Knitting Needles and Knife Blades

Part 2

Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me, unfortunately, except Arianne. The rest belongs to that great fantasy writer in the sky, Tamora Pierce. Unfair!

As I entered the room, Father looked up. It struck me then how old he looked. He's never looked properly old before. Except when Mother died. I was only little, of course, but I can remember parts. His hair wasn't salt and pepper anymore; it was grey, and not a dignified grey. It made him look tired, and old, and weak. As though he had been wounded, but never quite recovered, and then all of a sudden, someone had ripped it open again. When he spoke, his voice sounded tired as well, like he couldn't care about anything much at the moment.

"Arianne, child, come in." That hit me worse than anything. No one, but no one, and especially not Father, calls me Arianne. It was my mother's name. She's Arianne, not me. I'm Aria, always Aria, even when people are angry with me.

"Father? Father, what's the matter? What's happened?" I ran to his side, and grabbed the letter he held in his hand. He turned his head away. It was short – only a few lines – written in Edwin's loose, rounded hand. That in itself was strange, for Edwin, though he dislikes letter writing, usually satisfies my wish for long letters.

To Father, Tomorrow we meet Maggur on the Vassa Plain. My Lord of Naxen rides with us. Please tell Aria I am sorry I could not bring her a Scanran war charm – I know she often wished to see one.

(I blushed at this. It was true, I had expressed a wish to see a Scanran war charm, but never thought Edwin would try to get one for me. I had had a vague idea of using the patterns on an old dress of mine. I had quite forgotten about it by now.)

If When I come back, I will offer up prayers of thanks to every god I know. They call it seeing the kraken, you know. I rather wish I was blind. All the death…Jarvey of Kanamorth and Raskaan of Ettinsmuir are dead – from a raid three weeks ago. They died of their wounds.

My throat was suddenly dry. I had known Jarvey, flirted with him last Midwinter. And Raskaan had visited us but a few months ago. Both dead.

And that was when I knew, really knew what had happened. He was dead. My glorious, shining brother, so full of life, was dead, his glowing hair limp and lifeless, his laughing lips silenced forever. There would be no strong youthful step outside my door, then a head poking around it, ready to show me some little wonder he had found for me. No more offended or embarrassed young men who had hastily ceased their addresses to me after he was through with them. No more brother to pray for each night, and wait for impatiently, or tag around after. No more Edwin.

I heard a keening cry of pain, and wondered who it was. Then I realised it was me – I had not noticed the fat tears rolling down my cheeks, or the hoarse gasping sobs coming from deep within my chest. I stumbled towards Father, and laid my head in his lap. I don't know how long we stayed like that, comforting each other in our grief, but alone, an island separated from the rushing, bustling river of everyday life, flowing into a grey, harsh dawn. I never even finished reading the letter.

For the next year, I lived my life in a sort of numb daze. I couldn't believe it had happened – I didn't want to believe it. I'm not sure I didn't, somehow, believe that it had all been a terrible, ghastly mistake, and one day I would turn around and Edwin would be there, his arms wide, and laughing at me for even thinking that he was gone.

In the end, it was something so small it was almost insignificant, that brought it home to me. I was in the garden, picking flowers for my bed chamber, and I leant right to the back of the bed for a tall one. I leant over too far, and stumbled. When I had picked myself up, I realised that I had fallen onto something hard – a cracked wooden practice sword.

Looking at it, the memory of that hot summer's day almost ten years ago came flooding back.

I was eight, and Edwin just turned fifteen. He was at home while his Knight Master was visiting Father – they were old friends – and Edwin was revelling in being home again. I, of course, didn't recognise him, being only eighteen months old when he left to be a page.

Edwin was practising his sword work in the garden, determined not to fall behind now he was home, even if it was only a visit of a few days duration. I was hiding in the bushes, gawping at this strange new brother who had invaded my home. Intent on the patterns the sword was making in the air, he did not notice me, and I could have sat there for hours, watching him, if he had not suddenly tripped on one of my dolls that I frequently left lying about. The sword flew out of his hand, landing only a few feet away from me, and Edwin, who had been swearing loudly and colourfully, snapped his mouth shut at the sight of me. We stared at each other for a few minutes, brother and sister but total strangers.

Overcome (I was almost painfully shy then); I blushed and ran back to the house. Later, watching Edwin at his practise again (this time at a safe distance), I saw him hurl the sword in anger into a flower bed when he realised it was cracked, and then go looking for it a few minutes later. I didn't realise then, but he never found it.

I rocked back and forth on my heels, soft, hopeless tears dripping onto the already soft and mouldy wood as I finally laid my brother to rest.

So, that's the second chapter done – which is quite good for me because usually I get bored after the first – but anyway. Please review, because it's really great to know that I DIDN'T SLAVE OVER THIS FOR NOTHING! Take note, all non-reviewers – I will find you, and I will track you down. Well, technically I won't, but it sounds good and I've been dying to say it!

Lullabee