Post by Annasiel on Aug 18, 2023 23:02:30 GMT
It took her the better part of the day.
It was something she intended to do, anyway - needed to do, anyway, but with Alys moving in to Sinead's old quarters, they needed to be cleared. Emer told her she would do it. If offered help, she politely - but firmly - declined. She arranged the books of the shelves into crates, folded the clothes, undid the hammock. Sinead was not the sort to hoard, so the room itself, while not spartan, was not too difficult to clear, but it was the gentle meticulousness of the wisewoman that let the work draw on. Every cloth creased neatly. Every nook turned. She even took the time to clean the room of dust, to wipe the boards, to polish the basin's mirror.
Then - when the room was empty, Sinead's things moved into the hall - she took all fabrics in a bundle and brought them to the deck. It was dark by now. The sky, clear, the stars, glistening in the cold. Pausing, for a moment, Emer left for below, returning some long minutes later dragging an empty barrel across the boards. Slow work, but again.
She did not accept help.
Fingers aching, she wiped at her brow, then, bundling the cloth, set it softly in the barrel. From her own pouch, she pulled two coins, then set those atop as well. Sinead's coins had sank with her, but this would have to do.
Her words were a whisper.
"Chun na spéire, filleann tú."
Her hands shook, perhaps from cold, perhaps from something else, as she drew the striker - taken from the kitchen - from her pocket with one hand, lifting a glass bottle with her other. She tipped the bottle's contents into the barrel, as well, set it aside, and held the striker to the cloth.
Once.
Twice.
On the third try, it lit, lazy coils of smoke rising up into the air. Emer slipped the striker away, took a step back, and cleared her throat.
"I remember Sinead. Though she lived a life before she was our captain, that life I know little of, and it is not the one she would wish to carry on with her, regardless." She bowed her head, eyes closed. "But I remember her for the life she made. One year, she had been sailing, when I came upon her ship, broken from a recent battle and landed in a forest clearing. She was with child, then. I'd thought it strange to see a pirate captain with a mother's belly, but there was no weakness or frailty in her. She had fought just like the rest of you."
She continued to talk. To tell stories of raids, of adventures, of danger and glory. For the crew that had lived through it, there were details out of place. Things embellished. Glossed over. Made grander, or more exciting, or more poetic. But it was not a history, retold fact for fact. It was a story, and stories grow beyond the seeds of truth that sprout them.
If her stories fell on empty air, she did not seem to mind. In fact, she grew more animated as time went on regardless of who came, hands flying to emphasize a monstrous storm they narrowly avoided, foot stomping to echo the marching of a cohort of fairy soldiers coming to arrest them all. She only slowed as she neared the present - as she spoke of the secret buried north, of the icy mountain, of the battle against monsters and the voyage into the chasm's maw.
"And -"
Her eyes looked around.
"She knew there was no other way. She danced with death, for all of her second life, but a second life comes not without a price. Her crew to the sword, she accepted the foul Solomon's demand. However, she would not bend her knee. No - she was too proud for that. So when he demanded her and her quartermaster fight, when he demanded they strike each other down -
She acted in the only way that let her hold her head still high. She died by the blade of a friend."
Emer fell silent for a moment, looking down.
"She could not fly in her second life. Not - without her ship. Not without her crew."
Tilting her head back, now, arms spread, she stared at the rising smoke.
"But she does not need us any longer. Now, she flies on wind."
She bowed her head, again, again falling silent. This time, she let it last, unless another chose to fill it.
It was something she intended to do, anyway - needed to do, anyway, but with Alys moving in to Sinead's old quarters, they needed to be cleared. Emer told her she would do it. If offered help, she politely - but firmly - declined. She arranged the books of the shelves into crates, folded the clothes, undid the hammock. Sinead was not the sort to hoard, so the room itself, while not spartan, was not too difficult to clear, but it was the gentle meticulousness of the wisewoman that let the work draw on. Every cloth creased neatly. Every nook turned. She even took the time to clean the room of dust, to wipe the boards, to polish the basin's mirror.
Then - when the room was empty, Sinead's things moved into the hall - she took all fabrics in a bundle and brought them to the deck. It was dark by now. The sky, clear, the stars, glistening in the cold. Pausing, for a moment, Emer left for below, returning some long minutes later dragging an empty barrel across the boards. Slow work, but again.
She did not accept help.
Fingers aching, she wiped at her brow, then, bundling the cloth, set it softly in the barrel. From her own pouch, she pulled two coins, then set those atop as well. Sinead's coins had sank with her, but this would have to do.
Her words were a whisper.
"Chun na spéire, filleann tú."
Her hands shook, perhaps from cold, perhaps from something else, as she drew the striker - taken from the kitchen - from her pocket with one hand, lifting a glass bottle with her other. She tipped the bottle's contents into the barrel, as well, set it aside, and held the striker to the cloth.
Once.
Twice.
On the third try, it lit, lazy coils of smoke rising up into the air. Emer slipped the striker away, took a step back, and cleared her throat.
"I remember Sinead. Though she lived a life before she was our captain, that life I know little of, and it is not the one she would wish to carry on with her, regardless." She bowed her head, eyes closed. "But I remember her for the life she made. One year, she had been sailing, when I came upon her ship, broken from a recent battle and landed in a forest clearing. She was with child, then. I'd thought it strange to see a pirate captain with a mother's belly, but there was no weakness or frailty in her. She had fought just like the rest of you."
She continued to talk. To tell stories of raids, of adventures, of danger and glory. For the crew that had lived through it, there were details out of place. Things embellished. Glossed over. Made grander, or more exciting, or more poetic. But it was not a history, retold fact for fact. It was a story, and stories grow beyond the seeds of truth that sprout them.
If her stories fell on empty air, she did not seem to mind. In fact, she grew more animated as time went on regardless of who came, hands flying to emphasize a monstrous storm they narrowly avoided, foot stomping to echo the marching of a cohort of fairy soldiers coming to arrest them all. She only slowed as she neared the present - as she spoke of the secret buried north, of the icy mountain, of the battle against monsters and the voyage into the chasm's maw.
"And -"
Her eyes looked around.
"She knew there was no other way. She danced with death, for all of her second life, but a second life comes not without a price. Her crew to the sword, she accepted the foul Solomon's demand. However, she would not bend her knee. No - she was too proud for that. So when he demanded her and her quartermaster fight, when he demanded they strike each other down -
She acted in the only way that let her hold her head still high. She died by the blade of a friend."
Emer fell silent for a moment, looking down.
"She could not fly in her second life. Not - without her ship. Not without her crew."
Tilting her head back, now, arms spread, she stared at the rising smoke.
"But she does not need us any longer. Now, she flies on wind."
She bowed her head, again, again falling silent. This time, she let it last, unless another chose to fill it.
