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bifacialler · 7 years ago

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jesus Ler posted a fic-something somebody call the police

So it’s been 9 months - I looked it up, that’s how long it has been - when @jupiter235 left me a prompt that was... “royal/peasant AU”, I think?

And so I immediately had this idea, which was that stupid cliche fantasy stuff we all love to hate and hate to love, and also in some smaller part of my brain I remember some fine humorous Russian fantasy I grew up with.

Then, I listened to some good old Russian fold rock - followed by the ethnic explosion in my brain, and the concept of THIS was born.

And so “The Forge-Sister and the Silver Heart” was born, which sturdily became technically less about Bog and Marianne Mar’yanna, and more about... women? Mothers, daughters, lovers. Witches, born and becoming. Fate, calling, and destiny. Love, in variations. I’m personally a big fan of Plum in this, like she is half of the reason this piece is becoming what it is.

Be warned: this is a) like a prologue since Bog is not even a part of the story (yet, depends, I kinda want to see how this launches off), and b) it’s different from my usual writing style? Like I’m using actual badly formed sentences, and like descriptions, to set the mood and stuff, and not suffering a sever case of post-poetic verbal constipation. You should be all proud of my attempts. I’m growing as a writer.

Please let me know what you think (I’m not posting it on AO3 just yet, let’s see how it goes).

The First Song: On rising winds

The fire kindled quietly in the small iron stove. The dancing orange glow behind the ornate iron grate send long and dusky shadows to run over the walls, painted with colourful pictures of exotic birds, the carved filigree of the windowsill in flowers and vines, bouquets of dried herbs adorning the curved ceiling in lavish garlands, and the Gypsy, a shawl of green and blue, tall hair in hues and curls, tied with a glimmering scarf, her skirt swapping the floor. She stepped as if in a dance, cast bracelets ringing when she wrapped herself tighter, a glance of mock fury thrown over her shoulder, and the children, brown bear fur coats up to the red frosty buttons of their noses, dropped snow in melting blobs on the clean wooden floor before the closed door and shuffled on their feet.

They were not scared - fine, maybe a bit - and she was not angry. See, it was a game, the one they played quite often. The gypsy would turn, in a dewdrop patter of coins on her clothes, and pull her painted bright lips into a thin line, hands hard and demanding on her hips, everything about her a-clatter.

«What do you want?» she would ask, their barbaric language becoming poetry in her mouth, knowing full well the answer, and the children would mutter between themselves, until the smallest, with red knitted fur-trimmed gloves and golden messy curls falling over her face, would step forward, flap eyelashes over her huge green eyes and a smile with a single missing front tooth.

«A stowy, Pl’uma!»

And the others would nod and call in agreement. «Yes, Pl’uma, tell us a story!»

«Fine!» Pluma the Gypsy would smirk at a way their tongues struggled with her foreign name, raising a finger to her lips, and tapping pensively. «But what do you have for me in return?»

This part changed: sometimes there were coins, small coppers found or received for sweets, or honeyed nuts, or, sometimes, a doll, dry straw and colourful yarn and shiny black button eyes, and in autumn, there were apples, red like a maiden’s blush and sweet like her kisses. New songs, fresh gossip, little secrets from these little people. They brought her flower crowns in spring, and handfuls of berries in summer, but as time would have it, the cold swept the land, smell of winter cutting sharply into lungs with a gust of frost through the mountain pass and the price had to be payed, because nothing was free. They should have known, they should have started to learn, even at their age, that nothing was free.

Her hand stretched forward expectantly.

«Well, off with it.»

The small girl looked back, her friends nudging forward, and signed in an unabridged dismay, tugging on her coat, under the thick scarf with dripping tassels, and pulling out a small ball of white fur and life that crooned softly, disturbed from his sleep.

«We found it in a bawn,» she said and passed it, a tiny creature with wide scared dark eyes, to be placed onto a surface of flat open palms with long dark painted claw-nails. «Mama is not letting me keep it.»

