Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away
If her brother wanted a party, a party he would get. Maea didn't care much for it herself, but since it was a task he had set in her hands and she had nothing better to do, she began preparations. Scouting out a suitable location in the Woodlands had come first. Then locating old contacts among the people to begin preparations when it came to food and logistics. Hands to carry, build and tear down once it was all done, with the promise of returned favors and eternal gratitude. Some were surprised to see her, after a dramatic note declaring her dead had been posted on the Temple noticeboard some years ago, but though Maea sensed the questions burning in them, she didn't offer any explanations.
It tore up old wounds she'd thought long healed, to re-establish these connections. To be called 'Valair's girl' again, to answer questions about the farm and her family, to hear their condolences several years too late and not know whether she would ever repay them like she ought, whether she would even be here in a season - it was rough.
There was a distant, vacant look to her by the time she reached the final task of the day. Dragging a hand-pulled cart behind her across the cobbles towards the smith's quarters, she shut out the noise of rattling metal and tried to ignore the unease that bubbled in the gut, a phantom nausea she didn't actually feel that only grew when she reached the goal. Moving around to the back of a particular house, she sought out the workshop and knocked hard on the door, so it would be heard over the clang of iron on steel.
It tore up old wounds she'd thought long healed, to re-establish these connections. To be called 'Valair's girl' again, to answer questions about the farm and her family, to hear their condolences several years too late and not know whether she would ever repay them like she ought, whether she would even be here in a season - it was rough.
There was a distant, vacant look to her by the time she reached the final task of the day. Dragging a hand-pulled cart behind her across the cobbles towards the smith's quarters, she shut out the noise of rattling metal and tried to ignore the unease that bubbled in the gut, a phantom nausea she didn't actually feel that only grew when she reached the goal. Moving around to the back of a particular house, she sought out the workshop and knocked hard on the door, so it would be heard over the clang of iron on steel.
