Hello everyone! Today I am posting the next chapter of my book, because one of my readers especially asked for it. I am so happy that you enjoyed the first chapter, Aidan, and I hope you like the 2nd one just as much!
(In case you have not read the first chapter, you can access
it here :)
Chapter 2
Varya
stepped into a spacious room, softly lighted by a few candles, and decorated
with several bouquets of lilies, daffodils, and gladiolus blooms. Marble busts
adorned the walls, and beautiful hand-cut mosaics on the floor reflected the
light of the candles and covered the whole room in bright greens, blues, and
purples. Varya gasped a little. She always did when she walked into Aelius and
Brietta’s home. Though they were far from rich, the couple led a fairly
bountiful life, and their greatest pleasure was sharing what they had with
others.
“Oh
Varya, I am so glad that you decided to drop by! Me and Aelius have missed you
so much.” Gradually, Varya was led through the atrium, down a narrow hall, and
into a rectangular dining hall, where on the oaken table were set a variety of
tempting foods. On it sat fresh fruit, roasted nuts, spit-cooked lamb, artisan
bread, marinated olives and cheese, red wine, and nearly every food that Varya
had ever seen or smelled. A faint steam rose from the piping hot bread as Varya
and Brietta lay down on their cushions to eat their meal. Varya smiled and
thanked her hostess for such a warm invitation,
“I did
not want to come, for fear that you would be surprised by such an unexpected
visit, but Aelius insisted.”
“You
are welcome any time, dear, and after four years, you should know that! You
know that I enjoy our visits just as much as you do.” Varya smiled,
“Well,
thank you just as well. I have not been out of the house in nearly two weeks,
and have been quite sick for some companionship. Brecht has been sick, and has
needed my care. Only today was he well enough for me to go to the market and buy
food for the week.” As Varya told her friend of her many little troubles and
trials, she began to relax, and after a quarter of an hour, she was quite at
her ease.
Varya told
Brietta of her encounter with Aetius. Brietta’s face grew quite rigid as Varya
told her the tale.
“I do
not understand, Brietta. Why am I so different? Why do the Romans hate us? Will
I ever be like them? There are so many questions that I do not have answers
to.” Sighing, Varya turned her head away as one silver tear dropped off her
flushed cheek.
Slowly,
Brietta began. “Varya, I want to tell you a story.” Brietta leaned back,
closing her eyes, and breathing deeply. Varya knew that she was thinking.
“Many
years ago, when I was just a girl, no more than eight years old, my family
sailed from the coast of northern Gaul. My father had been given the position
of a centurion of the first cohort. He was posted here on the wall. He was a
proud man, my father. He always performed to the highest standard, even when no
one was looking. He took his greatest pride in being a Roman citizen. Through
his citizenship, my father had the right to vote for consuls and other
government positions, he had the right to stand for public office, he had the
right to defend himself in a court trial, he had the right to be married, to
hold land and property. It meant everything to him. Though we were Roman
citizens by birth, moving to Britain seemed to change that. We became
“inferior” citizens. My father was broken. He seemed to find his only identity
in being a Roman citizen, and when that right was devalued, he gave up his
honor. He led his century into battle with the Danish Vikings who had landed
their ships on the coast of Northumbria. Crying that, if death was the only
thing that could bring him to honor with the Romans, he would find it, my
father burst through the ranks of the enemy, bright sword in hand, slim bow at
side. I never saw my father again.”
When
Brietta turned to face Varya, her eyes were misty, and she looked far away.
Varya put her hand on Brietta’s shoulder. With a small start, Brietta looked
up.
“All I
mean to say is that you can never put your identity in a place or group. Do not
worry about the questions that now plague you. Someday, they will be answered,
but for now, all you need to think about is who you are as a person, and who
you want to become.”
