Exisiting is a team sport.

[fenella]

Postcards from New Hope
(Or How To Grow a Woman From the Ground)

*

Part III

*

Inside the makeshift temple there's small relief to be found from the late summer heat. Walls of clay put distance between Kel and the sounds of a growing village - they're building on a tight schedule, winter comes early this far north - and there aren’t any windows. Though the sun tries to creep under the doors at the back, the only real source of light comes from four candles burning white at the front of the chapel.

In the flickering dark, the temple seems vast.

Sluggish and unable to think of anything besides the weather, Kel wonders if summer had ever been this unforgiving in the South. She closes her eyes and tries to recall how Corus had felt at this time of the year.

There should be bright fabrics and smoked fish making up the city market, crowded streets and outdoor entertainment, but there is nothing save for an uneasy sense of loss. Kel tries to picture the sharp incline to the Palace or how, when her thighs began to burn, half-way up the hill, she would pick up the pace in defiance of every skeptic she knew; listing them by name, silently and in turn, beginning with the King.

Those memories are just beyond her periphery, and all that remains are a string of half-forgotten anecdotes - childhood fights about which Kel thinks she's probably supposed to feel more strongly than she does - long since carried away by an army of new worries. Gods, its been nine years that she's spent up here. Fighting wars and stray raiding parties, building safety and rebuilding hope.

There's another flare of panic that quickly settles into Kel’s bank of constant worry. The fortifications aren't done, it isn't safe here, there are too many people. There’s no way that she can possibly keep them all alive.

Finally opening her eyes and fixating on the burning candles, Kel thinks wistfully of Haven, a village designed first and foremost for defense, and the false comfort of it’s protective walls. She's not prepared for the shock of light from behind, or the self-directed disgust that follows - why hadn't she heard someone at the Temple doors?

Kel turns and when she sees the newcomer, relaxes, simultaneously preparing for a fight. Even without the help of the dim candlelight, she can tell who it is. He's framed in the doorway and standing, silhouetted by the sun.

"A little bit dramatic, don't you think?" asks Kel with a forced smile.

"I could ask you the same thing," says Lerant and she can practically hear him sneering.

Kel sighs. "I don't know what you're talking about." This is a lie; she has a pretty good idea.

Lerant walks into the chapel and the heavy wooden door slams shut. Kel's eyes are forced to readjust and if he weren't Lerant, if he were better at tracking, Kel wouldn't know where he is.

As it is, he manages to stumble over something - Gods be damned if she knows what, the chapel is almost empty - and follows that with a small litany of curses. Kel bites back a grin and refuses to face him. He's standing two or three feet to her left.

"We're going to have to ask Corus for help," says Kel after a moment.

"Do you often talk to cities?"

Kel opens her mouth to speak, but Lerant waves down her, doubtless, biting retort. "You’re changing the subject. Don't distract me with our mutual dislike of the crown."

"Dangerous words coming from an Eldorne," says Kel, meeting his teasing remark with little or no humour, and almost immediately wishes that she hadn't.

She hears Lerant's sharp intake of breathe and turns her head, squinting to meet his gaze in the poor light. What Kel reads in Lerant's familiar brown eyes tells her that it's not okay, but he gets it, and that he's worried.

"What is it Lerant," Kel asks pointedly, interrupting the awkward stretch of silence.

"So," drawls Lerant after a beat, launching into what he’s obviously come here to say. "You come down from the watchtower looking like death, ride alone up through Flyndan's Pass and make your way through the town, barely saying two words to your adoring masses. Who, by the way, are frighteningly capable of coping without your constant supervision - although you'd never know it, what with the way they carry on. Next you spend a few hours with the village council, until they ultimately exit in poorly concealed hysteria. And then, you drag yourself in here like some wild animal hauling it's carcass off to die alone."

He’s always had a way with words.

"Are you quite finished?” asks Kel. “I think I've got a few years left in me, before that happens. Connor stayed at the tower to plot out signal lines and Gods, do I ever not need to explain myself to you. Are you following me again?”

Lerant draws himself up to his full height; he tends to hunch inwards, as though to protect himself from the world’s collective scrutiny, and it makes Kel forget that he's actually taller than she is.

"People are worried," says Lerant. "I'm worried."

Kel softens. “I’m fine.”

"You are not," disagrees Lerant. "The only things keeping you from falling over are one, your fancy Knight's training and two, the salt in your own sweat."

"That's disgusting," groans Kel, and lets Lerant wrap his arms around her despite the heat. She rests her head on the rough material of his tunic.

