"vigilance"
Mar. 5th, 2019 09:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonreirFire and Water
Sharon is waiting for him, standing in front of the gate, when he walks up, leaning hard on his stick.
"Hello, Arthur," she says, and opens the gate for him.
"Hullo," he responds. "Same as always?"
She nods. "Mum's waiting for you at the altar."
"Thanks." The old feeling wells up in him, strange and bittersweet, as he steps through, and he cannot help but ask: "How's she doing, these days?"
"Don't," Sharon replies mildly, pulling the gate shut.
He doesn't press. He walks across the uneven ground of the apple orchard, carefully picking his way around the rotted apples that dot the mulched earth beneath the trees, here and there.
They were born in the same village, in the same hour.
"Fated," some said, because of who their parents were, and what they were expected to do.
His people were fire, and hers were water. Their parents were high-ranking magic handlers, each expected to carry out the ritual, four times a year.
Each of them had been conceived with a purpose: to step in and fill their parents' footsteps -- him, his mother, and she, her father.
They were not expected to associate outside of necessity. It wasn't strictly disallowed, but it wasn't encouraged, either. His people kept to their traditions, and hers to theirs. They didn't call themselves fire and water, but other names, which were not important.
Everyone else called them fire and water, for they were not supposed to mix.
They started training together when they were fifteen. They had finished at the village school by then, had been introduced into the family trades -- her, running the farm, making cider, and him taking care of the bees and milking the goats, making candles and soap to sell in town. Each family had a stipend to live on, something that all the villagers contributed to, but it was more a formality than anything else. It didn't pay for much besides the tax on their respective holdings. They had to bring in money, if they wanted to eat.
He took her candles, the first time that they were to meet. She brought him cider. The candles were ones he had dipped; the cider was a batch she had made. It was important, according to the long ritual that bound them together, that they each bring something made by their own two hands. A sign of trust and well-wishes, that neither was being forced into the exchange, but contributed to it freely.
That neither was bound to the apprenticeship, but came of their own volition.
There was the weight of tradition -- there was always that -- but neither had been coerced. There was no threat of violence, no subtle hint of magic controlling their minds, making them bend and bow at the right places, as they took their vow.
"To perform the ritual," they intoned, at the same time. "To keep watch over the village, ever vigilant, and bring warning to those that live within it, if ever they would come to harm."
He felt the weight of the vow -- the first spell he'd ever cast, knowingly -- settle on his shoulders like a heavy woolen cloak.
He straightened, and he watched as she did, too, both of them bound by magic and the weight of tradition.
She's waiting for him beside the altar, just as Sharon said she would be.
Sharon, who should have been the one to meet him here, maybe, except her mother still insists on doing it herself.
And what of your boy, says a quiet voice in the back of his mind. Why doesn't Jack come? He's trained, he could do it.
He ignores it.
The altar is a great slab rough-hewn from granite, set back away from the trees and partially protected by the hillock that overlooks the orchard. It's older than either of them, older than the orchard that surrounds it, the village that lays beyond it. The altar has been here longer than anyone can remember, but the ritual has not changed.
There's an apple on the surface of it, and a wooden-handled paring knife set next to it.
Her back is turned away from him -- away from the direction she must have known he would be coming, the only path from the main road.
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the stub of a beeswax candle he has brought for just this purpose, along with flint and tinder to light it. With shaking hands, he places it on the weather gray rock surface.
"Ready," he says, knowing she will not answer.
She turns slowly, to face him.
They learned together, over time, what the ritual was and what it required of them. Wax and apples, his blood and hers. They each had their part, words to say and spells to tie it all together. Protection for the village, for the land -- a warning system, if anything was to come, so that they could enact further protection rituals.
Their parents taught them both at the same time, both of them standing side-by-side next to the altar, its weathered surface.
He was scarcely able to look her in the eye, the first few times they came together. His mother had to prompt him: "And then you look into her eyes and tell her that you are sworn to stand by her side, ever watchful, as guardians of the village for another season."
He looked up, saw her bright blue eyes, and was struck by how beautiful she was. He fumbled his way through the rest of the ritual, and she responded, repeating his words back to him perfectly.
This was how it went, each and every time: him, shaking, hardly able to meet her gaze, and her responding perfectly each time, the words something she had clearly practiced.
He had practiced too, with his mother -- but it was different, looking not across the familiar kitchen table with its scarred wood, but the altar, not into soft brown eyes, but sharp blue eyes.