A small nose sniffed, a wet mitten swiped over puffed cheeks. Other petted between a pair of perky white ears. The girl’s sigh was nothing but wistful.

Pluma pondered, while the cat-creature’s pink nose poked against her thumb and a scrawny head, barely a few weeks old, the last batch of autumn, perhaps, looked around with curiosity, inherent to his kind. It would not have survived a winter, not alone, but there were things that had to be said. The beast opened its maw and let out a loud hungry call.

Pluma nodded. «I accept this trade. A cat will do this house good.»

She glanced around her wagon, before going to the cupboard above the stove. Cat placed on her shoulder, she retrieved a wooden bowl and filled it with thick white liquid. «But this is a serious gift, children.» Her look was pointed and sharp, even as she set her new pet on the floor together with the bowl, softly touching its short ruffled fur. «A gift of life is not the one to be given lightly.»

The children, all five of them, all different ages and faces and families, the baker twins, the innkeeper’s son, and, of course, the Elderman’s youngest, huddled like sparrows at her door in a mess of grey and brown and wool. Just children.

The kitten drank loudly, in large hungry gulps. «I think I have a story I can tell you,» Pluma stood up and motioned towards the bench before the stove, before busying herself with the pot starting to boil over. They didn’t wait - coats pulled off and tossed on the floor, legs untangled from heavy boots, they rushed to the seat, climbing on with their feet, few leaning on the table.

«Is it about a pwince?» The young one hopped excitedly, and Nad’ya, the farmer’s girl, large and soft-spoken, tried to make her sit still, like a frustrated mother, redoing her messy braids. «I want one with a pwince in it.»

«Oh, it has a prince alright,» the gypsy hummed, pulling out sugared dry-breads and jug of freshly brewed herbal tea. «But more importantly, this is a story about giving a life.» Nails scratched against wood. “And taking one.”

The cat, satiated, warm and more comfortable, parted from his food, rubbing itself against her boot.

The fire crinkled, shooting sparks, and the wind started to howl outside, slowly rising. Tea steaming from crude clay mugs - sage and thyme and just a bit of fire root against the colds of coming days - she settled on the stool, lighting the stick of essence behind her back, filling the room with memories of faraway lands she remembered as if she had been there the day before.

«Once upon a time, away from the borders of our Svetovir, beyond the sea in a Kingdom of Storms lived a King and a Queen. The King was tall and proud,” she sat up, chin raised high, her voice dropping, and the children sniggered. “With a strong jaw and wide shoulders, and the eyes of brightest sky-blue. He ruled his land from the Eye of Storms, a tall tower-like fortress on the edge of the ever-tempest seas, and his rule was harsh yet just, and he was equally feared and respected. The King loved his people, but even more than that, the King-” and she paused, picking up the cat and setting it on her lap. “The King loved his Queen.”

“Was she pretty?” That was Elza, the less bearable one of the ginger duplets, face in a polka dot pattern of freckles that danced cheekily whenever she grinned and she grinned a lot. “The Queen usually is pretty. Or kind. Except in our country.”

The gypsy’s fluttering hands stopped.

“Well, someone has been listening to conversations that there were not old enough for,” the girl bowed her head, freckled face going aflame, but Pluma just smiled. “Don’t know if she was pretty, and I can’t quite call her kind. But they said that the Queen was like the thunderstorm itself, her hair glowing like a fire catching a branch after a lightning had struck it, and in her was the warmth of a fireplace and a joy of battle. She was the home where the King was the country. And most importantly, the Queen loved her King.”

She took a sip, and listened to the wind. It hummed in low baritone, gently starting to rock her humble abode, much alike last year, and the year before that, but this time, there was something in its song, a worried note that she couldn’t quite put a finger on. If Pluma could tell any better, it sounded slightly… distressed, if a wind could.

“They lived in peace and harmony, as much of harmony and peace the people of the Storm could have, for their nation is one of vigor and glory, joyous bubbling chaos and united community, but the years went on, and sadness creeped into the tall walls of the Storm’s capital. For as much as the King and the Queen loved each other, they couldn’t have a child.”