His shirt is scratchy and, like everyone else who's taken a turn working on the canal, he’s caked in a thick layer of mud.

"I thought you were okay with the height," prompts Lerant. "Mithros Kel, we all know that you love to torture yourself, but this is madness."

"It's fine," answers Kel. "It's just the heat with the stairs. I stopped halfway down and looked. And, well, that was a mistake. The logistics of defending this place, if it ever gets finished, are a nightmare."

"Besides," Lerant continues as if she hadn't voiced everyone’s worst concerns. "There's a whole regiment of youngish, impressionable, single, noble men wandering around out there who would gladly climb a watchtower to win your favour."

Kel snorts disbelievingly and Lerant's grip tightens, pulling her closer.

"You're possessive," says Kel thickly. Lerant’s fingers are lazily tracing circles on the back of her neck, coaxing her into a half-sleep.

"And you need to eat more," says Lerant.

"Everyone here needs to eat more." Kel thinks she might be whining. "We need to save for winter."

"Mm," says Lerant. "Like squirrels.”

Kel laughs.

“Starving yourself, my darling Keladry, won't put ten pounds on each undernourished child."

"It might," says Kel and wishes for a second that they could stay like this; that a few minutes from now no-one would come looking for her, half apologetic and half hopeful, expecting her to save them all, giving the King a reason to keep her out of sight and out of mind.

"Three meals times three hundred and sixty-five? That's a lot of food," Kel points out, though she isn’t wholly serious.

She feels sick with guilt for wishing what that things could stay the like this, the same as they are. Things have got to change, and it’s her job to make sure that they do. Her people deserve better.

"Oh Kel," says Lerant, straight-faced. "I don't know why they trust you so much, but they do. If you told them to line up and take turns eating your meals, they would, thinking all the while that you had a master plan."

"Lerant," sighs Kel. It's not a very stern warning.

"New work detail!" says Lerant to an imaginary audience, his tone holding a certain amount of snide glee. "Sign up for Kill our Fearless Leader Duty!"

Kel smiles up at him, "I thought you were fielding that one on your own."

"It's a hard job," concedes Lerant. "More than one man can accomplish in a lifetime."

Kel loves Lerant, best she knows how, for everything that he isn't saying.

And then he grins, slow but wicked. "Should I have the clerks draw up a schedule?"

*

Hope waits in the foyer of the playhouse, after the night’s show is over. The audience, a veritable mixture of Lords and Ladies, merchants and commoners, spill out onto the streets of the Lower City, chatting wistfully about Lady Jocelyn’s latest venture; a play about a Yamani princess (played by Lady Jocelyn) who runs away with her common-born lover (Kiersted Ironarm, the stage-name of the Miller’s son, Kibby Stryker) who, ultimately, dies from a snake bite. The princess, left alone with her grief, takes her own life and is destined to walk the Island for all eternity, bringing misery to those unfortunate enough cross her path.

Hope stands to one side, leaning against a large pillar, and surveys the crowd.

“That was a happy play,” Hope tells Strahan sarcastically when he jogs over from across the entrance hall, traces of stage paint still on his face. “I especially liked the part where Jocelyn seduced and pushed you off the cliff. Your scream was definitely blood-curling.”

Strahan poses dramatically, sticking his nose into the air. “I don’t expect you to understand art.”

Hope snickers, earning herself a dark look from Strahan.

“Did you want my help or not?”

“Sorry,” says Hope, not bothering to wipe the grin off of her face. “Yes, absolutely.”

*

The actual theatre, when Strahan creaks open the door, is empty and dark. Without sparing a thought, Hope snaps her fingers; warm orange flames, mixed with yellow spring to life in the lanterns that dot the walls of the hall.

When Hope looks at Strahan, she is surprised to see him eyeing her curiously, fear flickering across his face. His eyes, outlined with a thick black pencil look huge in the shadowed hall.

“You’re gifted,” he says.

Hope is about to make a joke about how he can sure confuse a Lady, insulting her ability to understand art and flattering her intelligence all in the space of five minutes, but Strahan’s tone tells her that it would fall flat.

“Yes,” she says, cautiously. “I am.”

“Do you think your father is, too?”

Hope shrugs. “I’m not sure. Yes, maybe? Mother wasn’t, and none of her family are - that’s one of the reasons I left Mindelan. Will’s gifted as well, and so Ma and Da had a mage living at Jesslaw to teach him, since neither of them have gifts. And, well, I don’t have much skill...” she trails off, aware that she’s rambling.

Strahan tears his gaze from Hope’s face and turns towards the stage.

“I just wouldn’t go around doing things like that, is all.”

