jasmine tarkheena
Active member
[I apologize for the long delay but here it is an update]
Chapter 15
***
Rhonda showed Jill some fabric swatches for Marietta’s wedding dress—the silk whispering between her fingers as Jill traced a particularly whitish-silver brocade that caught the firelight like fresh snowfall. “This one,” Jill murmured, pressing the fabric to her cheek.
“I like this one, too. Now what do you think? Should we embroidered flowers along the hem?” Rhonda’s fingers hovered over the silver thread, pressing just enough to leave faint indentations in the delicate fabric—the scent of lavender oil clinging to her sleeves as she leaned closer to Jill.
“Oh, yes. Flowers, definitely—but something wild,” Jill murmured, turning the fabric over to reveal its reverse side, where the weave was looser, almost featherlike.
Rhonda did some measuring—her knuckles brushing against Marietta's waist as the linen tape whispered tight across her hips. The firelight caught the faint sheen of sweat at Marietta’s temples, the scent of lavender and nervous anticipation clinging to her skin. "It'll need taking in here," Rhonda murmured, pinching the excess fabric between thumb and forefinger—the silk sighing as it folded under her touch. Jill watched, her own fingers twitching with the memory of threading needles back in England, the rhythmic pull of embroidery floss through cambric.
*****
Marietta looked over out the window from the tower, and there was snow fallling. The snowfall was thick and heavy, and she hoped it wouldn't delay the wedding. Emeth stood beside her, his breath fogging the glass as he traced idle patterns in the condensation—his fingertips lingering over the shape of a lion’s head before it blurred away.
“Do you think we have to wait until spring?”, Marietta whispered, watching the snowflakes stick to the tower’s leaded panes.
“Hey, a winter wedding would be nice,” Emeth murmured, pressing closer to Marietta—his warmth seeping through the wool of her borrowed cloak. “It could be a symbol—that we’re starting fresh, even in the coldest of times.”
Marietta smiled at Emeth's words, pressing her forehead against the chilled glass. Below, the snow muffled the usual sounds of the camp—Eustace’s whittling knife, the dryads’ whispers, even Tirian’s pacing boots. Only the crackle of hearth fires and the occasional huff of Jewel’s breath cut through the quiet.
Then they’ve heard Adinah crying. Marietta went over and picked her up—her fingers brushing the infant’s flushed cheeks as she rocked her gently, the scent of milk and chamomile clinging to Adinah’s swaddle. “Shh, little one,” she murmured, pressing her lips to the baby’s forehead. She sat down to feed her again, the firelight casting long shadows across the stone floor.
Emeth knelt beside the hearth, stirring the embers to coax more heat into the chamber. The flames painted gold streaks across his tired face—his fingers, usually so sure when gripping a sword, now hesitated over the simple task of arranging firewood. Marietta watched him, Adinah’s weight warm and heavy against her chest.
“You know, Adinah is the best thing that’s ever happened to us,” Emeth murmured, tossing another log onto the fire. Sparks spiraled upward, casting fleeting shadows across the tower walls.
“She sure is. Do you think we’ll ever take her to your hometown of Teshibaan?”, Marietta asked, adjusting Adinah’s swaddle where her tiny fist had worked free.
Emeth stroke his beard—coarse beneath his fingers—as he considered Marietta’s question. The fire popped, sending a shower of orange sparks up the chimney. "Perhaps one day," he said at last, his voice rougher than usual. "When the roads are safe. When my father..." He trailed off, watching Adinah's eyelids flutter shut against Marietta's shoulder.
Emeth took Adinah from Marietta’s arms as she finished nursing, his rough hands unexpectedly gentle as he cradled the infant against his chest. The firelight caught the scarred knuckles that had once gripped a sword hilt—now tracing slow circles on Adinah’s back while her drowsy sighs filled the quiet.
“She’s asleep,” Emeth murmured, his breath stirring the fine dark curls at Adinah’s temple. He kissed her forehead before laying her gently in the cradle Poggin had carved from windfallen oak—its sides still rough with the scent of resin and green wood.
****
Chlamash and Eustace began working on designing the archway for the wedding ceremony—its rough wooden frame carved with intertwined vines and stars. Outside, the snow had eased into a fine mist that clung to the windowpanes like lace.
“This is going to look great, isn’t it?” Eustace whispered, brushing sawdust from his sleeves as Chlamash tested the arch’s stability with a firm shake.
“It is customary in Calormen to weave the groom’s family sigil into the wedding arch,” Chlamash murmured, running his thumb over a half-carved leopard in the oak beam. The blade of his dagger caught the firelight as he adjusted the angle of his carving—too deep, and the wood would split under the weight of the floral garlands. Eustace watched, fascinated, as Chlamash’s fingers moved with the precision of a scribe illuminating a manuscript.