“They should have buried a coin,” Kaleb grunted, and the rest picked up approvingly.

The cup made it halfway to the gypsy’s lips before going back down. “Excuse me?”

“Everyone knows that if you want a child, you have to bury a coin in the cabbage patch. In return you get a baby,” Nad’ya, tying a bow in wavy blond curls, examining it, undid it into two dangling ribbons, her thick fingers dancing with easy practiced grace.

“Aren’t you well educated, children,” snigger stuffed into her cup. “Your parents told you that?”

“Our parents buried two,” Elza nudged her brother with her elbow, with an evil kind of smirk only children were capable of. “His was rusted.” Pyotr, bird-boned, white-skinned, rubbed his arm with a frown.

“This is fascinating, but on to the story.” Back straight, cat purring on her lap as it pawed the string of beads, Pluma turned her head so that her profile would glow in the light of the stove and throw a shadow on the wall above them. “The King and the Queen prayed for a child, to their God and ones beyond, but no one answered. They called to all the healers and whisperers, but none could give them a solution. And then, one day, a ship arrived in the capital’s harbor, carrying traders and their goods, just like it does in our land, except that on that ship arrived an old man with skin as dark as coal, his hair gray like ash. He came to the King and said:

“I know of your troubles and I give you solution. Take a ship and go south-west, straight to the edge of the earth. There you will find a land unlike yours, verdant and full of life, yet hot like the sun itself. Walk it like a common man would, till you sweat nine sweats and wear off nine pairs of boots, and then you will find the one, who sings the birdsongs and wears the feathers, who can brew love into a potion, who knows the secrets of life and can cheat death itself-”

Mouth agape, crumbs sticking to her face and in her golden hair, Sophia gasped. “A biwd-witch!” The others hushed at her like she just cursed.

“Father said there are no such things as bird-witches,” sitting straight and proper, Nad’ya curled her hands around the cup. “They are made to scare children into doing their chores.” She rolled her eyes at such ‘childish’ idea. “Do your housework or the bird-witch will come at night and steal you away.”

Little rose lips plumped, the smallest girl huffed. “Na-ah! Bwother said he saw a biwd-witch once. She was an old hag with a cwooked nose and wotten teeth and-”

Elbow perched on her crossed knees, Pluma rubbed her temples with a cringe. “Yes, whatever would we do without Rolànd and his sure mastery of all things. Now, do you want to listen to the story or not?”

A choir of little voices rose in agreement. Still flustered, yet appeased by another sugared bread, the girl tugged down her skirt - and not just a skirt, but a little masterpiece with red flowers in red wool blooming along the dirty rim, surrounded by green leaves and even a few colored glass beads, not unheard off in Prval, but not common either - something a few would actually wear in their day to day life. Like the Elderman’s favorite little girl, for example. Or Pluma herself.

“But you were right. The old man talked about a bird-witch from a far away land, and the very next day the King kissed his Lady Queen goodbye and set away to find her, with a fleet of his finest ships, their bellies full of greatest treasures. He travelled for months and month, through storms that sunk ships and still waters that drove men mad. And only when he barely had any hope left, the land appeared before him, with tall sand walls of cities, temple pyramid roofs rising over them, and further, where dry earth turned into a deep forest, above which mountains tore the sky with their white fang-peaks...”

The wagon filled with eerie silence, interrupted with quiet munching, crackling fire and the old boards of the wagon creaking. The cat purred, gnawing her fingers, and further into the depth of her home, colorful curtains fell over her pillow-covered bed in a feeble attempt at seaming comfort. They sat, unmoving, mystified, with that glimmer in their eyes that one day may have grown into something that would have set them on a road away from this town on a road through a mountain pass. There are men and women who did this every year, young people who thought that there was more to life than stories Pluma told them. Oh, the parents should have run her off from this spot years ago -

- and she would have left, but all the places started to be the same a long time ago, they were the same and not home, they were the same and different, not where she wanted to be, not where she belonged.

Pluma swallowed as her mouth ran dry.

