This is the story of Charlotte’s grandparents. It’s fun to see the birth of weaver magic in the US and the creation of the castle. It’s even more fun to get to know Hugo and Amadahy. I just realized yesterday that I’ve never really come out and said directly that Charlotte has interesting lineage because of the length of a weaver’s lifetime. Isaac is half Native American, and half of European descent. (I reserve the right to say exactly where he’s from, lol. Gotta save some fun for later, right?) And we all know what she gets from her mother’s side. Kinda. Mwah ha ha ha.(I’m terrible this morning, sorry.) Anyway, I’m rambling, as usual. Let’s get back to the story, shall we? I’m going to try to give you a lot more of the story this month/week. Kinda as a Valentine’s Day gift to you. Enjoy!
I wake to the sound of rain pattering across the roof. We have shifted and turned in the night. I awake to find my head propped on his shoulder and my leg looped over his body. I close my eyes and wait. When he wakes, I do not move an inch. Neither does he. Our eyes dance, darting away and coming back. At last he shifts to his side. He says something soft and warm, and then places his hand over my eyes. The heaviness from crying last night fades away. He does this again, drawing his fingers over my head. He whispers another set of words, and the dull ache in my head is gone.
Our magics dance between us, his brown and my green. I try not to stare at them too long. I don’t know what he sees yet, and the memory of my failed experiment last night settled into my mind. I should not have cried last night. I know that it takes time and failure to learn something. But I have never wanted something so badly in my life before. I will speak to this man, and it will come faster than it has. I will trail him all day long if I have to. I will fill the spaces between us with words until we both choke on them. One way or the other, I will be able to hold a conversation with this man of mine.
His chuckle surprises me. I frown up at him.
“Breakfast.” He chuckles again.
He says something again, but his words are lost between us.
“Hugo.” I say stubbornly. He will not outdo me with words. “Breakfast.” I insist. I do know this word, and the others that happen every day. He is odd in his insistence at three meals a day, and I wonder again what his life was like in his strange land across the mighty waters.
He laughs and presses his lips to the top of my face before he gets out of bed.
I rise to my knees on the bed, my hands in fists. He does not even look at me as he shoves on clothes and hums that annoying tune. My hand reaches for his pillow, and before I know it, I have launched it at his back.
He turns around to face me. There is confusion on his face, and then we are both angry. We stand there, shooting arrows at each other’s eyes, until finally I cannot take it anymore. I throw on my own clothes and stomp past him out the door.
I hurry through my morning routine as the rain continues to pour down and the wind rushes to and fro through the forest. My anger has lessoned without his face to look at, and I begin to feel sick about what I have done. What is wrong with me? I haven’t had an outburst like this since I was very small. Control is important to my people, and control in a job such as mine is even more so.
I hurry back home as I try to think of how to fix this between us. I know what to do in my old village, but that is gone. All of my life is gone. I have shelter and food and another person to see each day, but I have never in my life felt so alone and empty. I rush through the door and dry myself with a spell. He is there, his back turned to me. His fingers are flying over the pages of one of his books. My anger returns, but this time I know why.
I want him. He is mine. But I don’t have him.
“Ama.” He calls out in the soft tone of his voice as he waves me over.
I go to him, and am surprised when he pulls me onto his lap and presses my head against his shoulder. I don’t know the words that come next. He explodes with them. It is many moments before he is done. The anger I had when he began to speak has faded away. He is trying. I am trying. Someday we will know each other’s words. His words cease and there is only the sound of our hearts and breath as he continues to look through his books. I realize then that the same energy he was using to build a new home is now being used to try to communicate with me. I settle into his shoulder and think through my own spells.
Outside, dark clouds rumble as they shove across the sky.
Inside, our magics dance between our bodies.
More to come! Have a great day and thanks for your time!