Shadows Bleed

Lirhael's Account

Lirhael's Account

It was one of those days again; Aeriae and father were out training in a small clearing and mother was showing Lirhael how to mend clothing. She claimed doing so limited how often they would have to make new clothes, that re-using and patching up what they already had was more 'efficient'.

Lirhael still hated it. She poked at the leather tunic with a sewing needle. She thought this one to be made from bone. Mother used a steel needle, which was so much better at piercing the leather. But they only had one of those; it was one of the few things from her life before the Purification that still remained.

The Purification; Lirhael was seventy-five years too late to have been present and much "too young" for anyone to give her the specifics. Mother thought about it openly and often enough for all four of them combined, so Lirhael tiredly resumed prodding the tunic in her hands with the little needle, which she remembered was hraelyn bone, until her disinterest, or maybe the frequent sighs of discontent, caught mother's attention.

"Lirhael!" she whispered sternly but softly. "What are you doing?"

"I'm fixing it," Lirhael whined in reply. It was a well-known secret that her list of favourite hobbies did not include sewing. "Like you told me to."

"That's odd," mother said, lifting an eyebrow and leaning closer to inspect Lirhael's shoddy craftsmanship. "I don't recall there being that many holes in the sleeve when I gave it to you."

She grimaced. Mother was right. Lirhael had unknowingly punctured the sleeve in the wrong place. More than once. It didn't help matters that this was father's favourite tunic. She had to think fast.

"I wanted to try something new," she said slowly. "The holes should help the fabric breathe better."

"Nice try honey," mother replied with a chuckle. "I think your father liked it just the way it was."

It was hard to fault mother; even when she was furious she never openly expressed it. You could always tell by her tone. The softer she spoke the more she was reigning in the frustration. Thankfully, for Lirhael, her tone was audible enough to betray slight irritation with mixed amusement.

"I'm sorry," she hung her head. "I didn't mean to."

"I know you didn't dear," mother said, reaching over and tucking a stray hair behind Lirhael's ear alongside a reassuring smile. "Here, it's not a problem. I can fix it in no time."

"Really?" Lirhael mumbled, lifting her head. Her fingers nervously plucked at the blackened roots, struggling for life in the scorched earth, by her folded legs.

"Of course dear!" she smiled widely. "I taught Messer Ban Jacques' father the art of tailoring. This will be easier than making your sister scowl."

Lirhael chuckled. At eleven years old, Aeriae was three years her senior and, along with her sardonic attitude, could almost always be seen scowling. Lirhael attributed this to her being privy to knowledge and experiences that came with being an age Lirhael was yet to reach.

Lirhael's gaze shifted to mother as her hands worked with professional delicacy and speed. Her fingers weaved the needle and thread in and around the torn seams and additional holes Lirhael had worked so hard to create with lightning precision. Inside of a few minutes, she had finished a task that would have taken Lirhael somewhere in the vicinity of an hour.

"All done," she said, handing it back to Lirhael, the smile having never broken from her face throughout the entire exercise. "Go show your father."

Lirhael nodded and, taking the tunic in her little hands, stood up and walked out of their camp. She clambered up and over the rise in the small crater to where father and Aeriae were sparring. She wasn't truly worried about facing father, for she knew he would understand her mistake. Still, with the pressing anxieties of youth confronting her, she set her face in a tight grimace and mentally resolved to face whatever punishment she might receive.