fhamersley
Lord of Altera
[The character profile for Aileas Snowthaw can be found here. Please post comments there. Any posts here will be deleted.]
Aodh
I glance down at the young Caparii trailing behind me. Her gangly little legs can barely move fast enough to keep up with her curious hands. As I watch, she stumbles and lands face first in a clump of spring bells, a white flower with a perfume stronger than bear sweat. I pause, concerned, until my daughter lifts her head from the clump of flowers with a silly grin on her face. She doesn’t stop sneezing for the rest of the trip, and I swear she still smells like flowers.
I take her hand and pull her to her feet and we trek onwards through the Season of Birth fields. We pass more clumps of spring bells as we go, as well as gooseberry and hawthorn bushes, tall wheatringer stems, buttercups, all manner of daisies, and dampstem lilies, which constantly drip sweet nectar over their leaves. We stop at a mature dampstem and run our hands over the wet petals and leaves, licking our sticky fingers clean. Huge flowering rhododendrons show off their bright pink flowers, fighting for attention with camellias and laia roses. Every now and then we pass an oak, limbs stretching and twisting as though they are tired of their burden of holding the sky. I’m forced to remember Oakley.
Aileas flutters around each flowering bush like a butterfly, collecting all different manners of blooms. She trots back to me happily, burdened by so many beautiful flowers that she staggers under the weight. She refuses to put them down though, and a flash of pride burns through me at that sure sign of her Greathorn blood. Some call it stubbornness; I call it strength.
When she reaches me I kneel down to her height and smile. I can barely see her eyes over the bunch of flowers. “Are these fer me?” I ask.
“Naw, da,” Aileas says, shaking her head. “They’re fer maw. This’n is fer ye.” She gently lays the flowers on the ground and drops an oak’s acorn into my hand.
My smile hesitates and I clench my fist around the acorn. “Lissy, maw isnae cummin’ back.”
Aileas looks up at me with those bright green eyes and shakes her head again. She goes to collect her pile of flowers but I grip her wrists and pull her away. She struggles and kicks but she doesn’t say a word. Finally, I hoist her up and carry her.
“Aileas,” I say gruffly, “ye have tae leave maw behind.”
She speaks quietly. “Why? Have ye?”
“Aye.” The rough edge of the oak acorn digs into the palm of my hand. I’m a liar.
Aodh
I glance down at the young Caparii trailing behind me. Her gangly little legs can barely move fast enough to keep up with her curious hands. As I watch, she stumbles and lands face first in a clump of spring bells, a white flower with a perfume stronger than bear sweat. I pause, concerned, until my daughter lifts her head from the clump of flowers with a silly grin on her face. She doesn’t stop sneezing for the rest of the trip, and I swear she still smells like flowers.
I take her hand and pull her to her feet and we trek onwards through the Season of Birth fields. We pass more clumps of spring bells as we go, as well as gooseberry and hawthorn bushes, tall wheatringer stems, buttercups, all manner of daisies, and dampstem lilies, which constantly drip sweet nectar over their leaves. We stop at a mature dampstem and run our hands over the wet petals and leaves, licking our sticky fingers clean. Huge flowering rhododendrons show off their bright pink flowers, fighting for attention with camellias and laia roses. Every now and then we pass an oak, limbs stretching and twisting as though they are tired of their burden of holding the sky. I’m forced to remember Oakley.
Aileas flutters around each flowering bush like a butterfly, collecting all different manners of blooms. She trots back to me happily, burdened by so many beautiful flowers that she staggers under the weight. She refuses to put them down though, and a flash of pride burns through me at that sure sign of her Greathorn blood. Some call it stubbornness; I call it strength.
When she reaches me I kneel down to her height and smile. I can barely see her eyes over the bunch of flowers. “Are these fer me?” I ask.
“Naw, da,” Aileas says, shaking her head. “They’re fer maw. This’n is fer ye.” She gently lays the flowers on the ground and drops an oak’s acorn into my hand.
My smile hesitates and I clench my fist around the acorn. “Lissy, maw isnae cummin’ back.”
Aileas looks up at me with those bright green eyes and shakes her head again. She goes to collect her pile of flowers but I grip her wrists and pull her away. She struggles and kicks but she doesn’t say a word. Finally, I hoist her up and carry her.
“Aileas,” I say gruffly, “ye have tae leave maw behind.”
She speaks quietly. “Why? Have ye?”
“Aye.” The rough edge of the oak acorn digs into the palm of my hand. I’m a liar.