“It was glorious, children. Blindingly bright, loud with music and voices, it was a land of scholars and tradesmen, of rulers and reverent beggars. But all of that didn’t matter to the King. He searched the land - dressed in black and leather, as it was the custom of his people, sweating the nine sweats and wearing off nine pairs of fine high boots - up the mountains and down the valleys, along rivers and in the deepest of forests. Slowly, his people left him, taken by disease and vices, and all his treasures disappeared, exchanged for goods and favours, but he found her. A handful of men by his side, he found her…”

Trembling feet tucked under the stool, she breathed, and fingers flying to her aching chest.

“The air was hot and arid, in spice and cinder, oils, cedar and saffron seed, and the sun was a fiery lover, filling the wings with shine as they flirted with the winds. Her clothes were silks, and trinkets were gold, her winds, long and colorful, handing down back, and hundreds of flowers adorned her home as she herself was adorned, loved and cherished. The daughters of the richest men came to her doorstep and asked for beauty and love, for health and long life, and paid with jewels and cloth and exotic foods. He too came to her, tall and proud and hopeful, and asked her to make a life where there was none. He told her of a love and of a country and of a family, and she listened. And when he was done, she said that he was asking for something that she was not able to give.

‘How?’ said the King, his proud wide shoulders falling. ‘I travelled across the seas and sweated nine sweats and wore off nine pairs of boots but you turn me away?!’

The bird-witch in blues and emeralds and sparkling pinks just shook her head. ‘If you asked for health, I would have given you elixirs. If you asked for strength, my answer would have been a brew. But you ask for a new life to be created, and for a life to be given one has to be taken. This is not the magic of my kind.’

“But I was told!.. shouted the King stomping his foot,” - Pluma’s fist hit the table and the cups clattered. “I was promised!”

“Well, not by me! The bird-witch was having none of it. So fool on you!”

“So the old man lied to him?” Pyotr’s delicate hands drummed on the shawl covering the table. “But shouldn’t the King have figured it out? You said he was smart.”

“My dear child,” Pluma’s tone, turning soft with a kindness that came from pain too personal for them to understand. “The King was smart. He was wiser than most, and kinder than some, and he was righteous in his own right. But this world is made of powers beyond us, powers we can’t control. And to some those powers do good, and to other they do bad.” She glided her hands over the cloth, straightening an invisible wrinkle. “Do you know, children, what is the greatest power of them all? I already gave you the-”

“It’s love, isn’t it?” Nadya’s stern gaze was directed to the window, but she clearly addressed herself towards the gypsy. “It’s always love in these sort of stories. Love conquers all.”

Nadya’s, the farmer’s daugher from the home unfull, always had plump red cheeks and a stern voice, too… tired for her age. “It doesn’t, though. Right?”

“Love conquers some. And some,” Pluma bowed her head, and the smell of sandalwood filled her nostril. “Some, it ruins.”

“And what ruined the King is that he loved so very deeply. So what he did next, he did out of a great fear, that his heart and the heart of his Queen would never be complete. And so he left, in the day, but came back in the night, with the ropes and the gags, and he bound her all up, and he gazed upon the bird-witch and said: You are lying to me. You can bottle love and you can return youth, you can give strength to the feeble and make any girl more beautiful than the next. You say a life should be given for a life to be made? Well, how about I give you yours.”

The wagon rocked with a sudden strong gust of the wind. The wooden walls, curving in an arch above her head creaked, and the children squeezed from the sudden movement, mimicked by something awaked under another shawl in the back of the wagon. A couple of confused little tweets - and it went silent again.

The gypsy stood up to check upon it, and then returned, patting the walls on her way. “Don’t worry, this old thing can stand through a dozen more winters harsher than this.”

“Pl’uma, what did the King do?”

Heart heavy, she sighed. “The King stole her away. He stole her away, her feathers ripped off her back so she won’t escape, using her own belongings to pay his way. He traveled with her back to the sea, and whenever he went the birds stopped singing and the flowers dropped their bloom. He bought himself a ship with the jewels the Sultans of White Mountains once threw at her feet for a single smile. And with a sail raised, the King set himself back to the high cliffs of his home.”