“Like lighting lanterns?” asks Hope, perplexed.

“Look,” says Strahan, sitting backwards on a bench - Hope takes a seat across from him, an aisle back. “Things are different here. People don’t trust magic.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” argues Hope. “The whole city reeks of magic. And everyone loves Duke Nealan.”

“Just be careful.”

Hope looks at Strahan inquiringly and he holds her gaze until finally she looks away.

“Okay, I will.”

“Good,” he says. “Now tell me what you know about your father.”

*

Hope knows the story of how she was born because Da has told it to her on several occasions. Da knows the story because he was there. It goes like this:

The First Company of the King’s Own is camped just outside Cattle Hill; they’ve been helping the villagers cope with rising water levels and a crumbling flood wall.

Owen and Wyldon, Will’s Grandda, are there too, shoveling debris and wading through mud up to their mid-thighs. It’s not a glorious job, but someone has to get it done.

Hope’s mother Keladry is, by all accounts, back in New Hope, easily an hour’s ride away, ten days overdue with her baby.

As it turns out, all accounts are wrong.

Wyldon pauses, a hand on his back - he’s not as strong as he was, once upon a time - and takes pause, resting his forearms on the sturdy shovel. Owen, a few feet away hear’s his former knight-master bark “Mindelan!” and thinks ruefully that physical strength might not be all that Wyldon is losing with age.

“Jesslaw, My Lord” Owen reminds Wyldon gently, trailing off in disbelief as he follows the older man’s dismayed gaze.

Keladry of Mindelan, Lady Knight, is waddling unceremoniously towards them, a furiously determined look on her usually calm features.

“Mindelan,” repeats Wyldon. “What in the name of all things holy are you doing here?”

“Helping, My Lord,” Keladry says, her voice unusually meek.

“No,” says Wyldon, livid. “You are pregnant. Over nine months pregnant. You are giving me a headache, girl, just looking at you. You should be in bed.”

Owen can practically hear Wyldon’s teeth grinding together.

Keladry glares at her mentor, Owen’s father-in-law. “I am not a girl, My Lord, I am forty-four years old, a Knight of the Relam, and I am absolutely sick of sitting in bed as if I am unable to help the people I have sworn to serve.”

Wyldon’s gaze softens, but holds out his hard firmly. “Give me the shovel, Keladry.”

“No,” retorts Keladry. And then she gasps in shock. “Oh, um, okay, here it is.”

Owen eyes his friend skeptically. “I don’t think she’s talking about the shovel anymore.”

Wyldon winces and hobbles to Keladry’s side, “It’s going to be alright,” he says soothingly before turning on Owen.

“Jesslaw,” he barks, “Get a healer.”

“Yes,” says Owen quickly. “Going, now.”

“I want Neal,” insists Keladry.

“Well,” Wyldon tells her, as he would talk to a foolish page. “You should have thought of that before riding out into the middle of nowhere. The Own has excellent healers.”

“There are no women in the King’s Own,” protests Keladry, her hazel eyes wide in horror. “Owen, I swear to The Great Mother Goddess, find me someone who has delivered a baby before or else I will never speak to you again.”

*

Kel sits propped up in the bed of an elderly refugee woman, Wyldon and Owen perched on the edge, her new baby girl in her arms. The baby is so small, so perfect.

“Have you thought what you’ll call her?” asks Wyldon.

Kel looks up, a quiet smile on her face. “It never occurred to me to pick a girl’s name; I was sure it would be a boy.”

Owen grins. “It never occurred to you?”

“I know,” says Kel. She sounds worried. “It’s just, I’ve spent my whole life around boys and men. I don’t know about girls.”

“That’s hardly true,” says Wyldon, tucking a piece of stray hair behind Kel’s ear. “I’ve never met a finer girl than the one who is sitting right here, in front of me.”

A slow, stunned smile creeps over Kel’s face and she beams at Wyldon.

“So Jesslaw,” she says after a moment of silence. “Any ideas for a name?”

“Oh, no,” says Wyldon. “Don’t let him choose. He named my grandson Willow.”

Owen protests, “After you.”

“My name,” the older man raises his eyebrows. “Is Wyl-don, not Will-ow.”

Owen pouts. “Wyldon is just a little old-fashioned, is all. And Margarry wanted it too.”

“What about Ilane?” asks Wyldon, ignoring his son-in-law.

Kel shakes her head. “There are already Ilane, Alayna and little Eleanor running around Mindelan.”

Wyldon winces.

“I guess Alanna is out of the question, then,” says Owen.

