Not every Northwoman seeks out mighty deeds.
Some just want to carry water.
***
Rising over a grassy hill with the river Running behind, a girl in a thick red cloak trudged homeward. Borne across her shoulders was a thick slab of wood, a sloshing water bucket hanging from each end. For the girl beneath it, keeping upright proved just as much a challenge as walking forward. The water shifted weight this way and that, pulling her around almost in circles. She stomped through clumps of brown grass and uneven stones, trying to keep her footing. Down another short hill and up another, she reached a dead old tree. With a growling huff, the buckets thudded flat on the ground and the girl knelt to shrug off her load. She sat in the sparse shadow of the tree and looked up with a sigh. But not an unpleasant one.
A crisp wind cooled her brow and toyed with her braided red hair. It hushed in her ears and reminded her to breathe deep. And looking out at the village before her, she could not help but smile. Its plain homes of stone, clay and planks hardly changed the drab landscape surrounding it. Just a pocket of Men in the middle of nature, forgotten by most everything except itself. The people milling about inside it shuffled quickly, did their business and moved on to warmer shelter indoors. Spring had not yet come and the winters were long. Few cared to pause and enjoy it.
"Are you home yet, Merys?" a young man asked as his shadow filled that of the tree.
The girl twisted around, drawing back her red cloak to squint up at the man leaning on the tree. He gave her a smug smile back, which she answered with rolling eyes and a return to gazing at the village.
"I told you I could do it and now you see it." Without looking at him, her hand jutted out in his direction, palm out and waiting.
After a moment's pause, the young man grunted and rifled through his pocket. "Ja, ja," he muttered in Dalish, drawing out a coin and reaching to set it in her hand. He stops halfway and pulls it back. "But you didn't make it all the way home."
Merys narrowed her eyes and seized the plank with both hands. "Watch me." With one heave, the plank landed on her shoulders, with another shove skyward, her body heaved the buckets from the earth. And with a gritting scowl on her face, she plodded onto the worn, dirt road into town.
It was at times like these that Merys really despised her mother's love of people. If she had been a quiet seeker of serenity, their house would be on the fringe of town, easily reached from the river. But no, her mother loved conversation, loved knowing about everything, so their house was dead center, requiring Merys to stagger her way through half the town. Most were about their own business and paid the little figure no mind. But she could not escape everyone's attention.
"Merys! Where have you been?"
The sharp spike of her mother's voice nearly set Merys off kilter. She wobbled and quickly set the buckets on the ground, splashing their contents into the dust, and onto her mother's right shoe. Merys looked up and gave a small, apologetic smile. It was not returned.
"Dishes?" her mother asked simply, dark eyebrows risen.
Merys sighed as she pushed herself upright. Straightening, now it was her mother who had to look up, a full head and shoulders lower than her daughter. But the change in height did nothing for Merys' nerve, which melted into a bent head and downcast eyes. "Yes, mother."
As the older woman heaved up a bucket and carried it inside, Merys paused with her hand on the other, looking back to the road. The young man flashed a shrug, a smile, and the coin in his hand before pocketing it and strolling away. Merys huffed and lifted the bucket into the house.
While her eyes adjusted to the dimmer indoor light, she listened to her mother clattering about the kitchen. The sound alone was enough to keep Merys' head down. She knew each instrument in the orchestra of that room, and her mother played most out of tune.
"Fredda Jornsdottir was expecting me an hour ago for sword practice!" Her mother called with a crashing tin cup for emphasis. "What were you doing?"
Merys opened her mouth, then closed it, before her mother had even uttered a word. She knew the sound of her mother sucking in breath for interruption.
"If you wanted to fetch water, you should have rode down in the wagon this morning, just like all the other girls. You know how this works. You've done it your whole life. And what are you doing carrying water this way? Your body's not up for this sort of lifting. You'll ruin your back and then where will you be? Hardly enough meat on you to feed a house cat. Leave the heavy lifting to others where it belongs."
"Yes, mother," Merys mumbled, eyes now adjusted and seeing the mound of dishes piled beside a basin on the table. Her mother sharply poked a ladle in its direction, then dropped it in the basin with a clunk. A dry clunk, since she'd not put any water in it yet. Without another word, her mother brushed past her, snatching her own cloak from a nearby peg and a sheathed sword hanging below it.
Her mother gone, Merys let out a long breath and slumped against the wall. Closing her eyes briefly, she tried to muster the energy to face her chores.
Quietly, without a word or even a sharp noise announcing his presence, another figure brushed softly by her. Tall and thin, almost fragile looking, Merys' father bent down, lifting a bucket of water and pouring it into the basin. With a brush in his long hand, he began scrubbing the ladle, rinsing, setting out to dry. He raised his eyes from his task and met those of his daughter, blue meeting blue and soft smile meeting smile. He only nodded and took a step to the left, and Merys slid in beside him. In a peaceful silence, the two passed one to the other in a steady rhythm of washing.