“Sail ripped and tattered, and the King himself battered, he returned home, where storms themselves turned against him. He kneeled before his Queen, and weeped. Bird-witch locked away in chains down below, he weeped: I have failed you, my love. She will not give us what we seek-”

“Maybe he should not have taken her away from her home, if he wanted for her be nice.” Piotr noted, carefully examining the bottom of his mug.

“Oh, this is where it gets interesting, children. For while the Queen brought the King to her heart, drowning his sorrow, the bird-witch, a child of skies and magic, heart-sister, who could make women beautiful and men young, who sang heart-songs of that made love bloom, scrathed her claws against the walls of her prison, and tugged the remaining feathers off her back-”

- in her mouth they went, feather and nail and bone, and blood and pain, and the foreign skies frowned and weeped at her song, and ripped at themselves in thunder and lightning as she ripped at her bare skin -

“- and cursed him, the King, and all his kin, and sang the rights that were not hers to sing but she sang them anyway, that deep went her hate and fury, such foreign feelings for someone once bathed only in adoration.

“A life for a life, she wailed, a Princeling for a King. For where one life will begin the other will end. For every strenght - a weakness, for every truth - a lie. And love itself - just loss. Loss and heartache.”

Sophia meeped, tucking herself under Nad’ya arm. “Bird-witches are scawy.”

“Oh, child. Bird-witches are daughters of Earth and Sky, their craft as old as the time itself. But they are also, most importantly, women. And there is nothing more dangerous as a woman scorned.”

“So like our mom,” Elza chewed, and swallowed, whipping her mouth with the back of her hand. “She has this look when Papa comes from the market a bit… you know…” She leaned forward, as if sharing a secret. “Drunk.”

“So she did give them a child, just as the King wanted? And he let her go?”

“She did, telling him just that, and well, the King, regretful, brought her back her feathers, but she didn’t leave. The bird-witch stayed right there, in her dungeon, waiting: through summer winds that carried the scent of wild-flowers, and their brothers, the autumn ones, cold and fresh, to the very snow of winter, in the midst of which, in the darkest of night, rose a Great Wind, the likes of which was never seen even in the Kingdom of Storms. It rolled clouds into cyclones, roared with thunder, and flashed with lightning, and in the witching hour, just before the walls of the castle erupted with the voice of a new heir, one of the tongues struck the Grand Tower, setting it on fire. It burned so bright, it turned the sky aflame. That very fire took the life of the proud King of Storms. And left the Queen with a child, that turned quieter by the minute. Because if the King’s heart was his strongest, for the Princeling’s small heart was his weakest.”

“So the Queen, proud as she was, fire-hair falling down her back, went to the witch, and begged her-”

Blood down her gown, sweat still to her brow, babe to her chest - ‘A life for a life, and this one’s life is not yours to take.’

‘This life was not yours to have from the start, Storm-sister. This is not our fate. ’

‘A life for a life and my child has done nothing to you! But you took from me, so give back. Know your prices, Heart-sister.’

“-and the Bird-witch gave up. Of her neck, she took a small silver bell, that ran like dewdrops falling on the edge of a sword, like tears on the strings of a lute, a gift from the lover long gone, and pulled it over the Princes’ head. And just as she did, ringing it, the child started to cry, and the small hairs of raven wing on his head turned stark silvery white.

‘From now on, this is your son’s heart,’ said the Bird-witch to the Queen. ‘And as long as he lives, it must be with him. Keep a good eye on him. For if he loses it, there would be nothing you could do.’

“And then the Bird-witch, her curse fulfilled, wrapped herself into her wings, turned into the Great bird of Heaven, and flew out of the window. The Queen never saw her again.”

Stretching her back, the Gypsy, let out a moan. “And that’s the end of the story, children, and about what one asks for, and the prices one must pay.”

They stared.

“But the Pwince, what about the Pwince?!”

“Well, I have a few ideas, but they are for some other time, and some other story-”

Something slammed against the door, followed by a row of hard knocks.

