Triss & Tiennrod Meet

Tiennrod watched her on the rocky shore in the night. She spoke faintly but he remained close enough to hear her. He had been to the country whose tongue she spoke. Twas too days from his own homeland. His people and hers had broken their different ways long ago. As he listened to her Gaelic, he heard the longing in her voice as she listed to the air all the things she missed from home. Hearing her softly sob her loneliness broke his heart. He knew he wasn’t supposed to have heard the reverent soliloquy, but since he had, he dare not intrude. He carefully and silently melted back into the forest taking his path toward home.

…………………………… ………………………………………………………………………….

One evening, she came in his dwelling with a new pair of boots she had made–soft and warm inside from fur and sewn outside from seal skin. The fire crackled generous and joyful in the underground home. Above it on a wooden panel stuck on the dirt wall were different things Tiennrod had collected and valued. In the center was a plate vase with a thistle painted on it. She looked at it absent-minded walking up to it, not realizing Sean had come in from the outside. She broke from her reverie, feeling cold blade touch her under the chin. Sean stood, his sword held at ease in his left hand. She looked down at the thick gleaming sword, not daring to turn her head, only moving her eyes. Tiennrod’s face wore a reproving look, but not dangerous. He shook his head no. She dropped her hand. He nudged her with his sword to step back, dropped his sword from her neck, motioning to the chair with it. She sat, still watching him intently and silently, unsure of what he would do. He looked at her then with the vessel with the thistle on it.

 

“You know what that is?” he asked in her native tongue.

 

Her eyes flitted with recognition of her mother tongue before she lowered them.

 

He put out his sword again, raising her chin to make her look at him.

“Do you know what that is?” He asked again.

 

He lowered his sword sticking it in the ground firmly by his own chair. Then, scooting his chair closer, sitting back comfortably, he asked again in her mother tongue, “What is your name.”

 

“Tristinia”

 

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