I.
“Evaliir! Evaliir, come home!”
Her face is pink from the sun, freckled and besmirched by streetly soil from the lanes that overlook the river Rauvin. Her little bare feet plonk across mossy cobbles on that lane, quiet now as the sun fades fast behind the shadowy spires of the Nether Mountains. The lane is bare of travelers, of merchants and peddlers wheeling their goods to-and-fro as day’s end draws near, and kindly and homely meals draw them to places of respite. It is not uncommon for her to be called back so, the shrill voice of her mother’s frantic searchings give her no alarm, not anymore.
Her home is the little one on the farthest corner of Sunset Lane. It stank of salt, of fish and foreign spices and silks that travel up and down Rauvin. But mother kept a tidy home as best she could. The doorway swept, the flowers tended to, the glossy, stained windows vainly polished. The door hangs ajar, and Evaliir creeps in. Her mother stands by the hearth, her arms crossed and her face harsh and contorted. Her father stands there too, a large sack carried over his shoulder that distended in corners, sharp and hard – like armour and weapons lay within.
“Why do you mourn for me?” He says, bitter and narrow are his words.
“Because you are no man of war. You know fish, you know only to catch and to salt the meat. What do you know of war?” Evaliir did not yet enter. She knew that when mother and father bickered, she should stay well away. Though, close enough to hear what it was that angered them. She knew a great many things they bickered of; their marriage, their love, their parents, of the way the hearth and home should be. Sometimes even of Evaliir. The little Evaliir talks little because of this, in a home where scant few sweet things were said, the young heart of hers oft had little to add; for she held no bitterness in her heart. She was far too young for it.
“It is a good and noble thing,” He protests, throwing up his hands and letting the sack fall with a metallic clunk, “To serve Silverymoon is the highest honour.”
“Did the men say that? On the wharf? The drunken fools that they are. What do they know of honour? They know of fish, just as you.” Evaliir knew often that it is her mother that crosses a line that ends all bickering. Father often did not have the strength to carry it on, most of the time. Evaliir felt that was that, that mother’s stern words would not be heard and father would do as he wished – yet again. But his hand rose, and struck mother to the ground. Evaliir crept just a bit further behind the door. She hears her whimper on the ground, biting back tears and sobs. Her father turns and grasps the ajar door, and there he spies the spying Evaliir. Father knelt, and cups his hand on her pale, freckled cheek. She looks in his eyes and sees the facade of every warrior; fear and pride that sat together in a strange queerness that betrayed noble ends.
“I am off to fight. Will you give your father a worthy goodbye?” But her eyes were glossy, pale blue and the whites turned greyer as tears came. She stands on the tips of her toes, and kisses the end of father’s hawkish nose. He lets out a gruff hum, and strokes the top of her head in that same fond way he always does. He stood straight then, and cast no gaze back as he lugged the sack of arms and armour down the cobbled lane that connected to their little home on the corner of Sunset Lane. Evaliir hugs the doorway and wonders to herself, in her little heart, why in her quietness she lets this happen.
If she could summon words to bring him back, why did she not then? She knew the words, what she should say, what would make father rethink to return and take her in his arms and sit by the hearth, to eat and to smile and to cherish one another as any family would. Evaliir turns and sits by the hearth, three bowls filled with a warm fishy stew. Mother was gone. So Evaliir sat alone, by the hearth that grew queerly cold. She ate and let herself be warmed by the fare, until she said, as words came to her finally, ghostly and pale and hollow, “Come home, father.”
“Evaliir! Evaliir, come home!”
Her face is pink from the sun, freckled and besmirched by streetly soil from the lanes that overlook the river Rauvin. Her little bare feet plonk across mossy cobbles on that lane, quiet now as the sun fades fast behind the shadowy spires of the Nether Mountains. The lane is bare of travelers, of merchants and peddlers wheeling their goods to-and-fro as day’s end draws near, and kindly and homely meals draw them to places of respite. It is not uncommon for her to be called back so, the shrill voice of her mother’s frantic searchings give her no alarm, not anymore.
Her home is the little one on the farthest corner of Sunset Lane. It stank of salt, of fish and foreign spices and silks that travel up and down Rauvin. But mother kept a tidy home as best she could. The doorway swept, the flowers tended to, the glossy, stained windows vainly polished. The door hangs ajar, and Evaliir creeps in. Her mother stands by the hearth, her arms crossed and her face harsh and contorted. Her father stands there too, a large sack carried over his shoulder that distended in corners, sharp and hard – like armour and weapons lay within.
“Why do you mourn for me?” He says, bitter and narrow are his words.
“Because you are no man of war. You know fish, you know only to catch and to salt the meat. What do you know of war?” Evaliir did not yet enter. She knew that when mother and father bickered, she should stay well away. Though, close enough to hear what it was that angered them. She knew a great many things they bickered of; their marriage, their love, their parents, of the way the hearth and home should be. Sometimes even of Evaliir. The little Evaliir talks little because of this, in a home where scant few sweet things were said, the young heart of hers oft had little to add; for she held no bitterness in her heart. She was far too young for it.
“It is a good and noble thing,” He protests, throwing up his hands and letting the sack fall with a metallic clunk, “To serve Silverymoon is the highest honour.”
“Did the men say that? On the wharf? The drunken fools that they are. What do they know of honour? They know of fish, just as you.” Evaliir knew often that it is her mother that crosses a line that ends all bickering. Father often did not have the strength to carry it on, most of the time. Evaliir felt that was that, that mother’s stern words would not be heard and father would do as he wished – yet again. But his hand rose, and struck mother to the ground. Evaliir crept just a bit further behind the door. She hears her whimper on the ground, biting back tears and sobs. Her father turns and grasps the ajar door, and there he spies the spying Evaliir. Father knelt, and cups his hand on her pale, freckled cheek. She looks in his eyes and sees the facade of every warrior; fear and pride that sat together in a strange queerness that betrayed noble ends.
“I am off to fight. Will you give your father a worthy goodbye?” But her eyes were glossy, pale blue and the whites turned greyer as tears came. She stands on the tips of her toes, and kisses the end of father’s hawkish nose. He lets out a gruff hum, and strokes the top of her head in that same fond way he always does. He stood straight then, and cast no gaze back as he lugged the sack of arms and armour down the cobbled lane that connected to their little home on the corner of Sunset Lane. Evaliir hugs the doorway and wonders to herself, in her little heart, why in her quietness she lets this happen.
If she could summon words to bring him back, why did she not then? She knew the words, what she should say, what would make father rethink to return and take her in his arms and sit by the hearth, to eat and to smile and to cherish one another as any family would. Evaliir turns and sits by the hearth, three bowls filled with a warm fishy stew. Mother was gone. So Evaliir sat alone, by the hearth that grew queerly cold. She ate and let herself be warmed by the fare, until she said, as words came to her finally, ghostly and pale and hollow, “Come home, father.”