“Pl’uma! Open up!” The voice belonged to a woman, and ran as loud as the wind, or maybe even louder, a hammer of a hand unstoppable in its insistent knocking. “I really hope all those kids you have there are in one piece and preferably not in a cooked state!”

Their distress forgotten, the mentioned children giggled as Pluma turned their way with a mock gasp. “Oh no, children, the evil blacksmith has come to take you away! Run, children, quickly, before she gets you and makes you work at her forge! Run!”

Rolling out to the door, cat petted on the way out, they dressed, quickly and messily, Elza waving her hands around like ‘the Bird-Witch’, and Sophia tugged on Pluma’s colorful skirt.

“Can I come and play with the kitty tomowow?” she asked, scarf askew, her coat closed on all the wrong buttons, which they immediately rectified together.

“Yes, of course, dear, if the weather’s good.” The gypsy tapped the button of her nose, and the child laughed. “Now quickly, get dressed, your momma will be worried if you don’t get home before the storm hits.”

The door opened and they poured out, loud and fast, and a person calling them pushed herself flush against the side of the gypsy’s home.

“Come on, quickly,” a woman, short and sturdy - no, a girl, her age betrayed by the still soft oval of her face, yet already touched by the prices one must pay - clapped her hands, as the children hurried scurried pass her - except for the Soph, of course, who stopped by her side and did a little curtsy.

“Thank you, Tet’a Maw’yanna.” She paused, her lips pursed, and then smacked her own forehead. “Daddy weally likes the swowd you made him.”

“Well, I hope he does. He paid good money for it.” The blacksmith raised her hand out of the large gorge of a pocket, huge in comparison to her narrow and long palm and fingers, in stars of red and white burn scars, and slowly, with hesitation, descended it upon the child’s head, patting it, first uncertainly, but then with almost wistful warmth as golden curls tangled under her touch. “Run along to your mother, little bird.”

The girl started after her friends south, where the outskirt road pulled into the main one, better, and a small hike to the gates of the Prval - the Golden tooth of the Svetovir mountain range, the one and only way to the North Kingdoms for miles to go, and it could have been a major trade hub. Could have, if not for the Storm.

The wind played with the stray hairs, sticking out of the blacksmith’s messy obruch - not a young girl’s hairstyle, even by a long shot, but at least she did that. At least she didn’t cut her hair at all.

Head still turned in the children’s wake, the craftswoman hummed. “She will grow up… so pretty.”

“Ain’t everyone in that family just that?”

“Pluma, don’t.”

“I heard the strangest thing, Mar’yanna.”

“Don’t,” the blacksmith snapped her head and cringed with a heavy stare. Six years, and it only got better - her winded lip twisting with a sharp angle exposing gritted teeth, and the smash of raw emotion cutting through her yellow eyes that still made the gypsy catch her breath. What gifts this girl had, some gave up everything for less. If only that what was given was taken - then even Pluma herself would have thought twice to poke at her. But the blacksmith was as stubborn as she was talented, and the gypsy, well, she had a habit of been bored a lot.

“Apparently children think they were found in the cabbage, Mar’yanna. Did your father find you in the cabbage as well?”

“No, I was found amidst horseradish - what do you think?”

“That would explain your bitter attitude, dear.” Lock of hair tucked under her gold-thread headscarf, Pluma wrapped herself tighter into her shawl against the crashing wind that shook her home. “Do you think this is the one?”

The girl shrugged, the mass of bear fur rising and falling, eyes trailed towards the far-off edge of the sky, where clouds gathered into a large wall of grey. Her thin lips pursed in disapproval. “Looks like it. It’s late this year, though.”

The Gypsy stepped down the small wooden stairs, boots immediately sinking into the snow, skirts billowing by her feet. She stood still, breathing, icy air filling her lungs, and listened to the voice of the skies, its concerned song, as if it was a song for her, yet so foreign that she couldn’t quite get the words.

It sounded like a warning.

“Maybe it was waiting for someone?”

