MAIN CITY, GLASTOR
300 years later
The
lithe young elf-maid, dressed in the livery of the royal family, raced
among the streets of the town. Though she ran with utmost haste, her
steps sounded on the stone streets no louder than a touch. The girl with
cheeks much paler than most of those around her, did not hesitate at
the milling crowds, but flowed through them effortlessly until she
reached her destination: the Lureshanta apothecary shop.
The
young elf entered the establishment and immediately dropped in a
curtsy. An Elf-matron, one of the most famed healers, stood behind the counter
of the apothecary, weighing pungent spices into glass vials. She looked
up at the maid, "Yes?" she inquired calmly, "What is your need?"
The
maid stood and replied, "Please, ma'am, the house of Sir Nareandor
requests your presence, as my mistress is prepared to give a child!"
The matron curled her lip in obvious disgust, "The Half-elf, the Binoyarda?" she
raised her voice rudely. She would have continued, refusing the
summons, but the Elvish maid produced a thick, gold signet ring, saying,
"I am instructed to give you this as proof of the summons, and to
assist you in whatever you need."
The
apothecary dared at worst to roll her eyes at the sight of the ring.
"Well, I suppose I cannot ignore that," she grumbled as she gathered the
necessary medicines and cloths for a birth. "Here, young one," she
handed the maid a large basket full of blankets and bottles. "Carry this
one, if you please, and lead me to the house."
"Very well, ma'am," said the girl, and both women left the shop.
The
front door of the great mansion was guarded by three Elvish soldiers.
Evidenced by their demeanor, they were ordered to prevent any
unauthorized entry. The apothecary, however, produced the ring, and one
of the guards immediately escorted her and the maid into the house.
The
instant the large doors opened, a most appalling scream rent the air.
The poor young maid had never heard such an awful sound before in her
life. She cringed and covered her ears. The apothecary only shook her
head. "That's a human noise, right there! Most undignified! A pure
Andara giving a child—in the ancient tongue, we say, ‘in woddathyarde’— is silent, respecting the sacredness of the event."
They
entered the bedroom, where poor Mithiel writhed in pain, crying out
with every contraction. Her husband, Nareandor, and his uncle Golon
waited anxiously in the corner of the room, powerless to alleviate the
soul-wrenching pain. The apothecary curtsied low before the two elves.
"I thank you for coming so swiftly, Lyberedd," Golon said to the apothecary, "Now aid the woman!"
Mithiel
screamed again as Lyberedd approached her bedside. The apothecary
rolled up her sleeves. "Hand me that towel, girl," she told the maid in a
quiet tone, "The child is nearly here, and we must help its progress!"
The
maid complied with every command as Lyberedd set about bringing a child
into the world. She grimaced at each horrible cry. "Why is the giving
of a child so sacred?" she asked the apothecary as she passed her herbs
when bidden.
"It
is sacred because it is a time when the body of the woman cleanses
itself. The Andarian name for it means ‘that which makes one pure.’ We
believe that all the impurities leave with the child--not in it, mind
you, but covering the outside of it-- and then we may cleanse the child,
and both will be pure."
The
maid glanced warily at the poor mother, who was not in such constant
pain now, with the administration of medicine, but every so often it
grew too great to bear, and she would cry out again.
"It… It sounds very--painful," she remarked, tenderly wiping the sweating brow with cool water.
"Aye,"
Lyberedd harumphed, "it is painful when you have such impurities as
this one," Lyberedd dropped her voice lower still, "And such as she has
cannot be cleansed by a birth."
Just
when the nerves of both women were strained to the limit at the
distress of their patient, a small head appeared, followed by the rest
of a small body. The child had arrived, squalling as loudly as its
mother, and verily looking all covered in "impurities." Lyberedd gave
the tiny newborn to the maid to wash as she tended to the mother.
The
maid placed the baby in a basin of cool water, and as she tenderly
stroked the pink flesh with soft cloths, the baby quieted, and stared up
at the maid with large solemn, blue-grey eyes.
"Quickly," Lyberedd's voice was gentle and urgent, "Give the child to her mother so it will form the proper bond!"
The
maid brought the little girl over to the bed. Mithiel was so weak from
the birthing, she almost could not reach for her little daughter.
With
a nod, Lyberedd welcomed the two men to the bedside. Nareandor
immediately kissed his wife and new baby daughter. Golon stroked the
chubby, rosy cheeks of the gurgling newborn.
"What will you call her?"
Mithiel gazed down upon the little girl. Only one name suited this tiny elfin maiden. "Laurelindolonorina," Mithiel pronounced.
Golon quickly looked at the young mother. “You would give her your mother’s name?”
Mithiel
nodded, fighting the tears behind her eyes. She stroked the smooth,
dimpled cheek as she murmured, “My mother made a choice, and people said
it was a mistake. I hope that one day my daughter will have the chance
to redeem her family!”
Golon
saw the earnestness in her face, but he also saw the discomfort of
those present; Mithiel’s mother Laurelindolonorina had fallen into
infamy only a century after her people's arrival on the mainland, when she fell in love with a Glastorian man and
married him. The two lovers were outcasts in all but name, until Golon’s
nephew Nareandor spied Mithiel and fell in love. Golon recalled trying
to reason with the young Elf, but Nareandor would not hear it. Now
Mithiel had borne a child.
Golon smiled and tried to lighten the mood. "Quite a prodigious epithet for such a small child!" he cried with a laugh.
Mithiel
chuckled softly, watching her daughter as the infant vainly endeavored to
thrust her entire fist into her mouth. "We would not use the whole name
all the time, of course; she will be called Laurel."
The
tiny child looked up at her mother. Reaching with the hand not
occupying her mouth, she touched the cheek of the loving face above her.
"Laurel,"
murmured Mithiel. Secretly, the Half-Elf hoped and prayed that somehow
this child would redeem her in the eyes of her community, as her
namesake had caused her degradation.
[.....]
[The last Song of Mithiel, Daughter of Laurelindolonorina, Sung Over Her Newborn Infant, Upon Dying of a Strange Illness Shortly after Childbirth, Recorded and Translated by Eurilla, Apothecary's Maid]
“Arterriungor at Calaithe,
[I am going to Calaithe,]
Arvenataf et calatren,
[For you, eternity I’ll wait;]
Wechden o laithe afuadwoddor atoyanda
[There’s a place prepared for you,]
Oy Raenna-laerynn anoy Andaru;
[Dear Heart of the Andaru]
Aftendra thandirath oyness poshbaetha,
[Listen for this lullaby,]
Afthandiraf orr oy laurde
[Hear it ‘mongst the stars on high;]
Jyrn af poshandra xe et oy raenna’anaf,
[When you dream, and in your heart,]
De’naru xe aruen fusande at calatren.”
[The two of us will never part.]
I love the use of Andarian (is that how you say it) in that song! I have great respect for you - creating a language like that. Maybe you're the next Tolkien.
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