“Chlamash, I’ve been wondering, who’s going to be holding the baby during the ceremony?” Eustace asked, flicking a wood shaving off the half-carved leopard’s muzzle.
“Hmm, good question”, Chlamash murmured, pausing mid-carve—his dagger hovering over the leopard’s eye as he considered. “Adinah might be sleeping through it.”
Eustace knew well that babies, especially newborn ones, sleep a lot. But he also knew that when they weren’t sleeping, they were often crying—something that wouldn’t pair well with vows and solemn oaths. “What if she wakes up mid-ceremony?” he asked, tapping his chin with the blunt end of his carving knife. “Do we have a plan for that?”
“Well, maybe Polly or Amara could hold her,” Chlamash mused, brushing wood shavings from his tunic. “Polly has that quiet way with infants—remember how Adinah settled right into her arms?” He resumed carving, the blade biting into the oak with practiced ease. Eustace nodded, recalling the way Adinah’s tiny fingers had curled around Polly’s wrinkled thumb, her cries fading to drowsy murmurs.
“What a wedding this is going to be”, Eustace said, “I mean, here we are—a Calormene soldier marrying an Archenlander tavern maid, with a baby already, and half the guests are Narnian rebels hiding in a drafty old tower while their enemy builds temples outside.”
Chlamash chuckled. “I actually see a future,” he said, “Where Emeth and Marietta’s union becomes a symbol. Calormen and Archenland—together living in harmony with Narnia.”
“Poggin said something about Narnia being revived, like how it was during the time of the Telmarines, particularly King Miraz. Do you think this marriage could be the start of that?”
“It’s possible. Maybe Emeth and Marietta could start a new dynasty,” Chlamash mused, the dagger stilling mid-carve as he glanced toward the tower’s spiral staircase—where muffled laughter drifted down from the chamber above. “Though I doubt Emeth’s father would—”
The tower door groaned open, admitting a swirl of snowflakes and Rhonda’s sharp intake of breath. "Rishda’s scouts," she panted, her knuckles white around the doorframe. "Two miles west, tracking our footprints in the snow."
“What are they looking for?”, Chlamash asked, already moving—his dagger sheathed in one smooth motion as Eustace scrambled to his feet.
“Marietta,” Rhonda hissed, her cloak damp with melting snow. “They found the torn swaddle cloth by the frozen stream—the one Adinah kicked loose yesterday.”
“Oh no!”
“Chlamash, what are we going to do?”, Eustace asked—his fingers tightening around the half-carved leopard’s muzzle as Rhonda’s breath fogged in the frigid air.
Chlamash's dagger flashed as he drove it into the wooden beam with a thunk that sent sawdust drifting to the floor. "We move them. Now." His gaze flicked to the ceiling where Adinah's faint whimpers mingled with Marietta's murmured lullaby. Rhonda was already halfway up the spiral stairs, her boots scuffing against stone as Eustace grabbed the nearest cloak—Jill's forgotten woolen one, still smelling of crushed mint from her herb gathering.
“Does Tirian know another safe place?” Eustace hissed, stumbling after Chlamash as they ascended the spiral stairs—his fingers scraping against damp stone where Rhonda’s cloak had brushed the walls.
“I don’t know. Perhaps we should ask him,” said Chlamash, pushing open the tower door with his shoulder—the iron hinges screeching like a wounded beast.
The scent of snow-laden pine flooded the chamber as Emeth turned sharply, his arms tightening around Adinah. Marietta’s fingers froze mid-stitch on the half-mended swaddle, the needle glinting in the firelight.
“Chlamash, what is it, my friend?”, Emeth asked—his voice low and steady despite the way his thumb pressed against Adinah’s back as she wailed, her cries bouncing off the tower’s stone walls. Chlamash stepped closer, the scent of pine resin and fresh snow clinging to his cloak as he spoke. “Rishda’s men are tracking us. They found Adinah’s swaddle near the stream.”
“How much time do we have?” Emeth asked, already moving, cradling Adinah against his chest
“I don’t know, but we need to ask Tirian if he knows another safe place,” Chlamash said—his voice tight as he glanced toward the narrow window where snowflakes spiraled against the twilight.
Emeth nodded, pressing a kiss to Adinah's damp forehead as her wails softened into hiccups against his tunic. Outside, the wind howled through the tower's arrow slits, carrying the distant crunch of boots on frozen earth. Chlamash didn't need to say it—they all heard it. Rishda's men were closer than any of them had hoped.
