Post by Rowenna on Jun 10, 2009 19:34:19 GMT -5
Strings. When you think of a tapestry, it is easy to forget they are all made of only strings. Each their own, fine threads, its own color and pattern, each one formed by infinitesimally finer threads. Threading two or more together, and the pattern emerges—a shirt, or a tapestry, or a picture, faces, flowers, deer, all formed by millions of smaller patterns, a happenstance upon a happenstance upon a happenstance, moment upon moment folding together. Each, its own timeline, its own stretch; when one threads upon the other, the image changes—not lost, but changed. Every one next to it, beside it, above it, forever altered by association, if not the color of the thing itself.
Step back.
Look.
The image is just a picture now. A tapestry. A sleeve.
Her hands darned cloth.
“How long has he been gone for?”
Rowen lifted her eyes from her meticulous hands that angled and worked over a one-year-old’s sleeve; the child’s doll-like legs dangled over the cliff of the kitchen table, examining blue eyes starting off at something—his hair was tousled, like his mothers, and light played on the fibers of hair like cardinal feathers.
Byron sat across from Rowen. He was there, watching her, looking closely, hushed and pensive, the calm against the storm. Her narrow eyes saw him for a moment, and a damaged string pulled out entirely from the boy’s broken sleeve; her eyes fell again.
“Two weeks,” she replied, her voice liken to the edge of a blade; she focused on the stitching whilst he focused on catching her eyes.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Mothers’ children die everyday,” she didn’t look up, she didn’t break the sequence of her fingers, nor the air behind her tone. “It’s a fact of life.”
Byron c*cked his head.
“One, no,” he countered evenly; her hands lost their rhythm for a beat as he went on, “Two, that wasn’t what I was talking about. Lerris is out there, traveling halfway across the country to find a man without the first clue. Your husband is gone more than he’s home.”
“The man killed our son,” her voice, ever impatient, almost defensive, if only rationalizing, her hands found their rhythm even if her eyes didn’t see the work, pupils narrowing against her brow, her scope of vision didn’t catch anyone.
“And you’re okay with this?”
“My husband can gallivant the world if he wants to; it’s not my concern.”
A silence fell between them; Byron, resting his arm on the table, brimmed with advice he didn’t feel fit to give. And, finally
“I think you’re doing that wrong,” he gestured at the child’s arm. She rolled her head up and looked at him ironically, he raised his hands in surrender. He lost her eyes nearly as soon as he gained them. “Where are you staying tonight?”
“Talia and Ty are having us over for dinner.” She threaded her pieces; her eyes eased on Byron. “Why? Are you concerned about the idea of me being alone?” Byron sat silent. She laughed without sound as she looked to her hands, meticulous, working this, working that. “I’ve been alone before. After I left my uncle, before I met you. I’ve been there before, I can do it again. Don’t concern yourself with me.”
A silence filled the room; Byron was aching to comment, to say, but couldn’t weigh that it was worth the argument the agitation—the things that would have been said that couldn’t have been taken back, the despondency so easily incurred.
“You’re done,” Rowen smiled up to her son and tapped him on the nose.
“I want to show Samuel how to hunt rabbits while it’s still light out,” Byron said.
“So you can tear up more of his clothes?” she didn’t miss a beat, she looked at him evenly. He smiled halfheartedly, and she watched him as, without a word, he rose from his chair and took Samuel by the waist, holding him sideways against his hip. In that moment, something shifted; something opened up in Rowen’s eyes, some depth, some unknown reach, some argentine silver like the shades rose and the camouflage fell away—“Thank you,” she said.
He nodded. And, when she was alone, she outstretched her leg and held her face in her hand; her fingers covered her mouth, her fingers supported her face—her eyes were lost at sea. She pondered alone; her eyes stared away.
At night. Rowen lay on her bed, elongate body relaxed as she looked over at her small son, asleep beside. Her eyes searched his face, his finger in his mouth and every muscle on his face relaxed; he was nestled ever so softly, like a jay’s egg against the nest, and she only rested on top of the covers to see him. She didn’t know how long she watched him; it could have been forever.
Thunderclap. Rowen was leaned on her side on the kitchen counter, searching the darkness of the room. In the back of her consciousness, she thought about getting a light.
Rumble. The candles hovered like light bugs flashing for their mates. Seated, Rowen fidgeted with the worn stack of papers in her hands.
