16 Ymiden 720 (Night)
A mound of flour coated the counter and Yeva dipped her fingers in its center, creating a volcanic pocket that she widened with every gentle circular motion of her hand. By her side was a basket of eggs, a fresh shipment from the Beacon. Alongside it were mounds of butter, cream, a group of chickens (live until necessary use, now living in her courtyard), eggs, potatoes, and ample frozen fish, sent to her house in a special icebox, cold in her cellar. It was difficult not to feel overwhelmed. What time was it? The candle was over half melted, the cool night breeze rustled the curtains by the kitchen window, and she was far too scared to sleep.
Scared of the nightmares mostly.
On the stove, a large pot of water and bones boiled in an effort to make chicken stock. One by one, Yeva cracked the eggs, each knock between shell and table a gentle patter until being split open inside the well. Outside the grasshoppers sang, trilling while an owl hooted in the night, "ChiChi," Yeva whispered, staring at the beautiful orange orbs, like tiny suns, floating before her. The sound of a scrubbing brush silenced, another helpful woman bent over at the island, dropping a potato in a bucket of water, "I think I hear someone crying."
Yeva reached over, grabbing a fork, "Take them a glass of water and see if they are in pain. If they are wounded, I will tend to them."
ChiChi rose at once. It was never the medic's intention to give orders to another, but in her first days here, she had given quite the case to be utilized. Yeva partially wondered if it was the normalcy of being a servant that the other woman missed, the feeling of being home now that it was gone. They had made quite the team, all things considered. Where Yeva fell short, particularly in logistics or certain household chores, ChiChi was quite adept in.Sturdy and capable, too. Yeva couldn't help but feel the other woman far more skilled than her, and that it should have been ChiChi leading the refugee efforts in the estate.
With quiet stabbing, Yeva broke the yolks, yawning as she began to whisk, careful to mind the flour. Gradually, she began to draw the surrounding powder inward, mixing slowly. She had watched her mother make pasta growing up, had even helped shape some tiny noodles, but this was her first time doing it herself. It was a simple process - mixing, kneading, cutting. Most importantly, it would feed those who were softly speaking in the parlor. Their voices were heavy, mourning talk.
When the door closed, she could barely hear them. In the eerie weight of the large kitchen, Yeva sang softly,
More flour,
Clumps of dough caught on the the prongs of the fork and Yeva continued humming, closing her eyes to hear her mother's voice,
Her mother cried when she sang the song; such a beautiful voice she could do no justice, Yeva felt the emotion, but it was a separate heartbreak that brought tears to stream down her own cheeks. Yeva sniffled, laying aide the fork and digging her hands into the forming dough, crying as she pushed and pulled, hands a mess.
How long she stood, singing the same verses, pushing the emotion into her fingertips, and drawing it back. Little by little the dough began to solidify, the chunks smoothing to a rich, yellow mass of loving sadness. Yeva's arms ached when she dusted a hand towel with flour and laid it across her work.
She wiped her eyes and washed her hands, filling a pot of water to heat over the wood burning stove. ChiChi stood in the doorway, Yeva's voice dropping as she repeated the verses, returning to the dough to cut it into four equal pieces. She covered the others and sprinkled flour on her rolling pin.
"Who is Theodore?"
Yeva looked up, voice catching. A woman with greying hair was watching her from the hall. It wasn't ChiChi at all, "I-" she looked at the dough, "I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"
"No." she turned, hearing footsteps and stepped back as ChiChi appeared. So, this had been the one crying. Her eyes were red, and she coughed in a tattered kerchief.
Yeva waved them both inside, sighing as she pressed the roller down, "He's my brother," she offered, strangely not embarrassed at being caught. All she felt was tired now. Restless, maybe.
The woman was quiet, shuffling in her nightdress to rest against the round table by the window, "How old is he?"
ChiChi looked uneasily between them and resumed scrubbing the potatoes.
Yeva turned the dough, "I don't know," she frowned, "He died before I was born. My mother used to sing that song sometimes."
A long silence passed between them before the older woman finally spoke, "My son died in Faldrass. We... we were separated."
Yeva stiffened. 'I'm sorry,' was not a substantial answer. But how often had this woman heard those words, resented them? The silence was enough.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"...Twenty-one. I turn twenty-two in Vhalar." Yeva noticed ChiChi look over, scraping her blade across the potato skins.
"He was twenty-three. He would have liked you," the refugee smiled, in a tragic sort of way. Yeva knew the strength was threatening to break, "He had a fondness for redheads," the woman muttered. She nodded to ChiChi, "You too."
There was another pregnant pause. Two women cooking, another fading into her own memories.
"I lost everything... He was my everything. But, here we are."
"Yes," Chichi agreed, brow furrowed, "Here we are". In the Faldrass relief efforts, they had put Zach's body to rest, holding the funeral as a way to honor the lost lives. The two hadn't spoken of it, but Yeva remembered how she languished in the caves before Cassion had the guide taken to safety.