“Good thing, too,” says Wyldon. “I’ve always been a fan of the classics.”

“Like what?” asks Kel, intrigued enough to ignore the dig at her lifelong hero.

“Rosemary,” says Wyldon fondly. “Or Agnes.”

Owen and Kel exchange glances, Kel wrinkling her nose in disgust, and Owen hiding a smile behind his hands.

The baby yawns.

“What,” says Owen at long last. “What about Hope.”

Keladry stares down at her baby girl, who blinks back. Kel smiles.

“Hope,” she says, testing out the feel of the name on her tongue.

Wyldon, too, is smiling. “New Hope.”

Kel glances up at them, scandalized. “I can’t call my child after a city. Can I?”

Owen raises his eyebrows. “I couldn’t possibly think of a better way to start your daughter’s life, than to name her after, collectively, say a few thousand people who love her mother unconditionally.”

“I’m pretty sure there are a few in there who hate me,” retorts Kel.

“And you wouldn’t trade those ones, either,” points out Wyldon.

“No,” sighs Kel, after a moment in which she envisions herself gleefully sending several individuals out to sea on a raft. “I wouldn’t.”

*

A tall, flustered man bursts into the hedgewitch’s shanty, robes billowing wildly in a gust of dramatic wind.

“Kel,” says Neal in a panic, obviously not registering the bundle cradled carefully in his best friend’s arms. “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be okay.”

*


Part One Part Two...Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

Comments

[pumaful.livejournal.com]

Heee. The end is so very brilliant. &hearts

[lyredenfers.livejournal.com]

Your icon is so pretty. I thought it was some strange and beautiful flower at first, but it's a book!

[girl-called-sun.livejournal.com]

Ha, I had my suspicions - am I right, am I? So excited to see what happens, plot wise.

I really like the first section, how Kel and Lerant communicate without saying much, and the elegant way you get that across in your writing.

[lyredenfers.livejournal.com]

Suspicions? Like what? :D I love knowing what's going on in other people's heads. Mostly because I'm beginning to suspect that things are vastly different in my own head, from how they come across on the page.

[girl-called-sun.livejournal.com]

When I read this...

Strong hands remove Hope from Masbolle’s lap, and bring her face to face with this supposed Uncle. His expression changes from irritation to wonder as he stares into Hope’s face.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells her. “You look just like Keladry.”

my little fannish heart skipped a beat - was Hope Kel and Lerant's daughter? But then I can read Lerant into lots of things.

Hmm - that reads as excessively shippy - I am enjoying reading your fic for many reasons, foremost the lovely descriptive writing and characterisation.

And now I am blathering. Do ignore me.

[lyredenfers.livejournal.com]

Hee! Of course I can neither confirm nor deny at this point in time, but I can see why you might think that. (It's a good thing that the internet is between us, because I am basically the world's worst secret keeper...)

I would never ignore you, I love your comments!

[wastxd-symphony.livejournal.com]

let's just hope you-know-who isn't around the corner.... ;D

[lyredenfers.livejournal.com]

Ahaha! I walked right into that one.

[wastxd-symphony.livejournal.com]

I really should stop before I make a fool of myself, but are you sirius?

[anait.livejournal.com]

I love how Owen and Wyldon never grow past their Squire-Training Master relationship of mutual disrespect. So funny. Your Wyldon is amazing:

“That’s hardly true,” says Wyldon, tucking a piece of stray hair behind Kel’s ear. “I’ve never met a finer girl than the one who is sitting right here, in front of me.”

A slow, stunned smile creeps over Kel’s face and she beams at Wyldon.

“So Jesslaw,” she says after a moment of silence. “Any ideas for a name?”

“Oh, no,” says Wyldon. “Don’t let him choose. He named my grandson Willow.”

I know that the father probably isn't the obvious one, but I'll just be over here, shipping your Kel/Lerant like crazy.

[lyredenfers.livejournal.com]

Haha, Pierce did very well by me when she hooked up Owen and Wyldon.

[ineptshieldmaid.livejournal.com]

*giggle* OH, KEL.

Excellent work :)

[lyredenfers.livejournal.com]

Thanks!

[k4writer02.livejournal.com]

I found this story through Piercefic 08. I read all 3 chapters tonight and wanted to tell you how impressed I am with the story. New Hope/Mindelan's Bound practically seems like a character itself--I like your descriptions of the statue of Kel, Peachblossom, the birds, and Jump. I'm interested in Hope and her father and the mystery of how Kel decided to be a mother. Thanks for sharing!

[lyredenfers.livejournal.com]

Thank you for the nice words :)