She was beautiful, and his mother was not.
She picks up the paring knife and begans peeling and coring the apple, while he struggles with the flint and tinder to light the candle.
She drops the pieces onto the altar, as she cuts the apple -- peel, seeds and all -- and he drips the wax into the symbols he was taught, fifty years before.
"Ready," he says again.
She hands him the knife, in silence, and he uses the point of it to prick his finger, traces the patterns in wax with his blood.
Once they were trained, they began performing the ritual on their own, without help from their parents, four times a year.
They became friends, after that. They couldn't help it. The magic forced them together, and they had much in common.
She came to Sunday dinners sometimes, and he was invited out to the farm.
She was sworn to someone else. Even if she hadn't been, marriage was out of the question. She was water, he was fire -- it was forbidden by tradition if not by law.
He told himself it was safe, that nothing would pass between them. He reassured his parents, when they asked: it is safe, we are only friends, friends and nothing more.
He can feel, rather than hear, the altar-stone singing, as he finishes tracing the lines on its surface. What do you require?
She is just finishing up adding her part with the pieces of apple. He hands her the knife, and looks away as she pricks her finger, too.
She adds her blood, and the altar-stone's song changes: What do you desire?
He clears his mind and focuses only on the well-being of the village, as he says the next of the ritual words.
The summer they were both nineteen, she wed Lawrence Wilson in a ceremony at his family's farm.
Don't you wish it had been you? some part of him whispered, as he watched. Standing beside her, in front of everyone?
He squeezed the hand of the girl he'd brought with him to the wedding -- Jane, the butcher's daughter, the one he was sworn to.
"Isn't it lovely?" she said, misinterpreting the squeeze, and he agreed that it was. "It'll be us, this fall."
He nodded again, and did not say a word.
He can feel the binding land in place with an almost-audible whumph.
The lines on the altar burn, bright red, as their words are accepted.
He looks into her eyes. "I am sworn to stand beside you, ever watchful, as guardians of the village for another season."
She repeats what he says. There is no response from the altar.
"Well?"
She turns away from him again, strides purposefully toward the house.
He wed Jane, that fall. The entire time, he thought only of her.
He thought, and often, after each ritual, of telling her the truth: that he loved her; that the love he had hoped would die in him had only been pushed aside, temporarily, and that he could not give his wife what it was she deserved, all of him, unshared and unspoiled by desire for any other.
He couldn't bring himself to.
She was happy with Lawrence, even if he didn't understand why. It wasn't fair.
He walks out of the orchard along the same path he came, leaning heavy on his cane.
Once more, he thinks, maybe twice, then she'll send Sharon instead, and I'll have to send Jack, and that will be the end of it.
One last time, for the spring ritual, and I won't have to see her again, save at the church on Sundays, and even then, perhaps not, if we're both careful.
The summer they were thirty, he made the mistake of telling her.
He'd been in love with her for fifteen years, ever since the first time he had met her eyes in the ritual, repeated the ritual words that bound them both together.
He told her at the altar-stone, as they both watched the lines of wax and blood fade away.
She stared at him, stricken, and he knew he'd said the wrong thing.
"Sharon will be fifteen in five years' time," she said, after a moment. "She will be my 'prentice. I know your Jack will come of age a year later; they will take up the ritual for us, and that will be the end of it."
"Can't you at least acknowledge what I've said?" he asked -- frustrated, heartbroken. "Please?"
She shook her head slowly. "I can't speak to you of this," she said. "Sharon will be my 'prentice. I suggest you train Jack. That will be the end of it."
"Please," he repeated, but she stayed silent.
He said his lines, and she repeated after him, as she was supposed to, anger and sadness clear in her eyes.
She never spoke to him directly again.
Sharon is waiting for him, at the gate, as he walks out.
She must have timed it, he thinks, for it's too cold to have stayed out the entire time.
"You're too old to do this," she says, studying him as he walks. "Why haven't you sent Jack?"
For the same reason your mother hasn't sent you in her stead yet, he thinks. Aloud, he says: "I'm not too old to give it up yet. I enjoy the ritual, as is my right."
She shrugs. "Mum's asked me to take over, starting in the spring."
He hesitates for just a moment: "Then I suppose I'll see you then."
"Suppose so," she says, easily.
As she shuts the gate behind him, she says:
"I suggest you send Jack, though."
Sharon is waiting for him, standing in front of the gate, when he walks up, leaning hard on his stick.