The raw pain made Yeva work faster. What could this mother be feeling? "I wanted to thank you. For offering you're home. It's... lovely..." her hands gave a bit of a shake, and she was overcome with racking coughs. ChiChi stood, looking at Yeva to help. The woman must have been a victim of the thick ash of the volcanic eruption, but she found her voice before Yeva could finish making her way across the kitchen.
"I can't sit around and do nothing," she stood, "I need to stay busy, or this grief will overcome me. Please-" she took a step towards them, "Let me help you prepare the food."
"I'm not sure," Only moments before she had been struggling to breathe, "If you cough..."
"I can wear a mask," she begged, "Just for tonight. What can I do? You're making broth. Have you added spices?"
Yeva had forgotten, so tired and lost in thought. Her own work was only partially done and she still needed to pack, "Well..."
"Can't I at least add things to a pot? I feel when the cough is coming, I will make sure to be mindful... Please? I... I do not wish to be alone... not with these thoughts."
"Alright," Yeva pressed her lips together. Ash lung wasn't contagious and to deny the guest felt unfair given the circumstances. It was such a minor request and they had more work to do. If the woman was tormented by dark emotion, she should supported, monitored, given direction. "If you're not feverish, I suppose it's alright. Just please, be careful."
The smoke, the blood, the tears, the death - Yeva had been so fixated on maintaining the physical bodies, mending the wounds that she could see. But what she had overlooked were the mental tragedies, the battles faced in the unknown of everyone's mind. She hadn't realized that this was also something that needed healing. On behalf of the Order of Adunih, she would care for them all. Yeva watched her add the herbs while rolling the dough. Thyme, rosemary, peppercorns, bay leaves, "If you have the ingredients, onions, carrots, celery give a nice flavor. Or you can roast the bones in some olive oil with some onions before you simmer them," she sighed, "I used to make a lot of soup for the family."
Yeva smiled, "So did my mother. It was my favorite remedy when I was sick or on a really cold trial."
ChiChi said nothing. As a former slave, Yeva wondered if ChiChi knew her parents.
"There's a bit of garlic hanging," Yeva rotated the dough again. She would need to finish this piece soon or it would be too difficult to keep rolling out. The gluten was tightening, making the mass pull back with every roll, "Would that help?"
"It would, actually."
They made more small talk, Yeva finally finishing her first roll, folding the dough and carefully slice it. The refugee proved quite knowledgeable in cooking and offered to show her a safer way to hold her knife, only pausing once to cough. Yeva stopped, reaching out to listen to the woman's breath and monitor it, administering a tablespoon of honey to soothe her sore throat. Yeva knew she would keep these women company as long as she needed it tonight. And together...
Maybe they could all start healing.
Scared of the nightmares mostly.
On the stove, a large pot of water and bones boiled in an effort to make chicken stock. One by one, Yeva cracked the eggs, each knock between shell and table a gentle patter until being split open inside the well. Outside the grasshoppers sang, trilling while an owl hooted in the night, "ChiChi," Yeva whispered, staring at the beautiful orange orbs, like tiny suns, floating before her. The sound of a scrubbing brush silenced, another helpful woman bent over at the island, dropping a potato in a bucket of water, "I think I hear someone crying."
Yeva reached over, grabbing a fork, "Take them a glass of water and see if they are in pain. If they are wounded, I will tend to them."
ChiChi rose at once. It was never the medic's intention to give orders to another, but in her first days here, she had given quite the case to be utilized. Yeva partially wondered if it was the normalcy of being a servant that the other woman missed, the feeling of being home now that it was gone. They had made quite the team, all things considered. Where Yeva fell short, particularly in logistics or certain household chores, ChiChi was quite adept in.Sturdy and capable, too. Yeva couldn't help but feel the other woman far more skilled than her, and that it should have been ChiChi leading the refugee efforts in the estate.
With quiet stabbing, Yeva broke the yolks, yawning as she began to whisk, careful to mind the flour. Gradually, she began to draw the surrounding powder inward, mixing slowly. She had watched her mother make pasta growing up, had even helped shape some tiny noodles, but this was her first time doing it herself. It was a simple process - mixing, kneading, cutting. Most importantly, it would feed those who were softly speaking in the parlor. Their voices were heavy, mourning talk.
When the door closed, she could barely hear them. In the eerie weight of the large kitchen, Yeva sang softly,
"Dear Theodoo-re,
what to say to you,
you have my eyes,
you have your father's name.
When you came into the world, you cried,"
what to say to you,
you have my eyes,
you have your father's name.
When you came into the world, you cried,"
More flour,
"And it broke my heart.
I'm dedicating every daaay to yoou
Domestic life was never quite my style
When you smiled,"
I'm dedicating every daaay to yoou
Domestic life was never quite my style
When you smiled,"
Clumps of dough caught on the the prongs of the fork and Yeva continued humming, closing her eyes to hear her mother's voice,
"You knocked me out
I fall apart.
And I thought I was so smart."
I fall apart.
And I thought I was so smart."
Her mother cried when she sang the song; such a beautiful voice she could do no justice, Yeva felt the emotion, but it was a separate heartbreak that brought tears to stream down her own cheeks. Yeva sniffled, laying aide the fork and digging her hands into the forming dough, crying as she pushed and pulled, hands a mess.
