Stitches for the Missus (Precious, Open)

[Mercy Bell]

16.01
Marday
Tredecimber 17^th
Year LV

Mercy's delicate fingers raced with surprising dexterity over the cloth in her lap, checking for her place and then commencing to add skilled stitches to her already impressive embroidery. Impressive for a blind girl, always -- but few failed to take into account the fact that she hardly had anything else to do. Her father had three other dutiful daughters and a son, plus enough money, to spare her from most work. She couldn't read, and was not allowed to work with the fire or in the barn; so what did she know but how to clean and how to stitch? Thus, these two things she was excellent at. There was no cleaning to be done today (there always was, but it could not be for it was a Day of Worship). So she stitched, stitched, stitches, listening to the playing children in the field below the hill on which she sat.

Did she want more? Her siblings asked her often. They pitied her for her dull life as surely as they admired her perseverance and resented her uselessness. She knew it. It was a fact with which she had long ago come to terms. She always answered, "How can any person long for what they have never known?" And while she told the truth, it was a lie through suggestion. She knew what she was missing. Her hearing may be dulled, but she had listened to Bess' stories and she knew the sound of hoof beats (she would never be allowed to ride a horse) and of stamping feet around a crackling fire (dancing so close to the fire was restricted). She heard flirtatious laughter and attended weddings, and Bess would pat her hand in sympathy. Who could want a wife that would surely not survive childbirth? Who could not tend the fire or prepare a meal? Who had the eyes of a demon?

Mercy gripped the embroidery hoop in her lap and openly sobbed, indulging in a moment of self pity. She did not often wish that she could see or hear like others. The world as she knew it was beautiful as it was. She just wished... that she could live as others lives, yes, freely. Bess often told her that it wasn't really so wonderful as she might imagine, and she should feel lucky for not having to work; she would have the soft hands of a noble lady. Mercy pricked her finger then, childishly, to keep it from being true; and then held her hand away so that her fire cover (a Yule gift to the newly wed Mrs. Critchett) would not be stained with her blood.

[Precious Petulengro]

Precious stretched gently, an expression of serenity on her copper skinned features as she lay on the lush green grass. She loved the times when she could simply relax. