A young woman stirred restlessly by a hearth. She sat in a large rocking chair, especially made for her present size and comfort. Dark hair, wound in a braid, reflected the light of the fire as she bent over some needlework. To all appearances, she was decorating a tunic for her child. In actuality, she was sewing and undoing the same stitches repeatedly, bored almost to tears.
She was not ready for this. Married at a young age, she was supposed to be out gathering heather, or athelas, or some other helpful plant, not kept by the hearth. However, her mother's foresight had indicated a necessary acquiescence to duty, and she had conceded her freedom.
Not that she lacked care or affection for her husband, or the child soon to be born. No, she was merely frustrated with the confinement, and driven distracted by her loneliness. Her husband was out on another patrol-the poor man could not help it-and her mother, though in attendance earlier, had left to tend to some patients in the infirmary portion of the encampment.
Annoyed with the tediousness of stitchery, Gilraen struggled out of her chair and laboriously walked to her chamber. She retrieved from a wooden table a pen, some parchment, ink, and a handkerchief for blotting. She then made her way back to the other room (it had better lighting, and better access to a source of heat with which to dry the ink), and made herself comfortable on the floor, using a spare winter's cloak to sit upon.
She could at least amuse herself with practicing her writing, and who better to write to than her future son? She dipped the pen in the ink.
My dear son,
You are not yet entered into the world, but I have little to fill the days with. Your father is away; being a leader often demands his attentions elsewhere from home. So I sit, and sew, or darn, or sleep. Being in the latter days of blessed condition, and near your Birthing Day, gives me little opportunity or ability to do as I desire. That is, to gather herbs, or cook. Instead, mother visits, performing these duties in my place.
I anticipate your journey to my arms, son-as all mothers previous, I put my hope in you to carry our people on.
Your loving
Mother
-to be continued-