2nd Chapter of my Book

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.