Braids - for sqbr
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junetideTitle: Braids
Gift for:sqbr
By: inkydinkydoo
Gift type: fiction, almost 1800 words
Genre: wuxia
Rating:PG
Warnings:
Summary: A woman can never be Lakan?
Her mother was brushing her hair, and she was ten years old again, listening to the clanking of metal against metal while her father sparred with his men in the distance.
She picked out a tiny porcelain bell, and held it an arm’s length in front of her, the robin’s egg blue almost disappearing against the cloudless sky. She looked at it closely, then handed it to her mother. “Plait this in too?”
Her mother nodded, taking it from her. “I remember when your father gave me this, Jionniah“ she said, smiling.
“When I was born?”
“Yes, and you were as difficult then as you are now. Two days and one night did I labour, you stubbornly refused to move where you were supposed to, “ her mother laughed and weaved it in her hair.
In front of her, the tiny bells and charms disappeared, one by one from the tray as her mother braided them into her hair with nimble fingers, in the same order she usually did: the star, the grail, the flame, all given by her godparents at her christening; the red and black aster, which her mother and father said was so that she would never forget her lost sister; the dagger and the sword, which meant she was the child of the Lakan; the different symbols of the different villages that rejoiced when she was born, and finally the two cloud-horses, which her father had made the day he told her he was giving the other one to her uncle.
Then it was the cloud-stallion’s mane being braided, all the bells and charms and other things, and her uncle’s slave brushing the tail. Her uncle was there, smiling smugly, saying “Women can never ride stallions, Brother. Just as they can never be Lakan.”
She had begged and cried and wheedled and cried some more, arguing that she was the one who had caught them and tamed them, but her uncle brought the wisemen and had them tell her father it was not done that way. Her father looked grim at first, then gently at her, pleading with her to understand but she was ten years old, and wouldn’t. She was shaking her head. “I caught them, “ she insisted. “One for you, and one for me.“
“Jionniah, “ he said gently, “my child…”
Her grandmother came out, bells tinkling in her hair, saying sternly “Women can never be Lakan. A stallion will not suit” and then turned into her uncle, smiling smugly again. For a moment she thought she saw the hint of rage in her mother’s eyes, but then Mother bowed, and whispered, “It is so.”
“It is so!” Uncle repeated, laughing. “It is so!”
Her Mother’s face floated in front of her, gentle and beautiful and sad, and then Father’s face, stern and fierce. “Do not apologise for giving me daughters, “ she heard him say. “Never apologise,” he said, looking into her face, and finally her mother smiled, disappearing in the darkness.
Jionniah felt the faint moisture of a teardrop on her arm and woke. The bells in her hair tinkled as she sat up, exactly the same time she felt the twinge of pain in her arm. There was a woman plaiting her hair, but it was not her mother. In the distance, she could hear the clanking of metal against metal, but it was not her father, either. It could not be.
The woman spoke. “ You will eat first, and bathe and dress. She will be done soon.”
“She?”
“Chiarila, the armorer. She is usually done by the time the sun comes up. She will want to see you, and she will want to see you well. Now come.”
The woman showed her to the bath and waited while she washed away all the dust, mud and blood, then led her to the outer room, where she bade Jionnah eat. She was not hungry at first, but the first bite of the buttered bread woke the pangs of hunger inside her, and before she knew it, she was devouring everything set before her: cheese, mutton, a potato stew, some reddish pink fruit that dripped juice on her chin when she bit into it.
The door creaked open, but she didn’t notice until the armorer spoke. “You may want to breathe, little lakanessa, “ she said, amused. “Don’t worry, it’s not going to disappear. And if it does, well, there’s more where that came from. “
She turned to see the armorer walking towards her and caught her breath.
She was magnificent, this armorer. Tall, with rippling muscles on her arm and back, and a black and red aster painted, no, tattooed, on the right side of her face. It wasn’t just her face that was unusual, but Jionniah could not quite figure out what was different. The armorer made her way to the table then grabbed an apple, and bit into it, looking at her.
“You do not remember me.” she said, but it wasn’t a question.
Jionniah shook her head.
The armorer sighed, poured some mare’s milk into a wooden cup, and drank. She shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Though I had hoped you did.”
“You were the voice talking to me from outside the pit, “ she ventured. “The one who sang.”