[Well, didn’t this just get intense? What do you think will happened?]
Chapter 15
***
Rhonda showed Jill some fabric swatches for Marietta’s wedding dress—the silk whispering between her fingers as Jill traced a particularly whitish-silver brocade that caught the firelight like fresh snowfall. “This one,” Jill murmured, pressing the fabric to her cheek.
“I like this one, too. Now what do you think? Should we embroidered flowers along the hem?” Rhonda’s fingers hovered over the silver thread, pressing just enough to leave faint indentations in the delicate fabric—the scent of lavender oil clinging to her sleeves as she leaned closer to Jill.
“Oh, yes. Flowers, definitely—but something wild,” Jill murmured, turning the fabric over to reveal its reverse side, where the weave was looser, almost featherlike.
Rhonda did some measuring—her knuckles brushing against Marietta's waist as the linen tape whispered tight across her hips. The firelight caught the faint sheen of sweat at Marietta’s temples, the scent of lavender and nervous anticipation clinging to her skin. "It'll need taking in here," Rhonda murmured, pinching the excess fabric between thumb and forefinger—the silk sighing as it folded under her touch. Jill watched, her own fingers twitching with the memory of threading needles back in England, the rhythmic pull of embroidery floss through cambric.
*****
Marietta looked over out the window from the tower, and there was snow fallling. The snowfall was thick and heavy, and she hoped it wouldn't delay the wedding. Emeth stood beside her, his breath fogging the glass as he traced idle patterns in the condensation—his fingertips lingering over the shape of a lion’s head before it blurred away.
“Do you think we have to wait until spring?”, Marietta whispered, watching the snowflakes stick to the tower’s leaded panes.
“Hey, a winter wedding would be nice,” Emeth murmured, pressing closer to Marietta—his warmth seeping through the wool of her borrowed cloak. “It could be a symbol—that we’re starting fresh, even in the coldest of times.”
Marietta smiled at Emeth's words, pressing her forehead against the chilled glass. Below, the snow muffled the usual sounds of the camp—Eustace’s whittling knife, the dryads’ whispers, even Tirian’s pacing boots. Only the crackle of hearth fires and the occasional huff of Jewel’s breath cut through the quiet.
Then they’ve heard Adinah crying. Marietta went over and picked her up—her fingers brushing the infant’s flushed cheeks as she rocked her gently, the scent of milk and chamomile clinging to Adinah’s swaddle. “Shh, little one,” she murmured, pressing her lips to the baby’s forehead. She sat down to feed her again, the firelight casting long shadows across the stone floor.
Emeth knelt beside the hearth, stirring the embers to coax more heat into the chamber. The flames painted gold streaks across his tired face—his fingers, usually so sure when gripping a sword, now hesitated over the simple task of arranging firewood. Marietta watched him, Adinah’s weight warm and heavy against her chest.
“You know, Adinah is the best thing that’s ever happened to us,” Emeth murmured, tossing another log onto the fire. Sparks spiraled upward, casting fleeting shadows across the tower walls.
“She sure is. Do you think we’ll ever take her to your hometown of Teshibaan?”, Marietta asked, adjusting Adinah’s swaddle where her tiny fist had worked free.
Emeth stroke his beard—coarse beneath his fingers—as he considered Marietta’s question. The fire popped, sending a shower of orange sparks up the chimney. "Perhaps one day," he said at last, his voice rougher than usual. "When the roads are safe. When my father..." He trailed off, watching Adinah's eyelids flutter shut against Marietta's shoulder.
Emeth took Adinah from Marietta’s arms as she finished nursing, his rough hands unexpectedly gentle as he cradled the infant against his chest. The firelight caught the scarred knuckles that had once gripped a sword hilt—now tracing slow circles on Adinah’s back while her drowsy sighs filled the quiet.
“She’s asleep,” Emeth murmured, his breath stirring the fine dark curls at Adinah’s temple. He kissed her forehead before laying her gently in the cradle Poggin had carved from windfallen oak—its sides still rough with the scent of resin and green wood.
****
Chlamash and Eustace began working on designing the archway for the wedding ceremony—its rough wooden frame carved with intertwined vines and stars. Outside, the snow had eased into a fine mist that clung to the windowpanes like lace.
“This is going to look great, isn’t it?” Eustace whispered, brushing sawdust from his sleeves as Chlamash tested the arch’s stability with a firm shake.
“It is customary in Calormen to weave the groom’s family sigil into the wedding arch,” Chlamash murmured, running his thumb over a half-carved leopard in the oak beam. The blade of his dagger caught the firelight as he adjusted the angle of his carving—too deep, and the wood would split under the weight of the floral garlands. Eustace watched, fascinated, as Chlamash’s fingers moved with the precision of a scribe illuminating a manuscript.