“The trees of Mirkwood always provided cover for one while traveling its dark roads,” her fingers pressed to straighten the page that she read, it crinkled in her hands, she fidgeted, “but this time a lone elf stuck out among the trees, not looking for cover from his enemy, but simply walking.”
Step back.
Look.
The image is just a picture now. A tapestry. A sleeve.
Her hands darned cloth.
“How long has he been gone for?”
Rowen lifted her eyes from her meticulous hands that angled and worked over a one-year-old’s sleeve; the child’s doll-like legs dangled over the cliff of the kitchen table, examining blue eyes starting off at something—his hair was tousled, like his mothers, and light played on the fibers of hair like cardinal feathers.
Byron sat across from Rowen. He was there, watching her, looking closely, hushed and pensive, the calm against the storm. Her narrow eyes saw him for a moment, and a damaged string pulled out entirely from the boy’s broken sleeve; her eyes fell again.
“Two weeks,” she replied, her voice liken to the edge of a blade; she focused on the stitching whilst he focused on catching her eyes.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Mothers’ children die everyday,” she didn’t look up, she didn’t break the sequence of her fingers, nor the air behind her tone. “It’s a fact of life.”
Byron c*cked his head.
“One, no,” he countered evenly; her hands lost their rhythm for a beat as he went on, “Two, that wasn’t what I was talking about. Lerris is out there, traveling halfway across the country to find a man without the first clue. Your husband is gone more than he’s home.”
“The man killed our son,” her voice, ever impatient, almost defensive, if only rationalizing, her hands found their rhythm even if her eyes didn’t see the work, pupils narrowing against her brow, her scope of vision didn’t catch anyone.
“And you’re okay with this?”
“My husband can gallivant the world if he wants to; it’s not my concern.”
A silence fell between them; Byron, resting his arm on the table, brimmed with advice he didn’t feel fit to give. And, finally
“I think you’re doing that wrong,” he gestured at the child’s arm. She rolled her head up and looked at him ironically, he raised his hands in surrender. He lost her eyes nearly as soon as he gained them. “Where are you staying tonight?”
“Talia and Ty are having us over for dinner.” She threaded her pieces; her eyes eased on Byron. “Why? Are you concerned about the idea of me being alone?” Byron sat silent. She laughed without sound as she looked to her hands, meticulous, working this, working that. “I’ve been alone before. After I left my uncle, before I met you. I’ve been there before, I can do it again. Don’t concern yourself with me.”
A silence filled the room; Byron was aching to comment, to say, but couldn’t weigh that it was worth the argument the agitation—the things that would have been said that couldn’t have been taken back, the despondency so easily incurred.
“You’re done,” Rowen smiled up to her son and tapped him on the nose.
“I want to show Samuel how to hunt rabbits while it’s still light out,” Byron said.
“So you can tear up more of his clothes?” she didn’t miss a beat, she looked at him evenly. He smiled halfheartedly, and she watched him as, without a word, he rose from his chair and took Samuel by the waist, holding him sideways against his hip. In that moment, something shifted; something opened up in Rowen’s eyes, some depth, some unknown reach, some argentine silver like the shades rose and the camouflage fell away—“Thank you,” she said.
He nodded. And, when she was alone, she outstretched her leg and held her face in her hand; her fingers covered her mouth, her fingers supported her face—her eyes were lost at sea. She pondered alone; her eyes stared away.
At night. Rowen lay on her bed, elongate body relaxed as she looked over at her small son, asleep beside. Her eyes searched his face, his finger in his mouth and every muscle on his face relaxed; he was nestled ever so softly, like a jay’s egg against the nest, and she only rested on top of the covers to see him. She didn’t know how long she watched him; it could have been forever.
Thunderclap. Rowen was leaned on her side on the kitchen counter, searching the darkness of the room. In the back of her consciousness, she thought about getting a light.
Rumble. The candles hovered like light bugs flashing for their mates. Seated, Rowen fidgeted with the worn stack of papers in her hands.
“The trees of Mirkwood always provided cover for one while traveling its dark roads,” her fingers pressed to straighten the page that she read, it crinkled in her hands, she fidgeted, “but this time a lone elf stuck out among the trees, not looking for cover from his enemy, but simply walking.”