The woman smiled, her eyes unexpectedly sparkling and kind behind the aster tattoo. “And I was the one who pulled you out, with the help of Harra and her boys, yes, but that wasn’t what I was talking about. “
She stood up. “It does not matter, “ she said smiling. “Eat, rest, heal. And then we will go see a man about a horse.”
She strode to the door and disappeared, and finally Jionniah realized what was unusual, more than the aster on her face or her kindly eyes or the voice that sounded like her mother.
No bells tinkled as she walked.
She wore no braids.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
None of the women in her troop had braids, they wore their hair long and free, or cropped short, just like Chiarila the armorer.
“I chopped my hair off the day I escaped the palace, “ Dessa said, as she brushed her hair, plaiting in the charms and bells one by one. “The steward gave me bells every time he said I pleased him, and every time they made a sound, it was just like my screams.”
“I strangled my master with mine, “ said Gioria, the waterbearer with the shaved head. “And then I cut it off and left it there, wrapped around his fat neck.”
The women laughed, but some of it was grim laughter.
“Maybe I should cut off mine, “ she wondered aloud, looking at the pair of cloud-horses. They glinted in the sunlight.
“No, Chiarila says not.”
“Why not?”
Dessa just smiled and took the cloud-horses, weaving them into her hair.
She woke up early the next day, before dawn, and watched Chiarila at her forge. “Long hair does not suit a forge, “ the armorer said, “and the only plaits and braids that matter are those that turn iron into steel.”
“But…”
“We are free women. You are not free.”
“I have always been free, unlike these women. I have never been a slave.”
“You may never have been a slave but you are the Lakan. You will never be free.”
“A woman cannot be Lakan, “ she said, remembering the words that took her barangay away.
Chiarila laughed. “Now that, my dear sister, is slavery. Slavery is in the mind.” She held out a sword, its edges still orange from the fires of the forge. “Here. Weigh this, see if it suits.”
The sword had no hilt, and the rags wrapped around the end was still hot as Jionnia held it in her hand, raising it, weighing it, then slashed the air. It made a sound like a bell, much sharper and clearer than the dull clanging she had been used to at the balangay.
“It will not break, not against the steel of the other Lakans, and especially not against the sword of your uncle. I have spent years searching for a way to make sure of that.”
She had plaited and braided and wrapped, steel with copper, the yellow soil with the black, Chiarila said. At first it had broken, brittle like her hair when it had been singed with the fires of the forge. But she had added and subtracted, and taken out his and added that, and after years of hammering, heating and plaiting, she finally had a sword to hand to her sister.
“What style the hilt? “ she asked Jionnia, who was still slashing at the air, listening to it ring.
“What else?“ she laughed, and left her sister the armorer, who laughed, then set about the task of braiding gold and platinum.
_____________________________________________
They braided her hair before the battle, in front of the tribesmen who handed her bells and charms from their lands to weave in. A moon-rock from the dark mothers of the peaks, black as their skin and their curly hair that hid white smiles. A yellow-gold bell, shaped like a seven-level pagoda, from the warrior women of the North, whose hooded eyes did little to hide their delight at the prospect of fighting. Flowers and trees and heads of corn, and of course cloud-horses, hundreds of them, from the plainswomen. And more.
When she stood up, she rose to the sound of the bells in her braids, but that was soon drowned by the cheering of the people she had gathered to replace the barangay she had lost– the ones who gathered to help her gain it back.
They marched at dawn to the sound of the bells in the distance, echoing the ones she wore in her braid.
When she found her uncle in the solar of the balangay, the one she had been born in, the same one that saw her mother die, he said the same words he always had.
“A woman can never be Lakan.”
Beside her, her sisters laughed. Her true sister, the armorer, just watched.
“A women can never be Lakan, “ he repeated, angry and afraid.
She nodded. “No. But a woman can be Lakane-Lakana, the Lakan of Lakans, the mother, sister and daughter of all. “
In a corner, a maidservant lost her fear, nodded and whispered, “It is so.”
“I can be. I am. And it is so.”
Outside, cloud-stallions neighed, and cloud-mares too, and when she raised her sword, the bells in her braid tinkled.
Soon after, the fighting began. The swords sounded just like bells, the bells she wore in her braids.
