Streets of Silver, Beads of Gold (January 3010) - [Finlach]
Mar 20, 2018 22:37:24 GMT -5
Post by Niphredil on Mar 20, 2018 22:37:24 GMT -5
The door once more closed, blocking out the chill January rain that settled like silver upon the streets of the third tier market, the steady drum upon the roof and windows adding a pulse to the lifeless tailor shop. Bodies were inside, for while they drew breath, saying they were full of life was somehow a poor fit. The wall behind the counter was stocked with swatches of fabrics, vibrant colors and plethora of patterns available for perusal, though their brightness was muted beyond the dim, grey day outside.
The sounding bell above the door finally ebbed its echo free from the shop air, and Lathron slumped, leaning upon his arms over the counter her kept, hand pressed against his eyes as he fought the burn of water away.
“I heard what happened to your wife and daughter. Such a shame, Lathron. Let me know if your family needs anything. The wife’ll want to bring over some stew tonight at the very least.”
Every day, it seemed, someone was coming to place an order. Someone who had not darkened their door for a few months. Someone who asked where Lairiel was off to; someone who did not know why Niphredil did not look up from her corner as she worked when they offered her greeting. Every day he had to explain the dreadful November past, and feel the wound of his heart and spirit opened anew.
“Father?” Rovain asked, small hand pressing to his back, a pout coming to her fair lips, her own brown eyes wet and warm.
“I’m all right, little one,” Lathron answered in a whisper, the ring of a sob misshaping his words even as he tried to soothe his youngest daughter. “I’m all right.”
Once again, there was silence, the driving rains accentuating the absence of conversation. It seemed so strange that not but three months ago the shop had been full of conversation, laughter, music, and light. No harp had rung since October, and laughter had seemingly followed the music to its grave.
Lathron sighed, dropping his hand away from shading his eyes, and offering a small, faded smile to his youngest. His eyes yet glistened, a single trail of water streaked down into his beard. “My good girl,” he hummed to her.
Rovain tried to smile for him. She knew it would help. “Did we get a new order? Haleth is almost done with the coat.”
“Yes,” Lathron said, looking at the order form upon the counter and drawing it up into his fingers to look at it once more. “A gown for a gift,” he hummed, his tone low and gentle. “They’re just guessing at her measurements, and it seems the girl is out in Lossarnach—wedding gift.” He sighed, dropping the page back to the countertop and drawing out a piece of paper and reaching for the quill. “They think she’s near Gwae’s size, though, so we’ll work from that. We can take her measurements when she is back from the grocer…make it adjustable…” He was mumbling now, scribbling words over the blank face of the paper, using his blotting sheet to take away the extra pooling ink. The scrawl was not the most comely in appearance, but it was legible enough.
Lairiel had always had the finer script.
His eyes panged, and lips turned downward in grimace. “We’re going to need beads for the trim,” he forced himself to say, heavy breath in his words.
Rovain straightened, eyes flicking to the order form and toes curling in excitement in her boots. “From Fin’s shop?” She asked, and though the day and hearts were grey, there was a hint of light and hope in her question.
Lathron found a chuckle for her, reaching and ruffling his daughter’s hair, pointedly ignoring the scowl Rovain immediately adopted for him as she sought to undo the mess he had made. “If he’s got the time for the order. What do you think? Think your sister needs some time out of this stuffy old store?” The man with greying hair did not wait for any reply, and instead sounded a call. “Niffy, sweetheart, come here a moment!”
It had left his mouth before he had chance to think upon it, and his face blanched.
“Father,” Rovain hissed to him, as if such volumes were necessary, casting a brown eye to the far corner where a brown-crowned head was still bent over her seam.
Lathron groaned, running his hand through his silver-veined hair. He knew. He knew, but it was like he had to remind himself every morning. The healers said that a new habit would come with time, but it seemed a torture to a father to make such silly mistakes. It seemed small consolation that Niphredil could not hear him make them.
He turned, seeing his eldest’s tall form slumped into her chair by the glowing fire, her long fingers working now with different strings than those they were used to. “Oh, Niffy,” he lamented quietly. Order in hand, he began to make his way toward her.