“Chlamash, I’ve been wondering, who’s going to be holding the baby during the ceremony?” Eustace asked, flicking a wood shaving off the half-carved leopard’s muzzle.
“Hmm, good question”, Chlamash murmured, pausing mid-carve—his dagger hovering over the leopard’s eye as he considered. “Adinah might be sleeping through it.”
Eustace knew well that babies, especially newborn ones, sleep a lot. But he also knew that when they weren’t sleeping, they were often crying—something that wouldn’t pair well with vows and solemn oaths. “What if she wakes up mid-ceremony?” he asked, tapping his chin with the blunt end of his carving knife. “Do we have a plan for that?”
“Well, maybe Polly or Amara could hold her,” Chlamash mused, brushing wood shavings from his tunic. “Polly has that quiet way with infants—remember how Adinah settled right into her arms?” He resumed carving, the blade biting into the oak with practiced ease. Eustace nodded, recalling the way Adinah’s tiny fingers had curled around Polly’s wrinkled thumb, her cries fading to drowsy murmurs.
“What a wedding this is going to be”, Eustace said, “I mean, here we are—a Calormene soldier marrying an Archenlander tavern maid, with a baby already, and half the guests are Narnian rebels hiding in a drafty old tower while their enemy builds temples outside.”
Chlamash chuckled. “I actually see a future,” he said, “Where Emeth and Marietta’s union becomes a symbol. Calormen and Archenland—together living in harmony with Narnia.”
“Poggin said something about Narnia being revived, like how it was during the time of the Telmarines, particularly King Miraz. Do you think this marriage could be the start of that?”
“It’s possible. Maybe Emeth and Marietta could start a new dynasty,” Chlamash mused, the dagger stilling mid-carve as he glanced toward the tower’s spiral staircase—where muffled laughter drifted down from the chamber above. “Though I doubt Emeth’s father would—”
The tower door groaned open, admitting a swirl of snowflakes and Rhonda’s sharp intake of breath. "Rishda’s scouts," she panted, her knuckles white around the doorframe. "Two miles west, tracking our footprints in the snow."
“What are they looking for?”, Chlamash asked, already moving—his dagger sheathed in one smooth motion as Eustace scrambled to his feet.
“Marietta,” Rhonda hissed, her cloak damp with melting snow. “They found the torn swaddle cloth by the frozen stream—the one Adinah kicked loose yesterday.”
“Oh no!”
“Chlamash, what are we going to do?”, Eustace asked—his fingers tightening around the half-carved leopard’s muzzle as Rhonda’s breath fogged in the frigid air.
Chlamash's dagger flashed as he drove it into the wooden beam with a thunk that sent sawdust drifting to the floor. "We move them. Now." His gaze flicked to the ceiling where Adinah's faint whimpers mingled with Marietta's murmured lullaby. Rhonda was already halfway up the spiral stairs, her boots scuffing against stone as Eustace grabbed the nearest cloak—Jill's forgotten woolen one, still smelling of crushed mint from her herb gathering.
“Does Tirian know another safe place?” Eustace hissed, stumbling after Chlamash as they ascended the spiral stairs—his fingers scraping against damp stone where Rhonda’s cloak had brushed the walls.
“I don’t know. Perhaps we should ask him,” said Chlamash, pushing open the tower door with his shoulder—the iron hinges screeching like a wounded beast.
The scent of snow-laden pine flooded the chamber as Emeth turned sharply, his arms tightening around Adinah. Marietta’s fingers froze mid-stitch on the half-mended swaddle, the needle glinting in the firelight.
“Chlamash, what is it, my friend?”, Emeth asked—his voice low and steady despite the way his thumb pressed against Adinah’s back as she wailed, her cries bouncing off the tower’s stone walls. Chlamash stepped closer, the scent of pine resin and fresh snow clinging to his cloak as he spoke. “Rishda’s men are tracking us. They found Adinah’s swaddle near the stream.”
“How much time do we have?” Emeth asked, already moving, cradling Adinah against his chest
“I don’t know, but we need to ask Tirian if he knows another safe place,” Chlamash said—his voice tight as he glanced toward the narrow window where snowflakes spiraled against the twilight.
Emeth nodded, pressing a kiss to Adinah's damp forehead as her wails softened into hiccups against his tunic. Outside, the wind howled through the tower's arrow slits, carrying the distant crunch of boots on frozen earth. Chlamash didn't need to say it—they all heard it. Rishda's men were closer than any of them had hoped.
[Well, didn’t this just get intense? What do you think will happened?]
