned many times in his absence. When her time came, he was not there. It was Tarra that had helped her to give birth to his first son in his absence. It was Rook that had spent ahn upon ahn talking to her, helping her to cope. But it was her, and her alone that kept the faith, and watched, and waited.
When he had returned, so many emotions flowed through her, that she didn't know what to do first. Should she run to him, throw her arms around him and smother him with kisses. Or, should she walk right up to him and place a skillet upside his head and lash him with her tongue? Or should she just break down and cry tears of relief and joy? In that moment, she actually did none of those things. She had been standing at her fire, tending to a pot of something cooking, the new baby in her arms when she looked up to see him.
He was as nonchalant as he could be. He acted as if he had just come in from a nights patrol. It took them both a few moments to get their emotions in hand. And he asked the most asinine question. "Whose baby?" Whose baby? Good Sky above. But in that way of hers' she answered simply. "Our baby. Your first son." In that moment, the wellspring of emotions broke in them both. She ran to him, he did not seem able to embrace her close enough, and was even loathe to allow her to go so that he could get a good look at his first son.
Now, this story does have a point. On that trip, he had found that field of flowers, and had carefully dug some up from the earth, placed them into a carrier and carried them on his quest with him. And during that quest, even when danger stalked them, and death tip-toed around them, he had managed to water and tend to that precious carrier of blue flowers, and to deliver it to her in tact.
So you see, those flowers were and are very important to her. She had transferred them from the carrier into a pot, tended them, and enjoyed the blossoms and fragrance all that season. They had sat on the platform of her wagon, a joy to her. It almost broke her heart when the blooms fell from the stalks. She watched each day as the colder weather made the plant wither and die.
She had come upon juneau one day about to dump the dead contents into the fire in the course of her cleaning things up, and that was probably the first time she ever raised her voice to the girl. Taking the pot, she had held it close and gone into her personal wagon and sat for a time just staring at it, her brow furrowed in thought.
There is this quiet stubborn streak in her, that those that know her knows exists. And that stubbornness took over. In her mind, if the flowers of the field came back and bloomed each turning of the seasons, why could these not come back? Perhaps it was ingrained in the flowers to bloom, bring beauty and joy, then to die, to only live again, just as it was ingrained in her people to follow the grass.
Carefully she had tipped the contents out onto the floor and pondered them. The first thing that she noticed was that the roots seemed to be crowded together, tendrils turning back upon themselves for lack of anywhere else to go. Now what did she know about plants and planting? The only thing she had ever planted in her life was one foot in front of the other as she walked from here to there and back again. For the briefest moments, she pondered on how many pasangs she had walked in the worn boots she was wearing, but that was something to think upon another day.
She had gone out, found another pot, filled it with soil then returned to the wagon. She was almost holding her breath when she took her quiva and sliced the tangled ball of roots in twain. She could swear she heard them cry at the pain of separation.
And just as carefully, she had placed each ball of roots into a pot, covered them with soil and sat back, rather pleased with herself for a moment. She stared at them like she expected them to do something, but they didn't. All she could do is try to protect them from the cold, just as she protected her children from it. That meant wrapping them in fur, putting them in a safe place, and hope for the best.
Now with thoughts of spring tumbling around in her head, perhaps it was time to see if they were still there, and if any changes had taken place yet. Carefully she pulled the nesting of grass that she had put on the top of each pot and leaned over, her eyes peering into the pots. Nothing. Not a shoot, not a shadow of green, nothing. Perhaps it was too soon.
She sets the pots on a low chest, and uncorks a bota of water and dribbles a few drops into each pot. If there is one thing that this woman has, it is faith. And right now, in her minds eye, she can see the promise of spring in those two simple clay pots. She does not see the barren soil, she sits back and she can see them as they were last season, a riot of blue blossoms. Closing her eyes she can almost catch the fragrance of the blooms.
Opening her eyes, she smiles and leans towards the pots and speaks softly. "Ok, I have faith in you, all I need for you to do is have a little faith in me, that I will water you and tend to you, and when the air is a bit warmer, I will set you outside to catch the rays of the Central Fire."
Lifting to her feet she moved to the flaps and turned to take one last looks at those two simple clay pots that sat on the chest. Right now, to her, they were the harbingers of spring. Smiling, she stepped out and tied the flaps securely, hiding her strange little secret, but for some reason, her heart seemed lighter, and that transferred to her step being lighter, and brought a hum to her lips.
What is it they say......hope springs eternal? She just hopes right now the flowers bloom, for they are special to her.
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