The howling winter winds skirled like the eerie music of pipes around the weaver's shed. Underneath the howling weather in the distance the sounds of
drunken revelry faintly echoed from the great hall.
Scowling, the silver-haired girl picked up the shuttle and rod again, and turned back to her work. As usual, she was being punished for avoiding her expected chores, the "maidenly" spinning and weaving and sewing that she detested. Her father had caught her in the loft of the smithy earlier that day, watching the intricacies of the silversmith's work and the cunning knitting of chainmail for armor by the blacksmith, and had beaten her soundly. And after that, her mother had taken one look at the soot-smeared clothing, and angry tear-stained face, and decreed that she must weave another three ells of cloth before eating more than bread and water again, a punishment much more dire than any caning -- hunger and pain she could ignore, but the detested weaving!
As she lay down the shuttle and took up the weaving "sword" and began to pound the new rows of thread upwards to form a tight cloth, she found herself dreaming again that she held a true sword, a warrior's sword. She knew that in the hall tales would soon turn to stories of past wars and skirmishes, the sagas that made her heart beat faster -- but none tonight for her.
Far away came the sounds of drinking, with loud boasts of valor and toasts to Mithaniel Marr. The whole steading venerated the god of Valor, and the chapel featured a mighty-thewed statue that a clever artisan had crafted to subtly resemble her father, earning him more coin than he'd otherwise have gotten. With every beating she came to resent her father more, and likewise Mithaniel as he was represented in that place.
Taking up the shuttle, her thoughts wandered to things she had overheard from the older women, talking of the sister of the god, Erollisi the Fair. She had ventured to ask her mother about Erollisi once, and been punished for being "indecent". Still, the stories intrigued her, and she felt more and more drawn to the mysterious deity that the women whispered about, but who seemed taboo in her home otherwise.
The wind howled viciously, cold whips seeking out chinks in the wooden walls of the shed. The low roar of the revellers was far away, and suddenly she had a revelation. If THEY would follow Mithaniel, SHE would follow Erollisi! If "proper women" sewed and spun and wove, SHE would follow a warrior's trade. Hard upon the heels of this decision, she knelt and bowed her head, and began praying with intensity and conviction. "I will follow You, Erollisi! What You ask of me, I will do! Help me to serve You! Help me to become a warrior and leave this place behind me!"
Then the world reeled, the shed seeming to shake, the air grew warm and scented with apple blossoms, and a great light blinded the young woman. She threw her hands up, whether in warding or supplication she herself did not know. Out of the heart of that brightness, she heard laughter like silvery bells, and felt the grace of Erollisi soothe her wounds and heal her heart.
When the light died away, she leapt up and soundlessly slipped out the door, headed to the smithy. The cold she ignored as she crunched over the snow, before reaching the stone building that housed the forge. By the faint light of the embers, she raided the cabinets and racks of equipment, taking up the tools of the warrior's trade before escaping into the night to travel southwards, towards the destiny she had been promised.
Scowling, the silver-haired girl picked up the shuttle and rod again, and turned back to her work. As usual, she was being punished for avoiding her expected chores, the "maidenly" spinning and weaving and sewing that she detested. Her father had caught her in the loft of the smithy earlier that day, watching the intricacies of the silversmith's work and the cunning knitting of chainmail for armor by the blacksmith, and had beaten her soundly. And after that, her mother had taken one look at the soot-smeared clothing, and angry tear-stained face, and decreed that she must weave another three ells of cloth before eating more than bread and water again, a punishment much more dire than any caning -- hunger and pain she could ignore, but the detested weaving!
As she lay down the shuttle and took up the weaving "sword" and began to pound the new rows of thread upwards to form a tight cloth, she found herself dreaming again that she held a true sword, a warrior's sword. She knew that in the hall tales would soon turn to stories of past wars and skirmishes, the sagas that made her heart beat faster -- but none tonight for her.
Far away came the sounds of drinking, with loud boasts of valor and toasts to Mithaniel Marr. The whole steading venerated the god of Valor, and the chapel featured a mighty-thewed statue that a clever artisan had crafted to subtly resemble her father, earning him more coin than he'd otherwise have gotten. With every beating she came to resent her father more, and likewise Mithaniel as he was represented in that place.
Taking up the shuttle, her thoughts wandered to things she had overheard from the older women, talking of the sister of the god, Erollisi the Fair. She had ventured to ask her mother about Erollisi once, and been punished for being "indecent". Still, the stories intrigued her, and she felt more and more drawn to the mysterious deity that the women whispered about, but who seemed taboo in her home otherwise.
The wind howled viciously, cold whips seeking out chinks in the wooden walls of the shed. The low roar of the revellers was far away, and suddenly she had a revelation. If THEY would follow Mithaniel, SHE would follow Erollisi! If "proper women" sewed and spun and wove, SHE would follow a warrior's trade. Hard upon the heels of this decision, she knelt and bowed her head, and began praying with intensity and conviction. "I will follow You, Erollisi! What You ask of me, I will do! Help me to serve You! Help me to become a warrior and leave this place behind me!"
Then the world reeled, the shed seeming to shake, the air grew warm and scented with apple blossoms, and a great light blinded the young woman. She threw her hands up, whether in warding or supplication she herself did not know. Out of the heart of that brightness, she heard laughter like silvery bells, and felt the grace of Erollisi soothe her wounds and heal her heart.
When the light died away, she leapt up and soundlessly slipped out the door, headed to the smithy. The cold she ignored as she crunched over the snow, before reaching the stone building that housed the forge. By the faint light of the embers, she raided the cabinets and racks of equipment, taking up the tools of the warrior's trade before escaping into the night to travel southwards, towards the destiny she had been promised.