--
Niphredil had never much cared for sewing. The work was tedious, requiring delicate work with long fingers, taking heavy concentration for such length of time that rarely could she finish a day without headache, pain in her back, or in her shoulders. And yet, she sat hunched, bending her tall, willowy frame over the brown cloth she was working with, back to the windows.
When Niphredil had risen that morning, she had stood and stared at the wet, glistening streets below, eyeing the cloak of silver rain that poured down upon the ground. She tried to remember the sound of rain and recall the way the droplets drummed rhythms upon the roof of her bedchamber. The woman remembered loving the soothing lullaby such gentle raps had offered. Now, though, it was but cold and wet; another thing stolen from her before the turn of the year.
The fire burned before her, heat radiating upward to her face and thin hands, though the sparks danced silent upon the dark logs and tinder, empty of their voice. Niphredil tried to convince herself this was but a dream, but such a nightmare was nothing she could wake from. She had never been one to stand for quiet.
A hand gripped her shoulder, and she startled, needle pricking her finger as her body leapt and heart began to fly. “Ow,” she gasped, quickly placing the bleeding tip into her mouth, and shifting her brown eyes upward. Her father looked down at her, his own expression mournful.
His lips moved, forming a word she could not hear but knew. Her name. “Niffy.” She missed the sound of it.
“Yes, Father?” She asked in response, her voice barely a whisper. She could no longer tell how loudly she was communicating, and Niphredil never wished to shout; it would merely draw attention to her, to the broken husk she had become since late October.
His lips moved again, and Niphredil frowned at him helplessly.
“Ooee eeee bees. Eek oh eep oh finish,” she read her father to say.
The young woman’s frown intensified, and that all too familiar knot in her stomach of frustration and anguish already forming hot in her stomach. “I’m sorry. What?” She asked.
Again she watched, and her father’s brow bent further, the young, fresh face of Rovain appearing at his side. “Finish. Wee eee bees.”
“Bees?” Niphredil repeated helplessly, her voice almost breathless. When her father shook his head, repeating the word once more, her brown eyes grew warm and flooded with water. Slowly, the man pressed the paper forward, and her brown eyes cast down to the scrawl upon the sheet. It was a request for golden glass beads, and Niphredil’s heart dropped. “Beads,” she whispered to acknowledge what he said.
It had not been finish. It had been Fin’s.
“Do you need me to take this order to Fin’s, Father?” Her eyes lifted once more, and the man nodded, a warm hand coming to press against her cheek. “I can do that.” She was rather tired of her sewing, and perhaps a trip to see her friend would help raise her spirit.
Rovain, though, stepped between her and their father, motioning to the door, or perhaps the street beyond with emphasis. With the way her back was turned to her, Niphredil could not even attempt to read her lips, but whatever she was saying was making their father’s face fall.
“Ro,” he had started to protest, but he must have been interrupted; he said nothing else, and Rovain’s motions grew a little more forceful.
Slowly, Lathron nodded. “Eeth ahlet ebll ooh oh?” Niphredil thought she read.
Rovain shook her head.
“Li!” Her father shouted.
That she could tell for the familiar way he cast his eyes up to the second floor. For a moment he waited, hands upon his hips before he huffed and grumbled something under his breath. Apparently, she was out weaving at their grandparents. Or, Niphredil knew, more likely that was what she had told everyone.
She knew her younger sister often used such covers to sneak away for her friends. Eruli had never been one fond of being cooped up inside, favoring dirt to silk.
Lathron was speaking again, this time to Rovain. The ten year old nodded, her brown hair bobbing then fanning as she turned, grabbing Niphredil’s hand in the same moment their father took in hand the dress she had been working on.
“Come on,” Rovain was saying, motioning with her free hand for Niphredil to follow. Niphredil could only imagine it meant her younger sister was joining her for the short walk to the glazier. Seeing Finlach was probably going to be more excitement and joy than Rovain had harbored all winter.
It did not take long before the two of them were cloaked and bundled against the driving rain, and Niphredil and her sister were making quick strides up the road. It still seemed wrong to the woman to be out upon the street so entombed in quiet, though perhaps the lanes were relatively empty and with proper imagination could be believed to be free of all sound.