"Hello, Arthur," she says, and opens the gate for him.
"Hullo," he responds. "Same as always?"
She nods. "Mum's waiting for you at the altar."
"Thanks." The old feeling wells up in him, strange and bittersweet, as he steps through, and he cannot help but ask: "How's she doing, these days?"
"Don't," Sharon replies mildly, pulling the gate shut.
He doesn't press. He walks across the uneven ground of the apple orchard, carefully picking his way around the rotted apples that dot the mulched earth beneath the trees, here and there.
They were born in the same village, in the same hour.
"Fated," some said, because of who their parents were, and what they were expected to do.
His people were fire, and hers were water. Their parents were high-ranking magic handlers, each expected to carry out the ritual, four times a year.
Each of them had been conceived with a purpose: to step in and fill their parents' footsteps -- him, his mother, and she, her father.
They were not expected to associate outside of necessity. It wasn't strictly disallowed, but it wasn't encouraged, either. His people kept to their traditions, and hers to theirs. They didn't call themselves fire and water, but other names, which were not important.
Everyone else called them fire and water, for they were not supposed to mix.
They started training together when they were fifteen. They had finished at the village school by then, had been introduced into the family trades -- her, running the farm, making cider, and him taking care of the bees and milking the goats, making candles and soap to sell in town. Each family had a stipend to live on, something that all the villagers contributed to, but it was more a formality than anything else. It didn't pay for much besides the tax on their respective holdings. They had to bring in money, if they wanted to eat.
He took her candles, the first time that they were to meet. She brought him cider. The candles were ones he had dipped; the cider was a batch she had made. It was important, according to the long ritual that bound them together, that they each bring something made by their own two hands. A sign of trust and well-wishes, that neither was being forced into the exchange, but contributed to it freely.
That neither was bound to the apprenticeship, but came of their own volition.
There was the weight of tradition -- there was always that -- but neither had been coerced. There was no threat of violence, no subtle hint of magic controlling their minds, making them bend and bow at the right places, as they took their vow.
"To perform the ritual," they intoned, at the same time. "To keep watch over the village, ever vigilant, and bring warning to those that live within it, if ever they would come to harm."
He felt the weight of the vow -- the first spell he'd ever cast, knowingly -- settle on his shoulders like a heavy woolen cloak.
He straightened, and he watched as she did, too, both of them bound by magic and the weight of tradition.
She's waiting for him beside the altar, just as Sharon said she would be.
Sharon, who should have been the one to meet him here, maybe, except her mother still insists on doing it herself.
And what of your boy, says a quiet voice in the back of his mind. Why doesn't Jack come? He's trained, he could do it.
He ignores it.
The altar is a great slab rough-hewn from granite, set back away from the trees and partially protected by the hillock that overlooks the orchard. It's older than either of them, older than the orchard that surrounds it, the village that lays beyond it. The altar has been here longer than anyone can remember, but the ritual has not changed.
There's an apple on the surface of it, and a wooden-handled paring knife set next to it.
Her back is turned away from him -- away from the direction she must have known he would be coming, the only path from the main road.
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out the stub of a beeswax candle he has brought for just this purpose, along with flint and tinder to light it. With shaking hands, he places it on the weather gray rock surface.
"Ready," he says, knowing she will not answer.
She turns slowly, to face him.
They learned together, over time, what the ritual was and what it required of them. Wax and apples, his blood and hers. They each had their part, words to say and spells to tie it all together. Protection for the village, for the land -- a warning system, if anything was to come, so that they could enact further protection rituals.
Their parents taught them both at the same time, both of them standing side-by-side next to the altar, its weathered surface.
He was scarcely able to look her in the eye, the first few times they came together. His mother had to prompt him: "And then you look into her eyes and tell her that you are sworn to stand by her side, ever watchful, as guardians of the village for another season."
He looked up, saw her bright blue eyes, and was struck by how beautiful she was. He fumbled his way through the rest of the ritual, and she responded, repeating his words back to him perfectly.
This was how it went, each and every time: him, shaking, hardly able to meet her gaze, and her responding perfectly each time, the words something she had clearly practiced.
He had practiced too, with his mother -- but it was different, looking not across the familiar kitchen table with its scarred wood, but the altar, not into soft brown eyes, but sharp blue eyes.
She was beautiful, and his mother was not.
She picks up the paring knife and begans peeling and coring the apple, while he struggles with the flint and tinder to light the candle.
