30 Days - Wind (part 1/5)

[felicitygs]

 Your hands have an easy rhythm. One, two, one, two, round and round, and the thread passes between your fingers like spiders silk.

 

(You’ve heard tales of Arachne and her challenge to the gods, and you scoff at that. The Greeks, you think, are barbaric and they give your kind a bad name with their ways. No wonder Asgard thinks Vanaheim full of backwater farmers and fishermen and forget the quiet might that has forced them to stalemate generations ago, when the tales the mortals speak of are nothing but the pettiness of that clan. The Olympians and their Olympus; you are glad, not for the first time, you were given to your uncle’s care when your father’s boat foundered, not your aunt’s.)

 

You hear that your future mother-in-law weaves, and that is a comfort, one of the only one’s you have taken besides your pick between the brothers.

 

(But you are proud and you do not complain, though you will be taken from hills and rocks and rough seas and set on stable ground amid the too-cold stars. Peace, you know, is hard-won and ever changing, and it is not in you to mourn what cannot be changed.)

 

You finish winding the thread on the shuttle–green and vibrant as the hillsides of the home you are leaving soon, and begin to weave.

 

(Your only concession to Asgard’s chill that you will feel every day, this himation done in hues of your future husband.)