Smiling,
Brietta stood up and took Varya’s hand. “May I show you the gardens? I have
recently planted some hibiscus trees, and you may take some of the blooms home
to make tea, if you wish.” Hand in hand, they walked to the garden, where Varya
relished in small, bright flowers, tall and sweeping elms, and waxy-leaved, red
berried bushes.
Brietta’s
garden had always been a place of beauty and wonder to Varya. The tall,
elegantly sculpted figures, the crystal fountains, the trailing vines- they all
contributed to its beauty. Elms and oaks that were hundreds of years old and
baby peonies, barely bigger than Varya’s hand had the same effect- they all
left her with a wonderful sense of peace that she could find nowhere else.
About
five minutes later, Varya heard several people shouting from inside the house,
and the deep voice of Aelius ring out through the hall.” Varya!”
Varya
stood stiffly, her face growing slowly whiter, and her hands trembling. Aelius
dashed out of the house and into the garden, panting, just a few seconds later.
“Varya!
Brecht, he’s very ill. I took him to a military clinic, but I’m afraid that he
will not make it. I am so sorry. Hurry, and I will take you to see him.”
Varya
walked slowly towards Aelius, feeling faint, and let him lead her to the front
of the house, where he lifted her onto a tall, black horse, and then swung his
leg over the horse, and, after whispering to her to hold on tightly, shouted to
Brietta, who had followed them, that he would be back within the hour.
Jabbing the horse furiously,
Aelius sped the horse over the cobbled streets, down a side road, and down the
street. Varya clung to him with petrified fingers. She felt the horse’s
muscular body running beneath her. She felt him suddenly halt as Aelius called
out to him. She slipped off the slick saddle as Aelius held the horse. Handing
the hose to a stable worker, Aelius led Varya into the medic’s office, and down
a few halls.
As Varya walked, she thought
about Brecht. What would become of her without him? Though Varya knew that she
could survive without Brecht, she was not so sure that she would want to. For
as long as she could remember, Brecht had always been there beside her to
support her, he had always given her a reason to wake up at dawn and do backbreaking
work in the hot summer sun and freezing winter winds that blew across the wall.
He had been someone for her to love, even when no one was there to love her.
Varya
stepped into a cold, damp room that had a small window, a table, and a bed that
held a shaking and wrinkled old man.
“Brecht!”
Varya’s senses became alive again. She ran to the bed and crouched beside it,
stroking the old man’s forehead.
“Varya,”
the old man croaked. “I am glad you are here.” Varya smiled through the tears
that came streaming down her face and dripping into her lap. Turning to Aelius,
he spoke quietly “Thank you.” Aelius bowed his head softly, and stepped out of
the room quietly.
“Varya,”
Brecht began, but he was stopped by a violent fit of coughing.
“Don’t
speak, dear.” Said Varya softly. Brecht was one of the few people, if not the
only one, to whom Varya showed her tender and compassionate side.
Brecht
leaned upon his shoulder gently, and from his tunic he pulled a small, leathern
pouch. The pouch was simple and unadorned, excepting a dragon’s head that was
painted in green and gold paint upon the pouch. The paint was rubbing off, but
the dragon was still clear. Brecht handed the pouch to Varya. It was very old,
Varya could tell that much, though that was almost all.
“Open
it,” gasped the dying man. With shaking hands, Varya unclasped the bronze clip.
She emptied the pouch into her cold hand. Into it fell a small, round, copper
object. Though the disk was made of copper, it had long ago been oxidized, and
it was now a greenish-blue color. Varya picked up the token gingerly, and held
it into the light. On it was engraved in bas relief a small green dragon,
almost exactly the same as the one on the pouch, with wings outspread and fire
pouring from its mouth. Varya felt that the dragon was somewhat familiar, like
she had seen if before, but she couldn’t say where or when. Inside the pouch
there were also a few coins and a small piece of parchment. The parchment was
scribbled all over with small runes that she could not read, and at the bottom
was drawn the same dragon that adorned the pouch and the token. “What does it
mean, Brecht?” asked Varya confusedly, forgetting that she was speaking to a
dying grandfather and not a healthy one.