She drops the pieces onto the altar, as she cuts the apple -- peel, seeds and all -- and he drips the wax into the symbols he was taught, fifty years before.
"Ready," he says again.
She hands him the knife, in silence, and he uses the point of it to prick his finger, traces the patterns in wax with his blood.
Once they were trained, they began performing the ritual on their own, without help from their parents, four times a year.
They became friends, after that. They couldn't help it. The magic forced them together, and they had much in common.
She came to Sunday dinners sometimes, and he was invited out to the farm.
She was sworn to someone else. Even if she hadn't been, marriage was out of the question. She was water, he was fire -- it was forbidden by tradition if not by law.
He told himself it was safe, that nothing would pass between them. He reassured his parents, when they asked: it is safe, we are only friends, friends and nothing more.
He can feel, rather than hear, the altar-stone singing, as he finishes tracing the lines on its surface. What do you require?
She is just finishing up adding her part with the pieces of apple. He hands her the knife, and looks away as she pricks her finger, too.
She adds her blood, and the altar-stone's song changes: What do you desire?
He clears his mind and focuses only on the well-being of the village, as he says the next of the ritual words.
The summer they were both nineteen, she wed Lawrence Wilson in a ceremony at his family's farm.
Don't you wish it had been you? some part of him whispered, as he watched. Standing beside her, in front of everyone?
He squeezed the hand of the girl he'd brought with him to the wedding -- Jane, the butcher's daughter, the one he was sworn to.
"Isn't it lovely?" she said, misinterpreting the squeeze, and he agreed that it was. "It'll be us, this fall."
He nodded again, and did not say a word.
He can feel the binding land in place with an almost-audible whumph.
The lines on the altar burn, bright red, as their words are accepted.
He looks into her eyes. "I am sworn to stand beside you, ever watchful, as guardians of the village for another season."
She repeats what he says. There is no response from the altar.
"Well?"
She turns away from him again, strides purposefully toward the house.
He wed Jane, that fall. The entire time, he thought only of her.
He thought, and often, after each ritual, of telling her the truth: that he loved her; that the love he had hoped would die in him had only been pushed aside, temporarily, and that he could not give his wife what it was she deserved, all of him, unshared and unspoiled by desire for any other.
He couldn't bring himself to.
She was happy with Lawrence, even if he didn't understand why. It wasn't fair.
He walks out of the orchard along the same path he came, leaning heavy on his cane.
Once more, he thinks, maybe twice, then she'll send Sharon instead, and I'll have to send Jack, and that will be the end of it.
One last time, for the spring ritual, and I won't have to see her again, save at the church on Sundays, and even then, perhaps not, if we're both careful.
The summer they were thirty, he made the mistake of telling her.
He'd been in love with her for fifteen years, ever since the first time he had met her eyes in the ritual, repeated the ritual words that bound them both together.
He told her at the altar-stone, as they both watched the lines of wax and blood fade away.
She stared at him, stricken, and he knew he'd said the wrong thing.
"Sharon will be fifteen in five years' time," she said, after a moment. "She will be my 'prentice. I know your Jack will come of age a year later; they will take up the ritual for us, and that will be the end of it."
"Can't you at least acknowledge what I've said?" he asked -- frustrated, heartbroken. "Please?"
She shook her head slowly. "I can't speak to you of this," she said. "Sharon will be my 'prentice. I suggest you train Jack. That will be the end of it."
"Please," he repeated, but she stayed silent.
He said his lines, and she repeated after him, as she was supposed to, anger and sadness clear in her eyes.
She never spoke to him directly again.
Sharon is waiting for him, at the gate, as he walks out.
She must have timed it, he thinks, for it's too cold to have stayed out the entire time.
"You're too old to do this," she says, studying him as he walks. "Why haven't you sent Jack?"
For the same reason your mother hasn't sent you in her stead yet, he thinks. Aloud, he says: "I'm not too old to give it up yet. I enjoy the ritual, as is my right."
She shrugs. "Mum's asked me to take over, starting in the spring."
He hesitates for just a moment: "Then I suppose I'll see you then."
"Suppose so," she says, easily.
As she shuts the gate behind him, she says:
"I suggest you send Jack, though."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2019-03-15 05:49 pm (UTC)I really enjoyed reading this. You created great imagery in this piece.
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Date: 2019-03-16 12:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-16 04:42 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-16 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-03-17 12:08 am (UTC)