Gift for:
sqbrBy: inkydinkydoo
Gift type: fiction, almost 1800 words
Genre: wuxia
Rating:PG
Warnings:
Summary: A woman can never be Lakan?
Her mother was brushing her hair, and she was ten years old again, listening to the clanking of metal against metal while her father sparred with his men in the distance.
She picked out a tiny porcelain bell, and held it an arm’s length in front of her, the robin’s egg blue almost disappearing against the cloudless sky. She looked at it closely, then handed it to her mother. “Plait this in too?”
Her mother nodded, taking it from her. “I remember when your father gave me this, Jionniah“ she said, smiling.
“When I was born?”
“Yes, and you were as difficult then as you are now. Two days and one night did I labour, you stubbornly refused to move where you were supposed to, “ her mother laughed and weaved it in her hair.
In front of her, the tiny bells and charms disappeared, one by one from the tray as her mother braided them into her hair with nimble fingers, in the same order she usually did: the star, the grail, the flame, all given by her godparents at her christening; the red and black aster, which her mother and father said was so that she would never forget her lost sister; the dagger and the sword, which meant she was the child of the Lakan; the different symbols of the different villages that rejoiced when she was born, and finally the two cloud-horses, which her father had made the day he told her he was giving the other one to her uncle.
Then it was the cloud-stallion’s mane being braided, all the bells and charms and other things, and her uncle’s slave brushing the tail. Her uncle was there, smiling smugly, saying “Women can never ride stallions, Brother. Just as they can never be Lakan.”
She had begged and cried and wheedled and cried some more, arguing that she was the one who had caught them and tamed them, but her uncle brought the wisemen and had them tell her father it was not done that way. Her father looked grim at first, then gently at her, pleading with her to understand but she was ten years old, and wouldn’t. She was shaking her head. “I caught them, “ she insisted. “One for you, and one for me.“
“Jionniah, “ he said gently, “my child…”
Her grandmother came out, bells tinkling in her hair, saying sternly “Women can never be Lakan. A stallion will not suit” and then turned into her uncle, smiling smugly again. For a moment she thought she saw the hint of rage in her mother’s eyes, but then Mother bowed, and whispered, “It is so.”
“It is so!” Uncle repeated, laughing. “It is so!”
Her Mother’s face floated in front of her, gentle and beautiful and sad, and then Father’s face, stern and fierce. “Do not apologise for giving me daughters, “ she heard him say. “Never apologise,” he said, looking into her face, and finally her mother smiled, disappearing in the darkness.
Jionniah felt the faint moisture of a teardrop on her arm and woke. The bells in her hair tinkled as she sat up, exactly the same time she felt the twinge of pain in her arm. There was a woman plaiting her hair, but it was not her mother. In the distance, she could hear the clanking of metal against metal, but it was not her father, either. It could not be.
The woman spoke. “ You will eat first, and bathe and dress. She will be done soon.”
“She?”
“Chiarila, the armorer. She is usually done by the time the sun comes up. She will want to see you, and she will want to see you well. Now come.”
The woman showed her to the bath and waited while she washed away all the dust, mud and blood, then led her to the outer room, where she bade Jionnah eat. She was not hungry at first, but the first bite of the buttered bread woke the pangs of hunger inside her, and before she knew it, she was devouring everything set before her: cheese, mutton, a potato stew, some reddish pink fruit that dripped juice on her chin when she bit into it.
The door creaked open, but she didn’t notice until the armorer spoke. “You may want to breathe, little lakanessa, “ she said, amused. “Don’t worry, it’s not going to disappear. And if it does, well, there’s more where that came from. “
She turned to see the armorer walking towards her and caught her breath.
She was magnificent, this armorer. Tall, with rippling muscles on her arm and back, and a black and red aster painted, no, tattooed, on the right side of her face. It wasn’t just her face that was unusual, but Jionniah could not quite figure out what was different. The armorer made her way to the table then grabbed an apple, and bit into it, looking at her.
“You do not remember me.” she said, but it wasn’t a question.
Jionniah shook her head.
The armorer sighed, poured some mare’s milk into a wooden cup, and drank. She shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Though I had hoped you did.”
“You were the voice talking to me from outside the pit, “ she ventured. “The one who sang.”