She was supposed to adjust; Niphredil just did not know how.
Rovain stayed at her side, casting up furtive glances to her sister’s long face and holding her hand tightly. There was worry in her brown eyes, though she forced a smile to linger on her lips. The last time Niphredil had taken to the market with her, one of her spells had come upon her; it had not been as severe as she had experienced at times, but she had dropped her basket of purchases upon the white stone as she reached for the counter of the grocer to keep from stumbling as the world had turned.
Perhaps she worried one such spell would come upon her there. Niphredil could not assuredly say it would not, though inwardly sighed at such need for attendants. She was the eldest, very well now the woman of the house. And yet, she seemed to have filled the shoes of their mother in weakness alone. She may have been the glue of her family, but Niphredil wondered how long such things would last now that she could offer them little in return.
A small wave of dizziness swept upon her as Rovain drew open the door to the glaziers shop, the warm air inside embracing Niphredil’s cheeks as she gripped the doorframe to hold herself steady. Rovain, though, had run off ahead of her, and was already off to the counter, calling for Finlach in what was likely a saccharine voice full of eagerness.
Slowly, the world settled, and Niphredil was able to work her way inside. She near held her breath, the glass of the shop too beautiful to risk her about. Finlach worked hard to keep the store stocked and ready for any patron; the last thing he needed was a childhood friend falling and bringing his shelves of art crashing to pieces upon the ground.
Delicately, Niphredil stepped inside, moving to the counter herself, and drawing the damp paper from under her cloak and setting it upon the counter, praying the order for the gold-glass beads was yet legible. She would have called for him, though imagined Rovain had already done so, and the last thing Niphredil wished to do was pester him while he worked. She pulled her hood away, dropping the wet thing about her shoulders, and quietly straightened her hair as she waited.
He had probably already called out to them in the manner he had always done before, assuring them he would be right there. For a moment Niphredil’s heart dropped. Finlach himself had always been a comfort, though perhaps she had not known how much his words were a part of such presence until he had gone silent, too.
She had worried their friendship would strain or wither after her sickness, for their conversations had been bright before. Perhaps it yet would, when pity no longer was enough bond. And yet, Niphredil hoped such was not the case. Her world had been altered enough, she did not wish to also lose her Finlach.
The sounding bell above the door finally ebbed its echo free from the shop air, and Lathron slumped, leaning upon his arms over the counter her kept, hand pressed against his eyes as he fought the burn of water away.
“I heard what happened to your wife and daughter. Such a shame, Lathron. Let me know if your family needs anything. The wife’ll want to bring over some stew tonight at the very least.”
Every day, it seemed, someone was coming to place an order. Someone who had not darkened their door for a few months. Someone who asked where Lairiel was off to; someone who did not know why Niphredil did not look up from her corner as she worked when they offered her greeting. Every day he had to explain the dreadful November past, and feel the wound of his heart and spirit opened anew.
“Father?” Rovain asked, small hand pressing to his back, a pout coming to her fair lips, her own brown eyes wet and warm.
“I’m all right, little one,” Lathron answered in a whisper, the ring of a sob misshaping his words even as he tried to soothe his youngest daughter. “I’m all right.”
Once again, there was silence, the driving rains accentuating the absence of conversation. It seemed so strange that not but three months ago the shop had been full of conversation, laughter, music, and light. No harp had rung since October, and laughter had seemingly followed the music to its grave.
Lathron sighed, dropping his hand away from shading his eyes, and offering a small, faded smile to his youngest. His eyes yet glistened, a single trail of water streaked down into his beard. “My good girl,” he hummed to her.
Rovain tried to smile for him. She knew it would help. “Did we get a new order? Haleth is almost done with the coat.”
