Regret (February 3010) - [Ceolmund]
Nov 21, 2017 1:14:48 GMT -5
Post by Runa on Nov 21, 2017 1:14:48 GMT -5
The night sky was cloudy, though a faint silver light managed to snake its way down to the streets of the city, illuminating Edoras with a steadier light than the flickering orange glows from the houses along the hill. It was a rather chilly night, though Athelstan hardly had considered adorning even the meager cloak he wore as he trudged through the street with heavy, almost staggered shuffles. The mead he had been drinking all day was warming his blood from the inside, and his cheeks were the same flushed red as his fiery curls.
It was not overly late, though the streets were relatively empty for the temperatures the late evening had dropped to; Athelstan, though, was just returned from the Eored. He had braved and weathered these cold nights upon the plain outside the city walls, and the low temperatures and biting winds did not bother him this night.
The man held a purpose, one that had haunted him upon the plains and throughout the Eastfold.
For over two weeks, Athelstan had been unable to think of anything else beyond the words Ulfrekr had sent him off with those days ago, and the thought of the curly-haired child that the stablehands had seen with Runa and Ceolmund the day before the Eored’s departure to the Eastfold.
“Athelstan, I saw her with my own eyes—so did quite a few of the other men. We all talked…we think…well, she’s around three, and…she has your hair. Did you and Runa ever…?”
His friend’s words lingered and replayed within his mind, and the few conversations he had passed with the other workers of the stable upon his return after weeks of mulling it over, had simply made it worse.
One had called the child a proper mix of him and Beorhtric’s sister, and another had made mention that she had had the same color eyes as Athelstan's, if not Runa’s hair color. He had gone home to fret in the confines of his own empty house, and the fretting had turned into nursing a personal barrel of mead he had acquired before setting off to wait for his return. Perhaps it was a standard tradition to do that, but Athelstan had never consumed so much of a waiting cask in one sitting before.
He mulled over the whole situation, the fermented honey sweet upon his tongue and in his nose. Runa had been lovely the first time he had made her acquaintance, and he had certainly remarked on such a thing to her almost immediately following Beorhtric’s initial introduction. He recalled thinking that he was incredibly lucky that the man was willing to introduce him to his sister, especially one as fair as Runa, though the charm had quickly rubbed off as the woman began to speak.
It became clear the reason that Beorhtric was scrambling so to find her a match was because the woman was nearly as gruff as a man, and her interests were not so befitting a woman of her grace and beauty. Her features seemed hard, for she did not smile for him, and it did not matter how hard he tried to speak to her, Runa was reserved, distant, and cold. The one time she had begun to speak freely she was discussing weapons, trying to find commonality between their training with swords and axes, something Athelstan believed was unbefitting of a woman. He had suffered her company for a few evenings at Beorhtric’s request, though each day he left more certain Runa was not at all what he was looking for.
By that last day, he had needed to prepare himself to deal with her, and had consumed some drink before meeting her, and continued to ingest such liquid as Runa sat and quietly shined her own weaponry. He had all but despised her presence outright, thinking her more of a boar than a woman—but he had known she was beautiful.
He could not remember how that evening had gone, and it was chewing him up inside the longer he pondered it.
Had he decided to act upon the lustful thoughts he could faintly recall crossing his mind upon the first meeting with her? He had not seen her since, save for a few scant times in the Healing Hall. If he had acted upon his lusts because the drink had whittled away his common sense, if he had set her with child he never would have known.
His stomach churned.
Athelstan stood before the wooden door to Captain Ceolmund’s home. A light was pleasantly shining inside, though he did not stop and look into the window, though the window curtains were drawn open. He had heard from a few of the men that they were helping the captain add a room to his home, for he was adopting a young girl. The same one that Ulfrekr was certain was Athelstan’s own blood.
Ceolmund was a mild man. He always had been. The thought of him marrying Runa had been completely surprising to Athelstan, who knew well the woman’s temperament. The man marrying so suddenly, when he had shown no interest or thought to such things before, had puzzled Athelstan for a time, as it had many of the others under Ceolmund's command. Now, though, Athelstan was certain he understood.
Ceolmund had seen that Runa, a sister to his friend, was raising a child on her own, and her prospects of finding a husband were small enough that he had pitied her, and the little girl she was raising alone. It had been a marriage that was but an arrangement to save Runa and that little blessed mistake he had made—he was cleaning up the mess that Athelstan had unknowingly caused.
He groaned faintly, then lifted his fist knocking on the door with three firm raps, and then the man swayed upon his feet, waiting for someone to answer the door.
--
Inside the home, it had been a long day of building. The men had left, though Ceolmund and Runa had not stopped immediately upon their departure. So it was that Runa was still standing in the kitchen, preparing a late supper for herself, and her husband.
On an iron pan over the stove, seasoned chicken was nearly finished roasting over the fire, and she held in hand a knife to finish chopping the few vegetables they had been able to obtain from the market to prepare a mixed-vegetable medley to have along the side. Potatoes were cooking as well, butter made from Gleda, the gift Ceolmund had given her parents in January, mixed in and making the mashed potatoes thick and creamy.
Runa was humming to herself, her voice a low alto and sweeping through the tune of an old Rohirric lullaby, mind having been caught upon the talk of building Paega’s bed, and then her own further thought of the cradle they would need come the harvest.
