[Eowyn Skywalker]

Eowyn Skywalker's post


The request jerked her from the bemused and amused state Eostre had let herself sink into. She glanced over at Sythric; he seemed to be vaguely concerned about her, but she didn't have the heart to tell him she preferred being this way. Silence was safer, it didn't scream at you and assume things that didn't always ever make sense. Didn't assume you wanted this or that, or perhaps this and that and that while you were at it.

"I don't have an axe," she responded dutifully, perhaps a bit dully. "I can unpack our horses though, certainly."

They seperated then, Eostre going over to unpack the Bregowarian horses. They weren't overpacked, she noted with relief—though packed heavily enough she felt certain the creatures had to feel a strong sense of relief at being let to breathe again. She stacked the packs silently nearby the logs about the fire, rubbing the horse's backs a moment after relieving them of their burdans.

At Sythric's horse, she paused a moment, digging the spices from the pack before finishing the job. Having pocketed them, she was uncertain who to give them to... Leod, wasn't it? The older man.

Walking over to the larger fire where the deer was to be cooked, she sat down nearby, the spices in hand. Surely whoever required them would ask.

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Nogrod's post


Making the spit it is then, Sythric thought, and took himself to the sparse thicket, searching for suitable young trees. He found a fitting two-yarder quite easily. But getting the vertical ones weren’t as easy. In the end he found two small birches by the side of the river that had thick enough boughs in them.

Sythric hacked them down with his great uncle’s knife “I don’t have an axe”, he remembered Eostre’s words and smiled lightly. Then he sat down on to a large rock by the river and started to peel them. It was then that he realized, how blissful it was to be alone for a moment. Just doing something routine-like, not having to think anything in particular. He watched at the willows by the riverbank, their leaves and branches hissing softly in the wind. He remembered his father, teaching him to make a willow-whistle when he was seven. When have I made a willow-whistle the last time? It must have been the one I made to Winflaed. But how long ago? Must be six years...

It had been a hot, latesummer day. The crickets were chirping and the bees were buzzing, the dragonflies flew over the water searching for pray. The sunlight was gently filtered through the leafs on the trees around the stream. They were sitting by the little stream that ran beside Skara’s minor fields. Just behind the stream’s corner, they could see the little watermill, it’s wheel revolving slowly by the weak current. The main building on the top of the hill was just hidden from view by the few small trees and bushes by the streamside. Those trees also sheltered the people sitting beneath them from the cruelly hot sun of the early afternoon. Waermund and Waerferth were fishing with hook and line their father had made them. It was always a great wonder to Sythric, how young boys could be so taken in with something that they managed to concentrate and focus on it, even for a short while. The little boys watched the float intently, in total silence.

He had given his great uncle’s knife to Winflaed, and she had cut down a nice finger-thick willow for them. Then he had shown her, step by step, how the whistle was made: how the bark was loosened whole by tapping it with the knifehandle, where the airhole should be carved, how deep the mouthpiece should be cut, how it could be decorated etc. The eleven year old girl had watched in awe and wonder how the man had turned a mere greyish stick into an instrument with soft, curvy indentations running by its side. She just had to make one herself! Her little fingers handled her knife skilfully – Sythric had given it to her as a birthday present, when she had turned ten last year. She clearly had some talent with the knife. Only now that talent and skill was clearly directed more to decoration than making the whistle sound. After some toil Winflaed was happy with the result. But as was to be expected, it didn’t work. She bit her lip and fought against the tears.

They had reached a deal in the end. Sythric had made a new whistle, which Winflaed decorated. So as almost everything you could see, was made by her, then that way it was a whistle made by her. So went her reasoning, and Syhtric happily accepted it. She had been very proud of “her first whistle”, playing it for the rest of the summer everywhere – and getting most of the people quite annoyed in the end.

How dear memories! Did I ask Swithulf to take that whistle with him or not? He had preserved Winflaed’s unsounding whistle for himself as a memory of those days. But where was it now? The whistle that was so enthusiastically been carved by those little girl’s hands in times that were so much brighter and happier than the present. Where was that little girl, now a young lady? Running for her life, raped and abused, imprisoned, dead...? Now there was nothing to stop the tears. No one around seeing him cry. He sobbed his heart out there at the riverbank. The knife dropped from his hand and his body trembled with every new burst of tears.

But it was over soon enough. The chill, wintery breeze from the river helped to carry away the memories of golden summerdays. Pull yourself together man! There are pressing things at hand, and you sit here alone, crying like a child. He calmed himself down while peeling the last stick and then rose up. He dried his eyes and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He checked his image from the water. So wary, so old now with grief. Well, this might be your last chance of doing some decent deeds before you’re gone. He walked quietly back to the camp.

Leod had cleaned the deer, and was rubbing the seasoning to it with Eostre as he came to the fireplace. Sythric adjusted the vertical spit-holders to their places, while Leod and Eostre ran the two-yarder through the deer and tied the legs to its body. Then they all three lifted it up to rest on the boughs. The fire was burning brightly. It was only now, by the heat of the fire, that Sythric realized the weather being much colder today than it had been yesterday.