maidre grainne.
Apr. 1st, 2009 08:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
from_the_westa bit of veeery early brenan.
*****
Grainne Frangag was a sidhe woman who identified mostly with the handful of dust in their fabled origins. Neutral of aura, gray of cloth, completely methodical, and inclined to settle at the least excuse, she thought mostly in slow comfortable circles, and was inclined to believe that every problem could be solved, if not avoided outright, if one were only sensible enough about it.
She spent her days weaving. She had been weaving for well over a thousand years, and so was quite good at it. She could weave wool of their own native sheep and the norther's great shaggy white deer, she could weave cutin from the south, and she could weave spider's silk, and pixie dragon's humming, the whiskers of ghost cats and morning sunshine. At least she could if the sunshine wasn't too hot, if she could catch enough pixie's dragons to weave from, and her scissors were good and sharp and the ghosts were asleep. But most of the time she kept to weaving the usual sort of textiles, because more folks had use for wool cloaks than invisible ones woven of ghost whiskers. They were also less difficult to create, less expensive to buy, and much better for keeping warm and dry, tá? Wool cloaks were sensible.
Every evening, Grainne would take all her weaving of wool and cutin from the pleasant sunny spot she preferred to do her weaving in, where the pony paced in slow circles around her to keep the loom running, to the shed of her daughter. A daughter who, if one must ask, had a bit more fire than what Grainne thought was entirely good for her, but had otherwise done her mother quite a bit of credit, growing as she did to be a clever, industrious lass whose talents lay with dyes. (Although Grainne supposed that she had inherited her sense of color from her father, may he rest until rising.) Peigi did quite a brisk business with tailors of some renown.
A business, Grainne thought, staring at the mess which greeted her eyes when she came in that evening, that would be lost if her daughter didn't do something about her current problem (which she might have taken greater pains to avoid! What sensible woman gives into child-longing at such a time as this--and with such a man as she'd described?)
"What is this now, Peigi?"
Her daughter was running all over the house trying to tidy what looked like the after-effects of a small earthquake, or an indoor gale--an indoor gale that had gotten what looked like gruel, or perhaps gravy, all over every available surface.
Peigi stopped dead for a moment, and wearily brushed a curling lock of dark hair out of her face with mottled royal blue and green fingers. "Oh, damn, you're here already. 'Ello, Maidre."
"Where's he?" Grainne demanded.
"He didn't mean it! It was all my own fault--he was hungry, supper was late--there's still some left, if you're hungry--and I really ought to have waited for him to calm or given him a crust of bread to start off with before handing a full bowl to him, tá?"
"He's done naught 'cept ruin the whole house, break all our things, keep you from work and a-frightened near to death of him all day long."
"Nil hea, t'was fine at first--"
"Don't you go contradicting me--look at yourself, child! First isn't now--and I'd hate to see what's next or last. He will be the death of us, sooner or later, tá. You're near dead on your feet just from the care of him."
"...He'll settle again, soon enough. He's a good boy." Peigi tried again, feebly.
And Grainne took her upper wrist and raised her hand, and pointed at the darker bruises running the length of her arm, beneath the dye, tsking angrily. "So you say, and every day, he only gets worse--and stronger. Let him love you from afar, Peigi; it'd do us all less damage. Where is he?"
Peigi ducked her head a bit. "Had to put him out with his supper," she said, "'Til he tired of all the kicking."
"Nin, Peigi, don't you fret, t'was needful to save your own skin, tá? Truth is, that's the first sensible thing you've done regardin' 'im in a seven-day." Grainne said. She took a bit of bread, laid a few drops on it from the honey jar, and went back out into the lowering dark, where she began to whistle and trill. "Where's a boy when I have all this honey and no one to share it with?"
"'Lo, Mah-day Gane!" said a small bright cheery voice, somewhere in height between knee and thigh, and Grainne turned and offered the bit of sticky sweet morsel to a wee bright-eyed boy, covered in gruel, or perhaps gravy. There was no small amount of dirt on his face, either, cut through with the tracks of recent, and most likely already forgotten tears. He was all smiles when he took the hand that Grainne offered, and toddled after her to where his mother stood, battered and exhausted, leaning against the door, her hands twisting her stained apron into knots.
The wee one let go, showed her the treat that his grandmother had given for her approval, and then sat down, hugging his mother's leg, while he chewed. Grainne did not miss Peigi's flinch. There really was nothing for it; it wasn't his fault, nor his mother's, nor her own, but he was still a terror all the same.
"I'll take him to his aithre tomorrow." Grainne said, finally.
"And just how will you find him, Maidre? Told you I don't know his name." Peigi sighed.
"I will leave him with our Ard Ri and let him sort it out, then. That's what he's for, tá? Solving problems that us ordinary folk can't."
In the end it was the only sensible thing to do, by Grainne Frangag's estimation.
*****
Grainne Frangag was a sidhe woman who identified mostly with the handful of dust in their fabled origins. Neutral of aura, gray of cloth, completely methodical, and inclined to settle at the least excuse, she thought mostly in slow comfortable circles, and was inclined to believe that every problem could be solved, if not avoided outright, if one were only sensible enough about it.