That was when she heard the knock upon the door, heavy handed and slow. She paused, her song falling short and she looked over her shoulder, knife in hand. “Ceol, can you get it?” She asked. She was elbows deep in final dinner preparations. It was soon going to be time to eat.
It was not overly late, though the streets were relatively empty for the temperatures the late evening had dropped to; Athelstan, though, was just returned from the Eored. He had braved and weathered these cold nights upon the plain outside the city walls, and the low temperatures and biting winds did not bother him this night.
The man held a purpose, one that had haunted him upon the plains and throughout the Eastfold.
For over two weeks, Athelstan had been unable to think of anything else beyond the words Ulfrekr had sent him off with those days ago, and the thought of the curly-haired child that the stablehands had seen with Runa and Ceolmund the day before the Eored’s departure to the Eastfold.
“Athelstan, I saw her with my own eyes—so did quite a few of the other men. We all talked…we think…well, she’s around three, and…she has your hair. Did you and Runa ever…?”
His friend’s words lingered and replayed within his mind, and the few conversations he had passed with the other workers of the stable upon his return after weeks of mulling it over, had simply made it worse.
One had called the child a proper mix of him and Beorhtric’s sister, and another had made mention that she had had the same color eyes as Athelstan's, if not Runa’s hair color. He had gone home to fret in the confines of his own empty house, and the fretting had turned into nursing a personal barrel of mead he had acquired before setting off to wait for his return. Perhaps it was a standard tradition to do that, but Athelstan had never consumed so much of a waiting cask in one sitting before.
He mulled over the whole situation, the fermented honey sweet upon his tongue and in his nose. Runa had been lovely the first time he had made her acquaintance, and he had certainly remarked on such a thing to her almost immediately following Beorhtric’s initial introduction. He recalled thinking that he was incredibly lucky that the man was willing to introduce him to his sister, especially one as fair as Runa, though the charm had quickly rubbed off as the woman began to speak.
It became clear the reason that Beorhtric was scrambling so to find her a match was because the woman was nearly as gruff as a man, and her interests were not so befitting a woman of her grace and beauty. Her features seemed hard, for she did not smile for him, and it did not matter how hard he tried to speak to her, Runa was reserved, distant, and cold. The one time she had begun to speak freely she was discussing weapons, trying to find commonality between their training with swords and axes, something Athelstan believed was unbefitting of a woman. He had suffered her company for a few evenings at Beorhtric’s request, though each day he left more certain Runa was not at all what he was looking for.
By that last day, he had needed to prepare himself to deal with her, and had consumed some drink before meeting her, and continued to ingest such liquid as Runa sat and quietly shined her own weaponry. He had all but despised her presence outright, thinking her more of a boar than a woman—but he had known she was beautiful.
He could not remember how that evening had gone, and it was chewing him up inside the longer he pondered it.
Had he decided to act upon the lustful thoughts he could faintly recall crossing his mind upon the first meeting with her? He had not seen her since, save for a few scant times in the Healing Hall. If he had acted upon his lusts because the drink had whittled away his common sense, if he had set her with child he never would have known.
His stomach churned.
Athelstan stood before the wooden door to Captain Ceolmund’s home. A light was pleasantly shining inside, though he did not stop and look into the window, though the window curtains were drawn open. He had heard from a few of the men that they were helping the captain add a room to his home, for he was adopting a young girl. The same one that Ulfrekr was certain was Athelstan’s own blood.
Ceolmund was a mild man. He always had been. The thought of him marrying Runa had been completely surprising to Athelstan, who knew well the woman’s temperament. The man marrying so suddenly, when he had shown no interest or thought to such things before, had puzzled Athelstan for a time, as it had many of the others under Ceolmund's command. Now, though, Athelstan was certain he understood.
Ceolmund had seen that Runa, a sister to his friend, was raising a child on her own, and her prospects of finding a husband were small enough that he had pitied her, and the little girl she was raising alone. It had been a marriage that was but an arrangement to save Runa and that little blessed mistake he had made—he was cleaning up the mess that Athelstan had unknowingly caused.
He groaned faintly, then lifted his fist knocking on the door with three firm raps, and then the man swayed upon his feet, waiting for someone to answer the door.
--
Inside the home, it had been a long day of building. The men had left, though Ceolmund and Runa had not stopped immediately upon their departure. So it was that Runa was still standing in the kitchen, preparing a late supper for herself, and her husband.
On an iron pan over the stove, seasoned chicken was nearly finished roasting over the fire, and she held in hand a knife to finish chopping the few vegetables they had been able to obtain from the market to prepare a mixed-vegetable medley to have along the side. Potatoes were cooking as well, butter made from Gleda, the gift Ceolmund had given her parents in January, mixed in and making the mashed potatoes thick and creamy.
Runa was humming to herself, her voice a low alto and sweeping through the tune of an old Rohirric lullaby, mind having been caught upon the talk of building Paega’s bed, and then her own further thought of the cradle they would need come the harvest.
That was when she heard the knock upon the door, heavy handed and slow. She paused, her song falling short and she looked over her shoulder, knife in hand. “Ceol, can you get it?” She asked. She was elbows deep in final dinner preparations. It was soon going to be time to eat.