How long she stood, singing the same verses, pushing the emotion into her fingertips, and drawing it back. Little by little the dough began to solidify, the chunks smoothing to a rich, yellow mass of loving sadness. Yeva's arms ached when she dusted a hand towel with flour and laid it across her work.
She wiped her eyes and washed her hands, filling a pot of water to heat over the wood burning stove. ChiChi stood in the doorway, Yeva's voice dropping as she repeated the verses, returning to the dough to cut it into four equal pieces. She covered the others and sprinkled flour on her rolling pin.
"Who is Theodore?"
Yeva looked up, voice catching. A woman with greying hair was watching her from the hall. It wasn't ChiChi at all, "I-" she looked at the dough, "I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"
"No." she turned, hearing footsteps and stepped back as ChiChi appeared. So, this had been the one crying. Her eyes were red, and she coughed in a tattered kerchief.
Yeva waved them both inside, sighing as she pressed the roller down, "He's my brother," she offered, strangely not embarrassed at being caught. All she felt was tired now. Restless, maybe.
The woman was quiet, shuffling in her nightdress to rest against the round table by the window, "How old is he?"
ChiChi looked uneasily between them and resumed scrubbing the potatoes.
Yeva turned the dough, "I don't know," she frowned, "He died before I was born. My mother used to sing that song sometimes."
A long silence passed between them before the older woman finally spoke, "My son died in Faldrass. We... we were separated."
Yeva stiffened. 'I'm sorry,' was not a substantial answer. But how often had this woman heard those words, resented them? The silence was enough.
"How old are you?" she asked.
"...Twenty-one. I turn twenty-two in Vhalar." Yeva noticed ChiChi look over, scraping her blade across the potato skins.
"He was twenty-three. He would have liked you," the refugee smiled, in a tragic sort of way. Yeva knew the strength was threatening to break, "He had a fondness for redheads," the woman muttered. She nodded to ChiChi, "You too."
There was another pregnant pause. Two women cooking, another fading into her own memories.
"I lost everything... He was my everything. But, here we are."
"Yes," Chichi agreed, brow furrowed, "Here we are". In the Faldrass relief efforts, they had put Zach's body to rest, holding the funeral as a way to honor the lost lives. The two hadn't spoken of it, but Yeva remembered how she languished in the caves before Cassion had the guide taken to safety.
The raw pain made Yeva work faster. What could this mother be feeling? "I wanted to thank you. For offering you're home. It's... lovely..." her hands gave a bit of a shake, and she was overcome with racking coughs. ChiChi stood, looking at Yeva to help. The woman must have been a victim of the thick ash of the volcanic eruption, but she found her voice before Yeva could finish making her way across the kitchen.
"I can't sit around and do nothing," she stood, "I need to stay busy, or this grief will overcome me. Please-" she took a step towards them, "Let me help you prepare the food."
"I'm not sure," Only moments before she had been struggling to breathe, "If you cough..."
"I can wear a mask," she begged, "Just for tonight. What can I do? You're making broth. Have you added spices?"
Yeva had forgotten, so tired and lost in thought. Her own work was only partially done and she still needed to pack, "Well..."
"Can't I at least add things to a pot? I feel when the cough is coming, I will make sure to be mindful... Please? I... I do not wish to be alone... not with these thoughts."
"Alright," Yeva pressed her lips together. Ash lung wasn't contagious and to deny the guest felt unfair given the circumstances. It was such a minor request and they had more work to do. If the woman was tormented by dark emotion, she should supported, monitored, given direction. "If you're not feverish, I suppose it's alright. Just please, be careful."
The smoke, the blood, the tears, the death - Yeva had been so fixated on maintaining the physical bodies, mending the wounds that she could see. But what she had overlooked were the mental tragedies, the battles faced in the unknown of everyone's mind. She hadn't realized that this was also something that needed healing. On behalf of the Order of Adunih, she would care for them all. Yeva watched her add the herbs while rolling the dough. Thyme, rosemary, peppercorns, bay leaves, "If you have the ingredients, onions, carrots, celery give a nice flavor. Or you can roast the bones in some olive oil with some onions before you simmer them," she sighed, "I used to make a lot of soup for the family."
Yeva smiled, "So did my mother. It was my favorite remedy when I was sick or on a really cold trial."
ChiChi said nothing. As a former slave, Yeva wondered if ChiChi knew her parents.
"There's a bit of garlic hanging," Yeva rotated the dough again. She would need to finish this piece soon or it would be too difficult to keep rolling out. The gluten was tightening, making the mass pull back with every roll, "Would that help?"
"It would, actually."
They made more small talk, Yeva finally finishing her first roll, folding the dough and carefully slice it. The refugee proved quite knowledgeable in cooking and offered to show her a safer way to hold her knife, only pausing once to cough. Yeva stopped, reaching out to listen to the woman's breath and monitor it, administering a tablespoon of honey to soothe her sore throat. Yeva knew she would keep these women company as long as she needed it tonight. And together...
Maybe they could all start healing.
