Disclaimer! Warning!
PG-13-rated shoujo ai, also known as female/female slash, lies ahead in this story.
If you object to this, please read no further, and please do not flame, because it will be to no purpose.
Thank you.
Most characters and most places in this fanfic belong to Tamora Pierce, and are detailed in her Circle of Magic books. I am making no money from this venture at all.
It would be easier for me just to point out what's mine: the girl Sweetbee; Lark's childhood (other than being taken in by an acrobat troupe; her parents; her town, and several of the towns the troupe travels through; the local justice system & prejudices; Norlina, the Worshipper, and the Justice; the customs relating to the Worshipper, the Justice, and local justice.
Also, the plot is mine, and all writing appearing below this notice is copyright
© Liana Goldenquill 2001.
Please do not use, even embodied in critical reviews, without contacting me at hermionegranger@harrypotterrealm.zzn.com and getting my express approval. Thank you again.
It was a perfectly pleasant domestic scene. One woman—Lark—was in the weaving room, making a light blanket—now, it wasn't more bandages for the Water temple; it had been a peaceful Indian summer—emphasis on peaceful, for once—turning gently into fall. Another, Rosethorn, was in the kitchen, shelling peas she'd grown. Their four students, who lived with them at Discipline Cottage, were off somewhere, scattered around the Circles.
Briar, the plant-mage, and Rosethorn's student, was no doubt up to his usual wild tricks—likely annoying Disciple Crane in his greenhouse, probably pestering the tomato-grower for helpful potions to give to his shakkan, his miniature tree, which he loved quite probably more than anything else. And because of it, he's always willing to harness his powers so he can help it more—then I force him to help with other plants. I would've had to steal the shakkan from Crane myself if he hadn't, Rosethorn realized, and grinned. It—and his friendship with the others—have made him so much more tractable than he was at first.
Sandry, a weaving-mage and Lark's student, would probably be found helping other students learn to weave. The summer, she'd grown to like that task, for its soothing properties and its ability to help others. Her students—although Sandry was no more than fourteen herself—were often from the Water temple, and looked up to her outrageously, simply because she spun, knit, or wove faster than anyone they'd seen. Rosethorn would have laid money that the students' dog, named Little Bear, was accompanying Sandry—he, too, admired her. Better make sure she's not getting a swelled head, Rosethorn reminded herself, not that that's too likely near Briar. Still, with plenty of people esteeming her too highly, it is possible. We're all vulnerable to pride.
Tris was an extremely powerful weather-mage, the student of the famous mage Niklaren Goldeneye; she was most likely somewhere she could see the sea and sky, hard at practice with him. Both women knew she would come back squinting through salt-sprayed glasses, running her hands through clouds of impossibly-tangled hair, and definitely needing to bathe and change her clothes into another utilitarian set. Poor plump Tris, thought Rosethorn, she manages to get dirtier even than Daja, and she hates being dirty and cleaning up almost to the same extent—and I wonder if anyone else besides me and Lark can see that wonderful bone structure beneath Tris's face? She's going to be lovely when she stretches upward more and thins out.
Daja, the last of the group, and from Trader-stock, was a fire-mage, although her gift manifested in blacksmithing and rocks. A student of the powerful blacksmith Frostpine, she was probably hard at work making boring nails, for practice. She works very hard for her skills, Rosethorn acknowledged, but we all do, and the four students quite probably work the hardest of the whole Circle for their power. Practice, practice, practice—and they almost hate us for it—but oh, gods, they will thank us one day!
All of the student's studies or jobs—thinly disguised as errands—were completely understandable and perfectly acceptable, as today was a rest-day; however, it left Lark and Rosethorn alone together in Discipline Cottage. Neither woman minded—they were old friends, and had shared their space even before the quartet came—but they didn't mind solitude, either; each currently worked quietly in separate rooms for greater efficiency and space.
Then Lark entered the kitchen—but something was amiss. Her eyes were puffy and red from weeping. Pretending to be nonchalant, she sauntered over to get a cup of tea from the kettle kept brewing.
Still, Rosethorn's sharp eyes, able to tell a two-day-old pea vine from a weed, noted, and Rosethorn, sensitive to her friend's needs, stood up instantly, knowing that something was wrong with her fellow-teacher—she would have known even without the face stained by tear-tracks and red, puffy eyes. "Lark!" she exclaimed, very concerned. "What is it?"
"Oh, nothing," Lark answered, closing her eyes for a second as she attempted to pass it off hastily. "It's just before my moon-days—you know how I get tempery sometimes—"
But Rosethorn did not know—or, actually, she knew the reverse. She knew that she herself was prickly by nature, usually more so because of moon-days, but the even-tempered Lark never got upset, angry, or weepy. Not before, during, or after her moon-days, or at any other time. "No," Rosethorn answered firmly, "you're not—and if moon-days have any bearing on this, it's mere coincidence. We both know that that's not it—so, Lark, what's bothering you?"
