Postcards from Tamriel, Stories and such that fall somewhere between a snippet and a thread Options

[Grits]

Hi folks!

My characters are getting unruly, so I thought I’d make a place where I can hide from them while they fight it out. I mean, while I figure out what to do. The first time this happened, I posted Home for the Holidays, a very short story about Abiene’s Saturalia visit to Leyawiin in the year 3E432. I should have made this thread then, but at the time I still thought that every word I wrote would be the last. Someday I hope to make an offering at The Temple of Lore, but for now I’m still too guilty of undisciplined sprawling. I’ll start a story in the next post.

As always, comments and discussion are very welcome!

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jun 23 2019, 03:31 AM

[Grits]

Here’s a day in the life of Sonstra and Kjelling. (Just this one post.)




Spring of 3E403, Kvatch


Sonstra clipped a final sprig of thyme and straightened with a sigh. One hand pressed the ache in her back. Breakfast was not yet on the table and already she wanted sleep. Perhaps it was time to consult with a healer.

She stepped into her bustling kitchen, handing the basket to the cook’s apprentice. With an extended family living entirely under one roof, household help was her fondest luxury. While one meal was being served another’s preparation was already underway. And it took a team to keep up with the laundry.

Sonstra’s daughter-in-law Meja stomped heavily into the room, baby Willem on one hip and a hand under her gravid belly. Nursing while already pregnant again was taking a toll. She looked as tired as Sonstra felt.

Sonstra reached for her grandson as Meja trundled past. Little Willem squealed in delight and slapped his hands on Sonstra’s cheeks. Soon he would be toddling into every kind of mischief. Sonstra smiled and nuzzled her grandson. Every age brought its own delight, but this was one of her favorites.

An escalation in the clamor from the dining chamber told her that platters were hitting the table. “Selka!” she called into the corridor. “Breakfast! It’s getting cold! Bring your sister!” A faint shout echoed down the stairs in reply. It didn’t matter what had been said. Every morning was the same with her girls.

Thunder on the stairs announced her eldest son’s approach. Rothmund leaned down to kiss Willem’s head and Sonstra’s cheek on his way into the dining chamber. The meal passed as always in a noisy rush, with household staff, assorted Running Wolf employees, and the occasional surprise guest sitting shoulder to shoulder with the family. Sonstra spied an unfamiliar young man blushing furiously and attempting to hide behind a kahve pot. Now who does that one belong to, she wondered, glancing around the table. She gave Willem another morsel from her plate.

Her younger son Petr met her gaze with a slow smile. He knew, and he would tell her. The gleam in his eye promised quite a story, if they could both find time for him to tell it.

The diners hustled empty plates to the scullery, then scattered on their way to school, task, or office. Meja took her son from Sonstra’s arms.

“Lie down when he naps today,” Sonstra suggested. She gently removed her sleeve from Willem’s fingers. “You could use more rest. When you care for yourself, you’re caring for my grandchild.”

Meja gave her a quick nod. The girl was still not entirely comfortable in Sonstra’s presence.

“I’m going to the chapel this morning,” Sonstra told her. “You’ll have the house to yourself. Put your work aside and enjoy the quiet.”

“Yes, Mother Sonstra.” Meja waddled away, humming to the baby.

Sonstra ground her teeth. This needless formality was Rothmund’s doing. Her eldest seemed to have sat upon a stick at an early age and never gotten around to removing it.

But it was true that she was partly responsible for Meja’s unease. The young woman’s blatant fertility was a grain of sand in Sonstra’s eye. The last time of her moons had come and gone with no sign of Mara’s flower blooming. Sonstra had to admit that her cycles had ended. Though she and Kjelling had not planned for more of their own children, having the choice removed was the first taste of her age’s bitter medicine.

The gods gave us two boys and two girls, she chided herself. You should be grateful. No more envious glances at the poor girl’s belly.

The morning’s tasks were accomplished with brisk efficiency despite an occasional light-headed feeling. Sonstra dressed for a day out in the city. She always spoke to Mother Kyne under the sky, but she went to the Chapel of Akatosh to make the rest of her devotions.

A damp wind blew warm over the walls and through the city. The sun made a jewel out of every new leaf and budding flower. Kvatch stood formidable on her tower of stone, but within was a garden in the sky. Sonstra walked under trees alive with songbirds’ raucous wooing and tried to forget the stillness within her own body.

Two men were stepping out of the chapel as she approached. They exchanged polite nods, and one of them held the door for her. The chapel seemed as dark as a cave after the bright morning. Candle smoke, incense, and the smell of old books and musty offerings tickled her nose.

A Nord boy stood just inside bathed in the flood of light from the door. He turned his head and grinned as if he knew her. Then the door closed, leaving Sonstra blinking in the dim interior. By the time her eyes adjusted, the boy was gone.

She shook herself. There were many things said of old women who imagined things. Few of them were good.

Sonstra began her progress around the chapel’s shrines. Peace filled her as it always did when she made room for it. She spoke her devotions in the Imperials' words, but all the while her heart sang to the gods of her childhood.

Afterward she reluctantly made her way to the chapel's Halls of Healing. She and Kjelling had left their families behind in Skyrim. They had faced every challenge of partnership and parenthood side by side through the years without the guidance of elders. The best they could manage was to make different mistakes with each child, but somehow they were all still together. Her Kjelling would be no help with this change of life, however. And as far as she could tell, Imperial women got their herbs and advice from healers.

In the healing hall Sonstra followed a white-robed attendant to a curtained alcove. The young Redguard walked with the grace of a swordswoman. She had gentle eyes, Sonstra noticed, and the dark, elegant brows that were the envy of every blonde.