She spent her days weaving. She had been weaving for well over a thousand years, and so was quite good at it. She could weave wool of their own native sheep and the norther's great shaggy white deer, she could weave cutin from the south, and she could weave spider's silk, and pixie dragon's humming, the whiskers of ghost cats and morning sunshine. At least she could if the sunshine wasn't too hot, if she could catch enough pixie's dragons to weave from, and her scissors were good and sharp and the ghosts were asleep. But most of the time she kept to weaving the usual sort of textiles, because more folks had use for wool cloaks than invisible ones woven of ghost whiskers. They were also less difficult to create, less expensive to buy, and much better for keeping warm and dry, tá? Wool cloaks were sensible.
Every evening, Grainne would take all her weaving of wool and cutin from the pleasant sunny spot she preferred to do her weaving in, where the pony paced in slow circles around her to keep the loom running, to the shed of her daughter. A daughter who, if one must ask, had a bit more fire than what Grainne thought was entirely good for her, but had otherwise done her mother quite a bit of credit, growing as she did to be a clever, industrious lass whose talents lay with dyes. (Although Grainne supposed that she had inherited her sense of color from her father, may he rest until rising.) Peigi did quite a brisk business with tailors of some renown.
A business, Grainne thought, staring at the mess which greeted her eyes when she came in that evening, that would be lost if her daughter didn't do something about her current problem (which she might have taken greater pains to avoid! What sensible woman gives into child-longing at such a time as this--and with such a man as she'd described?)
"What is this now, Peigi?"
Her daughter was running all over the house trying to tidy what looked like the after-effects of a small earthquake, or an indoor gale--an indoor gale that had gotten what looked like gruel, or perhaps gravy, all over every available surface.
Peigi stopped dead for a moment, and wearily brushed a curling lock of dark hair out of her face with mottled royal blue and green fingers. "Oh, damn, you're here already. 'Ello, Maidre."
"Where's he?" Grainne demanded.
"He didn't mean it! It was all my own fault--he was hungry, supper was late--there's still some left, if you're hungry--and I really ought to have waited for him to calm or given him a crust of bread to start off with before handing a full bowl to him, tá?"
"He's done naught 'cept ruin the whole house, break all our things, keep you from work and a-frightened near to death of him all day long."
"Nil hea, t'was fine at first--"
"Don't you go contradicting me--look at yourself, child! First isn't now--and I'd hate to see what's next or last. He will be the death of us, sooner or later, tá. You're near dead on your feet just from the care of him."
"...He'll settle again, soon enough. He's a good boy." Peigi tried again, feebly.
And Grainne took her upper wrist and raised her hand, and pointed at the darker bruises running the length of her arm, beneath the dye, tsking angrily. "So you say, and every day, he only gets worse--and stronger. Let him love you from afar, Peigi; it'd do us all less damage. Where is he?"
Peigi ducked her head a bit. "Had to put him out with his supper," she said, "'Til he tired of all the kicking."
"Nin, Peigi, don't you fret, t'was needful to save your own skin, tá? Truth is, that's the first sensible thing you've done regardin' 'im in a seven-day." Grainne said. She took a bit of bread, laid a few drops on it from the honey jar, and went back out into the lowering dark, where she began to whistle and trill. "Where's a boy when I have all this honey and no one to share it with?"
"'Lo, Mah-day Gane!" said a small bright cheery voice, somewhere in height between knee and thigh, and Grainne turned and offered the bit of sticky sweet morsel to a wee bright-eyed boy, covered in gruel, or perhaps gravy. There was no small amount of dirt on his face, either, cut through with the tracks of recent, and most likely already forgotten tears. He was all smiles when he took the hand that Grainne offered, and toddled after her to where his mother stood, battered and exhausted, leaning against the door, her hands twisting her stained apron into knots.
The wee one let go, showed her the treat that his grandmother had given for her approval, and then sat down, hugging his mother's leg, while he chewed. Grainne did not miss Peigi's flinch. There really was nothing for it; it wasn't his fault, nor his mother's, nor her own, but he was still a terror all the same.
"I'll take him to his aithre tomorrow." Grainne said, finally.
"And just how will you find him, Maidre? Told you I don't know his name." Peigi sighed.
"I will leave him with our Ard Ri and let him sort it out, then. That's what he's for, tá? Solving problems that us ordinary folk can't."
In the end it was the only sensible thing to do, by Grainne Frangag's estimation.
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no subject
Date: 2009-04-02 12:41 am (UTC)Well, I mean, poor Peigi. But still.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-02 03:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-02 09:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-02 03:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-03 02:01 am (UTC)<.<
Although slightly hilarious, in a wrong sort of way.
no subject
Date: 2009-04-04 01:55 am (UTC)it is, it's terrible but it is. >_>;
no subject
Date: 2009-04-09 04:45 pm (UTC)"Oh mother a shining, wonderful man come to call!"
"Really daughter? Damn it, it's the king, I'm getting my rolling pin I am and seeing him off!"
no subject
Date: 2009-04-14 09:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-09 04:45 pm (UTC)This is why the Faerever's have RULES about this kind of thing. Man-gods shouldn't inflict their crazy crazy crazy offspring on people
no subject
Date: 2009-04-14 09:33 pm (UTC)