Post by Sheari on Jul 5, 2012 23:00:09 GMT -5
It was cold. Syrialenai’s joints would have protested more if she hadn’t put on her newest cloak lined with thick feline fur. Today she was feeling ignorant…and rebellious. Her husband would be away on business for a little over a sevenday. With nothing else really to do, the lady holder had gone to the stables that morning and asked one of the young men there to tack up her favourite runner. Now she was sitting on an elderly black gelding, retired from hauling the heavy, barrel-laden wagons form the vineyards to the hold. He was quiet, often dozing as they walked along next to her husband and his prized mare. She was a young bay coloured creature, spirited and youthful, and he probably already had his eye on the perfect male for her.
The woman sighed. Bloodlines and breeding were something Tyreminoar valued in all of his stock, be it his mounts, to his grapes, to his very own children. She often wondered if he had revoked their first son’s birthright in favour of their second son because he possibly saw Syrinoar as inferior to Minoasyr. With the rules she still had to obey, what that man saw in his children would probably be a secret he took with him to his grave. In truth, Syrialenai didn’t really care what that man saw in her brood, as long as he did not treat them with the heavy hand he was reputed for. Something she had experienced many a time herself. Waving to the watch dragon, she urged the runner into an easy jog and left the gates of the hold. She was feeling brave today and like her younger self, and she wanted to visit the outer vineyards. To test her boundaries a little.
“Feeling those old bones?” she asked the gelding as he picked his head up and became more alert with the quicker pace. His ear twitched backward to catch her words but he focused on his jog. The pair moved along a well known path to the outermost vines until she halted the runner and dismounted to walk next to him. These fields were often ignored because of their distance from the Hold proper. In her youth, that had been a great boon. Syrialenai remembered as a girl how she would sneak out here with her husband before they’d been Joined and just talk for hours. He always knew the best places to hide when he heard someone riding past, or the best places to find the juiciest grapes. How had she not seen, then, the true man that he was? After their Joining, so much had changed. So much had faded. If he died, would she grieve? Probably, but not as much as a Lady Holder really should. She’d put on a show of the tragedy for the others, but inside, would she really care?
She’d be free of his abuses, at least.
She would have even more restrictions. Anything she did could possibly be construed as a reaction to Tyreminoar’s death. If she turned to another for love, it would be worse than if she did it now, seen as a betrayal to his memory. If she became more active or took a more prominent stance in the Hold, his death, however natural it might be, would have a conspiracy cast over with her at it’s epicenter. If she chose to withdraw and fade from the world, hiding away and doing nothing; if she put herself completely out of the picture, it would be accepted and nothing negative would be seen on her. She would hate herself for it, because she would hate her life with nothing to do. Syrialenai concluded that, if her husband died, no matter how much she may not love him, it would be worse.
“I wish I’d brought that harper along,” she sighed aloud. Matteo was young and attractive. He was as old as her eldest son, and quite easily just under half her age. If only she were about ten turns younger, or he perhaps about ten turns older and a Lord Holder. Even then she’d have probably been saddled with Tyreminoar. How silly and foolish she’d been. Tyreminoar had been quite the man in their youth. Attractive, educated, and of noble blood. Even if he weren’t a Lord, he would have probably still commanded the affections that he’d enjoyed from other girls her age back then. So many memories from this place, the sleeping vineyard. By now the gelding had slipped into quite the contented nap. Gently tugging the reins to wake him, Syrialenai lead the runner over to a nearby large tree with a good trunk for keeping the chilly breeze from her. She sat down, dropping the reins next to her. If only, if only…
The woman sighed. Bloodlines and breeding were something Tyreminoar valued in all of his stock, be it his mounts, to his grapes, to his very own children. She often wondered if he had revoked their first son’s birthright in favour of their second son because he possibly saw Syrinoar as inferior to Minoasyr. With the rules she still had to obey, what that man saw in his children would probably be a secret he took with him to his grave. In truth, Syrialenai didn’t really care what that man saw in her brood, as long as he did not treat them with the heavy hand he was reputed for. Something she had experienced many a time herself. Waving to the watch dragon, she urged the runner into an easy jog and left the gates of the hold. She was feeling brave today and like her younger self, and she wanted to visit the outer vineyards. To test her boundaries a little.
“Feeling those old bones?” she asked the gelding as he picked his head up and became more alert with the quicker pace. His ear twitched backward to catch her words but he focused on his jog. The pair moved along a well known path to the outermost vines until she halted the runner and dismounted to walk next to him. These fields were often ignored because of their distance from the Hold proper. In her youth, that had been a great boon. Syrialenai remembered as a girl how she would sneak out here with her husband before they’d been Joined and just talk for hours. He always knew the best places to hide when he heard someone riding past, or the best places to find the juiciest grapes. How had she not seen, then, the true man that he was? After their Joining, so much had changed. So much had faded. If he died, would she grieve? Probably, but not as much as a Lady Holder really should. She’d put on a show of the tragedy for the others, but inside, would she really care?
She’d be free of his abuses, at least.
She would have even more restrictions. Anything she did could possibly be construed as a reaction to Tyreminoar’s death. If she turned to another for love, it would be worse than if she did it now, seen as a betrayal to his memory. If she became more active or took a more prominent stance in the Hold, his death, however natural it might be, would have a conspiracy cast over with her at it’s epicenter. If she chose to withdraw and fade from the world, hiding away and doing nothing; if she put herself completely out of the picture, it would be accepted and nothing negative would be seen on her. She would hate herself for it, because she would hate her life with nothing to do. Syrialenai concluded that, if her husband died, no matter how much she may not love him, it would be worse.
“I wish I’d brought that harper along,” she sighed aloud. Matteo was young and attractive. He was as old as her eldest son, and quite easily just under half her age. If only she were about ten turns younger, or he perhaps about ten turns older and a Lord Holder. Even then she’d have probably been saddled with Tyreminoar. How silly and foolish she’d been. Tyreminoar had been quite the man in their youth. Attractive, educated, and of noble blood. Even if he weren’t a Lord, he would have probably still commanded the affections that he’d enjoyed from other girls her age back then. So many memories from this place, the sleeping vineyard. By now the gelding had slipped into quite the contented nap. Gently tugging the reins to wake him, Syrialenai lead the runner over to a nearby large tree with a good trunk for keeping the chilly breeze from her. She sat down, dropping the reins next to her. If only, if only…