The woman smiled, her eyes unexpectedly sparkling and kind behind the aster tattoo. “And I was the one who pulled you out, with the help of Harra and her boys, yes, but that wasn’t what I was talking about. “
She stood up. “It does not matter, “ she said smiling. “Eat, rest, heal. And then we will go see a man about a horse.”
She strode to the door and disappeared, and finally Jionniah realized what was unusual, more than the aster on her face or her kindly eyes or the voice that sounded like her mother.
No bells tinkled as she walked.
She wore no braids.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
None of the women in her troop had braids, they wore their hair long and free, or cropped short, just like Chiarila the armorer.
“I chopped my hair off the day I escaped the palace, “ Dessa said, as she brushed her hair, plaiting in the charms and bells one by one. “The steward gave me bells every time he said I pleased him, and every time they made a sound, it was just like my screams.”
“I strangled my master with mine, “ said Gioria, the waterbearer with the shaved head. “And then I cut it off and left it there, wrapped around his fat neck.”
The women laughed, but some of it was grim laughter.
“Maybe I should cut off mine, “ she wondered aloud, looking at the pair of cloud-horses. They glinted in the sunlight.
“No, Chiarila says not.”
“Why not?”
Dessa just smiled and took the cloud-horses, weaving them into her hair.
She woke up early the next day, before dawn, and watched Chiarila at her forge. “Long hair does not suit a forge, “ the armorer said, “and the only plaits and braids that matter are those that turn iron into steel.”
“But…”
“We are free women. You are not free.”
“I have always been free, unlike these women. I have never been a slave.”
“You may never have been a slave but you are the Lakan. You will never be free.”
“A woman cannot be Lakan, “ she said, remembering the words that took her barangay away.
Chiarila laughed. “Now that, my dear sister, is slavery. Slavery is in the mind.” She held out a sword, its edges still orange from the fires of the forge. “Here. Weigh this, see if it suits.”
The sword had no hilt, and the rags wrapped around the end was still hot as Jionnia held it in her hand, raising it, weighing it, then slashed the air. It made a sound like a bell, much sharper and clearer than the dull clanging she had been used to at the balangay.
“It will not break, not against the steel of the other Lakans, and especially not against the sword of your uncle. I have spent years searching for a way to make sure of that.”
She had plaited and braided and wrapped, steel with copper, the yellow soil with the black, Chiarila said. At first it had broken, brittle like her hair when it had been singed with the fires of the forge. But she had added and subtracted, and taken out his and added that, and after years of hammering, heating and plaiting, she finally had a sword to hand to her sister.
“What style the hilt? “ she asked Jionnia, who was still slashing at the air, listening to it ring.
“What else?“ she laughed, and left her sister the armorer, who laughed, then set about the task of braiding gold and platinum.
_____________________________________________
They braided her hair before the battle, in front of the tribesmen who handed her bells and charms from their lands to weave in. A moon-rock from the dark mothers of the peaks, black as their skin and their curly hair that hid white smiles. A yellow-gold bell, shaped like a seven-level pagoda, from the warrior women of the North, whose hooded eyes did little to hide their delight at the prospect of fighting. Flowers and trees and heads of corn, and of course cloud-horses, hundreds of them, from the plainswomen. And more.
When she stood up, she rose to the sound of the bells in her braids, but that was soon drowned by the cheering of the people she had gathered to replace the barangay she had lost– the ones who gathered to help her gain it back.
They marched at dawn to the sound of the bells in the distance, echoing the ones she wore in her braid.
When she found her uncle in the solar of the balangay, the one she had been born in, the same one that saw her mother die, he said the same words he always had.
“A woman can never be Lakan.”
Beside her, her sisters laughed. Her true sister, the armorer, just watched.
“A women can never be Lakan, “ he repeated, angry and afraid.
She nodded. “No. But a woman can be Lakane-Lakana, the Lakan of Lakans, the mother, sister and daughter of all. “
In a corner, a maidservant lost her fear, nodded and whispered, “It is so.”
“I can be. I am. And it is so.”
Outside, cloud-stallions neighed, and cloud-mares too, and when she raised her sword, the bells in her braid tinkled.
Soon after, the fighting began. The swords sounded just like bells, the bells she wore in her braids.