Mar’yanna groaned. “Well, I don’t know about someone, but it was probably waiting for your koftan to be done?”

Weather forgotten, Gypsy almost jumped in excitement.

“She finished it? Show me, show me!”

Burlap sack almost ripped out of worm hands, she dug in, pulling out a thick heavy coat, tailored, with dark fur trim, and a wide embroidered pattern all the way around the edges, and blooming flowers on silky material. Pressing her face into a large fur collar, Pluma smelled lavender and sage, the tale of mountains and forests, so common to this particular place. All things considered, Prval had its charms.

“Your father should count himself a lucky man, having daughters like you two.” Shawl shrugged off right there on the snow, she pulled the coat on, and gave a sigh of relief from the immediate prickling of hard fur through all the layers of her clothes, and the steadily growing inkling of warmth. Latches closed with deft fingers, hands patted down the narrow fitted waist, and Pluma the Gypsy nodded, turning back and forth. “By the sky, he’d better.”

Mar’yanna leaned against the painted wood, her thumbs hooked over the rope of her belt.

“You should worry less about my father, and more about how you will pay. This is a lot of a material, expensive material, those clips alone took me time-”

One half-turn, collar raised, and Pluma poised at her with something of a long forgotten wicked charm. “I know my prices, dear. When did Pluma ever do you wrong?”

The blacksmith just rolled her eyes.

“Just what did you promise my sister?”

With a wink and a wave of a hand, Pluma disappeared into her wagon, shuffling through her cupboards, pulling out bottles and jars of colorful glass, tugging a few bands of herbs off the ceiling, and a final step, opening a large trunk, which served as one of the benches, and taking out a small pouch of dark velvet.

The craftswoman stepped in, knocking snow off her boots. “If you really think that a few salves would be enough-”

“For your hands,” the gypsy moved one of the jars her way, and smirked at how the girl’s lips curled. “Bothering you again, I see.”

“What else?”

Another bottle. “For your sister’s sunlight of hair. The braid is turning heads already but-”

“Oh, please don’t.” Landing herself on the bench, the girl turned the bottle in her hands. “If I hear another wailing off-tune love song under my window, I’m going to start pouring molten iron over them. And that would be a waste of damn good iron.” The bottom of the bottle placed back on the shawl. “Maybe you can give her something that will stop her from falling for every boy she meets.”

Pluma just laughed, setting herbs on the table. “Impossible. That girl’s heart is a spring song, and we need a bit of spring, now that the storm is here.”

Mar’yanna rubbed the crease of her forehead. “It gets worse every year.”

“Or: you can get married, so she could have her turn. The older sister, then the younger, as it is a custom.”

If looks could create flame, Pluma’s house would have been on fire already.

“No.”

“Just a suggestion, sister.” Older fingers caressed the webbing of burns on the younger ones. “Don’t worry, price will be paid. The crows will have his lying tongue in due time.”

Hand pulled away, the girl bared her teeth. “Can we wrap this up? The storm is coming. I have to get the house ready.”

Yet, still, her eyes blinked once too often. Poor child.

“Here,” the gypsy placed the pouch last. “I think you’ll find this more than enough.”

The girl tugged the binding with suspicion, one, another, and pushed the finger inside, sharp eyes looking down the length of delicate pointy nose - and then clavicles sharpened surprise, lashes flying.

“Is this-?”

“Yes,” Pluma nodded, setting herself on the edge of the table.

The pouch opened even wider, and the girl hooked her finger, raising her arm, and a thread of beads, round and even, every single one - a perfect star ripped from the sky. They gleamed in her hands, and something so innocently joyous flashed over the girl’s face, before being replaced with indignation.

“Pluma, this is a fortune!”

“So is that coat.”

“This is an arm-length of pearl, Pluma! We can’t take this, it’s worth five of my swords!”

“Or one really good one if you put your mind to it. Or a wedding dress of Prval lace, which would take your sister three months to make? As I said, your father was blessed with trully gifted daughters.” She looked down one of the mugs left on the floor. “But those will be worthless in comparison if you ever decide to wear what you keep hidden even from your sister-”

The table erupted, mugs turning. The blacksmith rose, and it was as if the lighted of stove fire itself dimmed before her.