“I am Oleta,” said the girl. She swept the curtain closed and gestured to a chair. “What brings you here today, mistress?”

Sonstra blinked at her. This child must be the healer, she realized. Great.

“It’s nothing, really,” she started. Then she gave herself a mental shake. Don’t be silly, and do not offer insult by underestimating her experience.

Oleta smiled. “I have only recently taken my vows, but I am fully qualified.” She sat down and gestured to the other chair again. “I’m from Anvil. I lived there all my life.”

“I’m Sonstra.” She took the seat. “Business takes me to Anvil often. Did you train at the Mages Guild or at the chapel?”

“Both.”

The women spent a few moments talking of small matters. Oleta quickly put Sonstra at ease.

“I’ve come about my moons,” Sonstra finally admitted. “My cycles have ended. That’s not the problem, though. I’m just so tired all of the time now, and my back is achy. I’ll admit that I’ve put on a little weight. I don’t mean to complain, but… Well, are there herbs I’m supposed to be taking?” She felt her cheeks flush. “I don’t know why I even bothered you with this. I’m sure it’s all just what happens at my age.”

Oleta took Sonstra’s wrist in her cool hand. “May I ask how many winters you have?”

“Five and forty. My moons flower should have bloomed weeks ago, but there was nothing.”

Oleta nodded. “With your permission, I would like to first examine you with a spell. Then I’m sure I will have some questions.” She took Sonstra’s hands. “Do you have children?”

“Four children, one grandson, and another grandchild on the way.” Sonstra tried to feel the spell, but she couldn’t tell if anything was happening.

“How many pregnancies?”

“Just the four, and all were healthy. Lady Mara has truly blessed me.”

Oleta let go and leaned back in her chair with a smile. “Our Lady has blessed you again, Mistress Sonstra. Congratulations. You are with child.”

Sonstra could not have related what happened next for all the trees in Valenwood. She found herself standing out by the fountain, hands pressed to her waist.

Another child. Tears filled her eyes. I would never have asked for this, she thought, and now I know just how much I wanted it.

A moment later she remembered that her Kjelling did not enjoy surprises. Of course he wouldn’t even think of asking her to end the pregnancy. The only question was how much he would growl before he smiled.

A solid meal would help. There was no time to go home. Sonstra headed for her favorite grocer.

An hour later she was spreading a feast on Kjelling’s desk at the Running Wolf office. Cold meats, boiled eggs, crusty bread, dried fruits, and small wheels of cheese she could cut with her pocket knife. Kjelling opened a jar of the ale he kept chilled in an enchanted drawer. They ate their meal in comfortable silence.

Sonstra found that she was famished. She finished first as always. Kjelling reached for another loaf as she leaned back and wiped her fingers.

“I would like you to build a high chair for the family table, husband. We will need another before Meja’s baby is through with Willem’s.”

Kjelling spoke around his bread. “Two more grandchildren? If Petr’s been careless, let him build it.”

Sonstra smiled to herself. “It is indeed a proper task for the expectant father. You should also build another cradle.”

Kjelling grunted a reply, eyes on his meal. Then he froze with a turkey leg in the air and his mouth hanging open.

A junior clerk dashed in, trailing parchment and apologies. He fled as soon as he had exchanged one pile of invoices for another.

“At your age?” Her husband had found his tongue, but as usual his wits were a few steps behind. “I thought you were taking moons potions!”

Sonstra twisted her napkin, fighting the familiar urge to strangle her love with it. “Every child is a miracle, but perhaps this one especially so.”

He completely missed her tone. “There is a fair bit of silver in that golden head,” he objected, nodding at her as if to make clear that it was not some other fading blonde he spoke of.

“It is my turn to choose a name,” Sonstra declared, changing the subject.

Kjelling crossed his arms over his chest.

“I would honor your brother,” she said. “You know it is right, Kjelling.”

They hadn’t spoken of him in decades. In a flash Kjelling’s face showed the weight he still carried. Guilt and honor. Love and sacrifice.

Her husband made a broad, cutting gesture. “Out of the question. That name would bring my family down on our heads.”

“Are County Kvatch’s birth announcements read so far away as Skyrim? Don’t you think by now your mother will have passed beyond caring?”

Kjelling’s beard bristled in the way that told her he thought his mind was made up. “After what has been lost so that we might simply live, how could we take the chance? Though my heart grieves for Jyrik, I would not risk it.”

“Change it, then, in a way that we will still know. Make it look like a Cyrodiil name.” Sonstra placed her palms over her belly.

Kjelling scowled down at his plate, hands gripping the table’s edge. “Change it as we did with Rothmund’s? No one was fooled.”

“The honored dead can see us from Sovngarde, Kjelling. For years he has watched over us. I would have him know our hearts. Let him hear us speak his name with love every day that we have left in this life.”

“You may well carry another girl.” Kjelling stood abruptly and stalked to the window.

In her mind Sonstra saw the towheaded lad from the chapel, facing away but turning his head to look back at her. Light streamed over him like the hand of a god. He stood slim and strong and gangly as a pup, with golden eyes like Kjelling’s and a smile like the sun.

She carried a boy child. Her heart knew it was true.

Sonstra walked over and leaned into Kjelling, resting her face against his chest. Their arms slipped around each other in the way that made her feel whole. Their joy had always come with trouble. Sometimes they ran and sometimes they faced it, but always together.

Peace filled her heart. As in all things, this man would give her anything.

“Jerric,” she said, and a squeeze told her that he agreed. “If we have a boy, we’ll call him Jerric.”

.

.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jun 23 2019, 03:26 AM