Lark sniffed sadly and sat down at the table. "I—I—"
"Lark, you know that I'm your friend." If only I were—if I were more, somehow. . . . "I'd never repeat anything you asked me not to; you know that, right?" When Lark nodded to her, Rosethorn continued. "Well, then, you can answer me safely, if you wish. Why do you weep, friend?"
"I—well, I'm not sure I can tell you," Lark whispered. "I know that this sounds awfully juvenile, Rosethorn, but please believe me, I've—I've never told anyone before, and it's v-very important. T-to me, at any rate."
Rosethorn moved her chair closer to Lark's and stretched her arm over Lark's shoulders, biting her lip. Am I getting too close to her? Will she suspect that—? "You don't have to tell me," she said gently, not daring to look upon Lark's face, but keeping her gaze on the fine grain of the wooden table, "but I would be honored to think that you trusted me enough to bring your troubles to me, just as I do to you. And I recommend that you bring this out into the open, but as you know, I will never force you." In more ways than one. Oh, poor sweet Lark, no matter what has tugged your heartstrings asunder, know that you are always safe with me!
Then Lark burst out in tears. "Oh, Rosethorn!" she sobbed.
"Oh, Lark, it's all right. I'm here and the children aren't. Cry if you need to, Lark; come on, let it all out," whispered Rosethorn, finally gathering the courage to cradle her friend in her strong arms and rock her back and forth.
Rosethorn knew that she was good at cosseting plants, but she'd never been much of a one for humans . . . except for Lark, her one friend and ally, her co-house-mother. Lark had always been a firm, steady rock in the past when Rosethorn had had problems, but now that rock was sagging; Rosethorn knew it was her turn to steady Lark, for once, although she didn't know exactly how. She needs me. She really needs me now. If she needs me to be her friend, then that's all I'll be, but I must admit—
"Rosethorn," Lark stammered out between tears, "I have to tell you."
"The trouble's waited at least a month, friend," said Rosethorn calmly, finding the nerve to stroke Lark's hair, "a few minutes more will harm nobody."
Lark was shocked. "A—a month! But—how did you know a month?"
Rosethorn gazed steadily at Lark, trying not to let her true feelings show. "You're my friend, Lark; I live with you. How could you hide anything from me? How could I not know? Something has obviously been bothering you, but I knew you'd tell me when you needed to. And you need to, now, so go ahead."
"I do, I do need to," said Lark, still crying. "I got a letter from my mother!"
Rosethorn sat, utterly mystified, as Lark redoubled her tears. "Why is that a problem?" Oh, no! Did I sound insensitive to her worries?—oh, I'm so bad with people, I don't deserve— Because her problems are real, no doubt about that, I've never seen her upset; but—a letter from her mother upsets her? What is going on here? Besides, I thought she had no mother but the—
"You remember how I grew up? Well—how I told you I grew up?" corrected Lark, drying her eyes and letting the crying slack off slightly in favor of speaking.
"In an acrobat troupe, yes?" Rosethorn passed Lark a handkerchief, firmly commanding her to "Blow."
"Well," began Lark, using the handkerchief, "that wasn't quite accurate. Well, to be precise, I didn't start off that way, at any rate. . . .
"I was born in a tiny, quiet village, far off from any important place, or even from any place with as much as fifty people. By the time I was fourteen, I'd still never been outside the town limits. The most 'exotic' and exciting thing I ever saw was a traveling troupe of acrobats that came by every other summer. The winter when I had just turned fourteen, my parents began talking about getting me married off—a girl-child was useless until she was married, and they had had plenty of other children besides. Oh—they loved me, they loved us all; but when it's that cramped, and food's that stretched, somebody has to go. And I could be married off easily, they thought. But for my sake, because I pled, they held off the marriage negotiations past the winter I was fourteen, then past the spring.
"You see, I begged because the only problem was that I was already 'sparking' with someone—courting; that's what we called it where I was from. Oh, we'd kissed, but we didn't—ah—go much farther. My virginity was intact . . . and there was no possible way I was pregnant; I knew that, young as I was.
"But my parents didn't even know that I was being courted—I'd always told them that I was going for a drive with the carriage and a few friends. Finally, in early summer, they found out rather dramatically.
"Since my parents hadn't yet put forward a candidate for my marriage, I expected that I'd get to choose, and that the two of us would marry each other—I'd just proposed, and I thought I'd received a 'yes.' But it didn't quite work out that way. Because the girl I loved—"
Rosethorn gasped audibly, then apologized. "I'm sorry, Lark, please continue." Her inner thoughts were in turmoil. She said—no, she can't mean—she's surely not—? Is she? But if—that would mean—
Lark sadly shook her head, as the tears threatened to spill over again. "That was my parents' problem, too. And—well—the rest of the community wasn't exactly thrilled either, you could say. . . ."