Brecht
took her trembling, white hands, still holding the pouch, and clasped them in his
rough, calloused ones. Half coughing and half speaking he managed to sputter
out a few, broken words. “They are the heirlooms of our people.” More coughing.
“The token, it is-“ but here Brecht clutched at his throat, spluttering and
gasping. His eyes grew wide, and then, he was still. His stiffened muscles did
not move. Sobbing bitter tears of grief, Varya bent over Brecht, laying her
head on his chest and feeling desolate.
A half
hour later, Varya stepped into the damp hall of the army clinic. Aelius was
leaning against the wall, hand on chin, and deep in thought. At Varya’s
arrival, he stood up quickly. “I’m so sorry”.
Together,
they walked out of the hospital and to the stamping, snorting horse. They
mounted it silently and, as Aelius nudged the horse gently, he told Varya “I
can take you home, but you know that you are more than welcome to stay with me
and Brietta as long as you wish. Varya was grateful for the kind man’s offer,
but she wanted to be alone, if only for a few hours. Complying with her wishes,
Aelius turned the horse eastward. He dropped Varya off at the small, dingy hut
that now belonged to her, and, after checking to make sure that she was all
right, he left her by herself.
Bitterly cold rain began to
sprinkle as soon as Aelius left, and before long, the sky seemed to weep with
Varya as she thought of her late grandfather. Wiping her tears away, Varya
stood up and walked inside. The dirty hut was dark, so, striking a match on her
boot, Varya lit a short stump of a candle, and, lifting it timidly, peered
about the room.
The little house was not large,
with only leaning four walls and a leaky roof to boast. However, Varya had made
little touches to the inside that made it seem quaint. For example, the pretty
little vase with wilted wildflowers inside it that she had picked only the day
before graced what would otherwise be a very dull and unappealing table. The
bed, though shabby and covered in threadbare blankets, was neatly made and
folded at the top. Though there had previously been two occupants, the room had
only one bed. During Brecht’s lifetime, Varya had been more than happy to sleep
on the floor, provided that her dear grandfather was comfortable.
Thinking of this, Varya forced
back her tears once more, and walked to the far corner of the room. In it,
there was a small cupboard with a door on only one hinge. She carefully opened
the door and found the satchel that she had taken to the market. In it were all
her groceries from the day. She closed the cupboard door softly, turning with a
little sigh. She sat down on the bed. It creaked beneath her, and the thin
blankets felt rough on her pale skin.
As she sat down, Varya realized
that she still had the little leather pouch that Brecht had given her. She had
tied it loosely to the rope belt across her waist. Slowly, she undid the
leather thongs on it, and took another look at its contents. They confused her.
She understood the few coins well enough, but what was written on the
parchment, and what was the coin with the dragon? It fit perfectly in her palm,
and was slightly heavy. Perhaps it had something to do with her fathers, and
her father’s fathers. Ever since hearing Brietta’s story, Varya had longed to
know her father, her mother, her story. Where had she come from? Who was her
family? Did she, in fact, have any family? So many unanswered questions. Brecht
had been so close to telling her. If only he had held out for a few more
moments. If only she had been there earlier. She should never have gone to
Aelius and Brietta’s.
Wiping away a tear, Varya laid
down on the bed, sighing. She was tired. The day had been long, and the stress
of it had taken a heavy toll on her. Thunder rolled and boomed in the distance,
but Varya did not hear it. In complete resignation to the utter fatigue, she
fell into a long, deep sleep, filled with the groans of Brecht and a river of
icy-cold tears.
Ok, the third way that a horse can contract colic is by a strangulating obstruction. This is exactly the same thing as a simple obstruction, but in a strangulating obstruction, the blood supply is immediately affected. Also, a torsion can occur in the intestine, or it can fold up on itself, like a telescope, causing serious problems.