“Yes,” Lathron said, looking at the order form upon the counter and drawing it up into his fingers to look at it once more. “A gown for a gift,” he hummed, his tone low and gentle. “They’re just guessing at her measurements, and it seems the girl is out in Lossarnach—wedding gift.” He sighed, dropping the page back to the countertop and drawing out a piece of paper and reaching for the quill. “They think she’s near Gwae’s size, though, so we’ll work from that. We can take her measurements when she is back from the grocer…make it adjustable…” He was mumbling now, scribbling words over the blank face of the paper, using his blotting sheet to take away the extra pooling ink. The scrawl was not the most comely in appearance, but it was legible enough.
Lairiel had always had the finer script.
His eyes panged, and lips turned downward in grimace. “We’re going to need beads for the trim,” he forced himself to say, heavy breath in his words.
Rovain straightened, eyes flicking to the order form and toes curling in excitement in her boots. “From Fin’s shop?” She asked, and though the day and hearts were grey, there was a hint of light and hope in her question.
Lathron found a chuckle for her, reaching and ruffling his daughter’s hair, pointedly ignoring the scowl Rovain immediately adopted for him as she sought to undo the mess he had made. “If he’s got the time for the order. What do you think? Think your sister needs some time out of this stuffy old store?” The man with greying hair did not wait for any reply, and instead sounded a call. “Niffy, sweetheart, come here a moment!”
It had left his mouth before he had chance to think upon it, and his face blanched.
“Father,” Rovain hissed to him, as if such volumes were necessary, casting a brown eye to the far corner where a brown-crowned head was still bent over her seam.
Lathron groaned, running his hand through his silver-veined hair. He knew. He knew, but it was like he had to remind himself every morning. The healers said that a new habit would come with time, but it seemed a torture to a father to make such silly mistakes. It seemed small consolation that Niphredil could not hear him make them.
He turned, seeing his eldest’s tall form slumped into her chair by the glowing fire, her long fingers working now with different strings than those they were used to. “Oh, Niffy,” he lamented quietly. Order in hand, he began to make his way toward her.
--
Niphredil had never much cared for sewing. The work was tedious, requiring delicate work with long fingers, taking heavy concentration for such length of time that rarely could she finish a day without headache, pain in her back, or in her shoulders. And yet, she sat hunched, bending her tall, willowy frame over the brown cloth she was working with, back to the windows.
When Niphredil had risen that morning, she had stood and stared at the wet, glistening streets below, eyeing the cloak of silver rain that poured down upon the ground. She tried to remember the sound of rain and recall the way the droplets drummed rhythms upon the roof of her bedchamber. The woman remembered loving the soothing lullaby such gentle raps had offered. Now, though, it was but cold and wet; another thing stolen from her before the turn of the year.
The fire burned before her, heat radiating upward to her face and thin hands, though the sparks danced silent upon the dark logs and tinder, empty of their voice. Niphredil tried to convince herself this was but a dream, but such a nightmare was nothing she could wake from. She had never been one to stand for quiet.
A hand gripped her shoulder, and she startled, needle pricking her finger as her body leapt and heart began to fly. “Ow,” she gasped, quickly placing the bleeding tip into her mouth, and shifting her brown eyes upward. Her father looked down at her, his own expression mournful.
His lips moved, forming a word she could not hear but knew. Her name. “Niffy.” She missed the sound of it.
“Yes, Father?” She asked in response, her voice barely a whisper. She could no longer tell how loudly she was communicating, and Niphredil never wished to shout; it would merely draw attention to her, to the broken husk she had become since late October.
His lips moved again, and Niphredil frowned at him helplessly.
“Ooee eeee bees. Eek oh eep oh finish,” she read her father to say.
The young woman’s frown intensified, and that all too familiar knot in her stomach of frustration and anguish already forming hot in her stomach. “I’m sorry. What?” She asked.
Again she watched, and her father’s brow bent further, the young, fresh face of Rovain appearing at his side. “Finish. Wee eee bees.”
“Bees?” Niphredil repeated helplessly, her voice almost breathless. When her father shook his head, repeating the word once more, her brown eyes grew warm and flooded with water. Slowly, the man pressed the paper forward, and her brown eyes cast down to the scrawl upon the sheet. It was a request for golden glass beads, and Niphredil’s heart dropped. “Beads,” she whispered to acknowledge what he said.
It had not been finish. It had been Fin’s.
