Post by Threnn on Jan 8, 2008 9:37:15 GMT -5
The tray was a wedding gift from Anna - a light, sturdy wood native to Ashenvale, lacquered and painted with twisting vines. When Threnn had turned it over and seen the artist's mark, she'd passed it straight to Bricu, afraid of breaking it if she held it too long. He handled fine things as part of his trade - jewels and filigrees, thin golden chains; Threnn didn't have to be so delicate with swords and shields. Threnn knew very little of Kaldorei art, but this was a name she'd heard before. His work didn't come cheap. Anna'd laughed and suggested there'd been a discount involved whose percentage was based on the quality of a kiss.
Six months later, the tray sat before her, laden with the remnants of breakfast. Bricu had been awake at least an hour, commandeering part of the Rose's kitchen before he went out on a job for the Scryers. There was nothing unusual about its contents: two plates and two sets of silverware, a bowl of sugar, a creamer with the inn's golden rose carved on its side, the paint chipped away here and there. The flower-seller must have been by while Bricu was setting up - a sprig of wild steelbloom peeked out over the rim of a glass.
And of course, the tea. Two pots, three cups, just like every day. The bigger pot held their regular Hillsbrad black, the smaller, Threnn's dose of earthroot. She'd poured three cups, just like she always did, and dumped three spoonfuls of sugar into the steaming greenish liquid.
Nothing was different from any other morning.
Only...
The cup of earthroot tea sat to the side on the tray, untouched, barely acknowledged. Most days, Threnn waited until it was just cool enough that it wouldn't burn her mouth, then she'd drink it down in one long swallow. No matter what she put in it - sugar, cream, honey, even once a healthy dose of whiskey - it always tasted foul, like she'd mixed dirt into brackish water. Today she'd poured it and stirred it until the sugar dissolved, then set it aside.
Bricu's eyes had flicked to it once, but they might have been playing five-card draw, for all his expression gave away.
It will probably taste even worse if I wait until it's cold.
All they'd done last night was to reaffirm what they both already knew: someday, they wanted children. But the rest had been an intricate dance of if and do you, its steps filled with more dodging than they'd done since the days when they pretended they weren't falling in love. Neither could say yes, or now, and maybe that was all the answer she needed.
"Tonight, we go home and start tryin'. An' if the mornin' comes an' yeh don't want t'drink the tea, love, then don't."
Her dreams were filled with children and snow. In one, she'd sat before the fireplace, and he'd looked up from rocking a cradle and smiled, and she'd been content. In another, she'd sat before a cold, ash-filled grate in the dusky gloom of a winter day, one hand on her rounded belly. The window blew open, driving snowflakes and cold across his workbench, scattering papers and uncovering his wedding band on a length of black velvet - the eternium cracked and caked with old blood.
She'd woken up shaking from that one.
"War's always comin'."
It was true, and it was a poor excuse. But Northrend... If they tried now, if it even worked, would she be pregnant when the scouting began? Or if she wasn't, and they survived whatever waited up there, what would be her next excuse?
"We don't have t'decide right now."
But there was a cup sitting in front of her, between them. Decision dug from the earth, ground up, boiled and steeped; a choice she made anew every morning. Maybe tomorrow, she'd let the cup go back down to the kitchens, cold and untouched. And maybe the day after, or a week from now, she'd tell Bricu to stop brewing it altogether. Maybe in a month, she'd shake her head when she went into the apothecary's shop, before Morgan Pestle could reach for his jars, and he would smile as she patted her belly and laughed at what might be. But today...
I'm a bloody coward, she thought, and drank it down, turning away so she couldn't see whether relief or disappointment crept into his eyes, or whether he kept his poker face.
She'd been right; earthroot tea tasted worse when it was cold.
Six months later, the tray sat before her, laden with the remnants of breakfast. Bricu had been awake at least an hour, commandeering part of the Rose's kitchen before he went out on a job for the Scryers. There was nothing unusual about its contents: two plates and two sets of silverware, a bowl of sugar, a creamer with the inn's golden rose carved on its side, the paint chipped away here and there. The flower-seller must have been by while Bricu was setting up - a sprig of wild steelbloom peeked out over the rim of a glass.
And of course, the tea. Two pots, three cups, just like every day. The bigger pot held their regular Hillsbrad black, the smaller, Threnn's dose of earthroot. She'd poured three cups, just like she always did, and dumped three spoonfuls of sugar into the steaming greenish liquid.
Nothing was different from any other morning.
Only...
The cup of earthroot tea sat to the side on the tray, untouched, barely acknowledged. Most days, Threnn waited until it was just cool enough that it wouldn't burn her mouth, then she'd drink it down in one long swallow. No matter what she put in it - sugar, cream, honey, even once a healthy dose of whiskey - it always tasted foul, like she'd mixed dirt into brackish water. Today she'd poured it and stirred it until the sugar dissolved, then set it aside.
Bricu's eyes had flicked to it once, but they might have been playing five-card draw, for all his expression gave away.
It will probably taste even worse if I wait until it's cold.
All they'd done last night was to reaffirm what they both already knew: someday, they wanted children. But the rest had been an intricate dance of if and do you, its steps filled with more dodging than they'd done since the days when they pretended they weren't falling in love. Neither could say yes, or now, and maybe that was all the answer she needed.
"Tonight, we go home and start tryin'. An' if the mornin' comes an' yeh don't want t'drink the tea, love, then don't."
Her dreams were filled with children and snow. In one, she'd sat before the fireplace, and he'd looked up from rocking a cradle and smiled, and she'd been content. In another, she'd sat before a cold, ash-filled grate in the dusky gloom of a winter day, one hand on her rounded belly. The window blew open, driving snowflakes and cold across his workbench, scattering papers and uncovering his wedding band on a length of black velvet - the eternium cracked and caked with old blood.
She'd woken up shaking from that one.
"War's always comin'."
It was true, and it was a poor excuse. But Northrend... If they tried now, if it even worked, would she be pregnant when the scouting began? Or if she wasn't, and they survived whatever waited up there, what would be her next excuse?
"We don't have t'decide right now."
But there was a cup sitting in front of her, between them. Decision dug from the earth, ground up, boiled and steeped; a choice she made anew every morning. Maybe tomorrow, she'd let the cup go back down to the kitchens, cold and untouched. And maybe the day after, or a week from now, she'd tell Bricu to stop brewing it altogether. Maybe in a month, she'd shake her head when she went into the apothecary's shop, before Morgan Pestle could reach for his jars, and he would smile as she patted her belly and laughed at what might be. But today...
I'm a bloody coward, she thought, and drank it down, turning away so she couldn't see whether relief or disappointment crept into his eyes, or whether he kept his poker face.
She'd been right; earthroot tea tasted worse when it was cold.