“SHUT YOUR MOUTH.”

“You are burying you gifts, featherling.”

“Shut. Your. Mouth.” She leaned forward, and shadows ran over her face, where eyes burned with molten gold. “If you speak of this to anyone, I will cut your tongue out with your own herb knife.”

Oh, what does she know. What does she know, bird unhatched. Angry little thing.

“Don’t threaten me, sister.” Pluma curled. Her claws, barely growing, pulled back. “Yours is not the only secret I keep. And that knife actually needs a sharpening.”

The Blacksmith breathed, letting out discontented huffs, then, finally groaning, she picked up her sack, starting to toss her payment into it. “Fine. Bring it when the winds let down.”

“Or you could come by again. I do enjoy our talks.”

“Unlike you, some of us have work, a lot of work to do.”

“So do I! You think those salves make themselves? Honestly, by now they pretty much do, but even I am not that good.”

“Pride is a sin, Pl’uma.”

“Now, don’t go offending me with just one, dear. I’m sure I can find myself a couple more. Lust, for example.”

Mar’yanna chuckled. “Oh yes, Tan’ya still tells everyone about that miracle cure you gave her husband for his… problem.”

“Problem? Please. Having five daughters - now that’s a problem.” The wind wailed with new force, and the wagon shook again. Pluma raised her head to the ceiling and the swinging herbs. “I hate to throw you out, but it is high time for you to go. Can’t risk this town losing its one good shear sharpener.”

The blacksmith nodded, stomping to the door, and the gypsy followed. The outside greeted them with thick chunks of snow falling, slamming against the patched ground, and clamping in piles.

“Looks like you were right,” Mar’yanna jumped to the ground and tucked herself tighter. Her face barely rose from the thickness of her coat’s collar, but it still frowned up in concern. “You’ll be fine, right?”

“It’s just a storm, little bird,” Pluma caught a piece of falling snow on the palm of her ringed hand, and squeezed it tight, melting water between her fingers. “I’ve lived through worse.”

Non-believer, the girl eyed the melting water dripping. “Take care then.”

She set off down the trail, away from the cliff the gypsy chose at her home, slowing down for one last mirthful goodbye thrown over her shoulder. “I’d hate to lose one good herb-gatherer this town has.”

Pluma the Gypsy watched her as she disappeared behind the turn, a mass of dirty brown fur with a sack over her shoulder, and sighed to herself and the sky.

“You are late,” she said, reproachingly.

The wind howled in response and threw snow in her face.

“Oh, cut it.” She turned to hide in her home. With her last step, Pluma turned, shaking her finger at the heavy dark cloud. “And don’t you dare blow me off this mountain.”

The sky didn’t reply, but she still would swear its color grew softer.

And then, just as she was about to close the door behind her back, the wind suddenly stilled, and all grew silent, so that the air itself froze around her. The fire stopped crackling, and the branches seized their urgent waving, and in that silence, like an arrow shot, like a fall of melting drops in the birth of spring on the clear steal of a sword -

- ran a bell.

And Pluma, for the first time in years, froze, breathing shakily, her unbearably wide painted eyes pulled towards the white curtain of the horizon.

Oh, she spoke in a tongue that was only hers in this land of mountains and snow, her jaw clenching, claws stabbing hard into the wood of her doorframe. Really?

The wind, the snow, the rustling forest and the panicked creaking of her home came back, yet she stood, trying it hear it again.

It didn’t return. It didn’t have to.

Feathers at the back of her neck bristling, Pluma pulled herself into the darkness of her home. When the only thing left was the shining bright of her eyes, the door of the wagon slammed shut.

Come then, the feather-thief’s son. I’m waiting.

#strange magic #forge-sister and a silver heart #i wrote this shit #suzie be proud i'm learning description from the best and failing miserably #the story about metric ton of snow and solving all your problems with manual labour and drinking #unless you are Plum #then you are just salty af

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