“Do you need me to take this order to Fin’s, Father?” Her eyes lifted once more, and the man nodded, a warm hand coming to press against her cheek. “I can do that.” She was rather tired of her sewing, and perhaps a trip to see her friend would help raise her spirit.
Rovain, though, stepped between her and their father, motioning to the door, or perhaps the street beyond with emphasis. With the way her back was turned to her, Niphredil could not even attempt to read her lips, but whatever she was saying was making their father’s face fall.
“Ro,” he had started to protest, but he must have been interrupted; he said nothing else, and Rovain’s motions grew a little more forceful.
Slowly, Lathron nodded. “Eeth ahlet ebll ooh oh?” Niphredil thought she read.
Rovain shook her head.
“Li!” Her father shouted.
That she could tell for the familiar way he cast his eyes up to the second floor. For a moment he waited, hands upon his hips before he huffed and grumbled something under his breath. Apparently, she was out weaving at their grandparents. Or, Niphredil knew, more likely that was what she had told everyone.
She knew her younger sister often used such covers to sneak away for her friends. Eruli had never been one fond of being cooped up inside, favoring dirt to silk.
Lathron was speaking again, this time to Rovain. The ten year old nodded, her brown hair bobbing then fanning as she turned, grabbing Niphredil’s hand in the same moment their father took in hand the dress she had been working on.
“Come on,” Rovain was saying, motioning with her free hand for Niphredil to follow. Niphredil could only imagine it meant her younger sister was joining her for the short walk to the glazier. Seeing Finlach was probably going to be more excitement and joy than Rovain had harbored all winter.
It did not take long before the two of them were cloaked and bundled against the driving rain, and Niphredil and her sister were making quick strides up the road. It still seemed wrong to the woman to be out upon the street so entombed in quiet, though perhaps the lanes were relatively empty and with proper imagination could be believed to be free of all sound.
She was supposed to adjust; Niphredil just did not know how.
Rovain stayed at her side, casting up furtive glances to her sister’s long face and holding her hand tightly. There was worry in her brown eyes, though she forced a smile to linger on her lips. The last time Niphredil had taken to the market with her, one of her spells had come upon her; it had not been as severe as she had experienced at times, but she had dropped her basket of purchases upon the white stone as she reached for the counter of the grocer to keep from stumbling as the world had turned.
Perhaps she worried one such spell would come upon her there. Niphredil could not assuredly say it would not, though inwardly sighed at such need for attendants. She was the eldest, very well now the woman of the house. And yet, she seemed to have filled the shoes of their mother in weakness alone. She may have been the glue of her family, but Niphredil wondered how long such things would last now that she could offer them little in return.
A small wave of dizziness swept upon her as Rovain drew open the door to the glaziers shop, the warm air inside embracing Niphredil’s cheeks as she gripped the doorframe to hold herself steady. Rovain, though, had run off ahead of her, and was already off to the counter, calling for Finlach in what was likely a saccharine voice full of eagerness.
Slowly, the world settled, and Niphredil was able to work her way inside. She near held her breath, the glass of the shop too beautiful to risk her about. Finlach worked hard to keep the store stocked and ready for any patron; the last thing he needed was a childhood friend falling and bringing his shelves of art crashing to pieces upon the ground.
Delicately, Niphredil stepped inside, moving to the counter herself, and drawing the damp paper from under her cloak and setting it upon the counter, praying the order for the gold-glass beads was yet legible. She would have called for him, though imagined Rovain had already done so, and the last thing Niphredil wished to do was pester him while he worked. She pulled her hood away, dropping the wet thing about her shoulders, and quietly straightened her hair as she waited.
He had probably already called out to them in the manner he had always done before, assuring them he would be right there. For a moment Niphredil’s heart dropped. Finlach himself had always been a comfort, though perhaps she had not known how much his words were a part of such presence until he had gone silent, too.
She had worried their friendship would strain or wither after her sickness, for their conversations had been bright before. Perhaps it yet would, when pity no longer was enough bond. And yet, Niphredil hoped such was not the case. Her world had been altered enough, she did not wish to also lose her Finlach.
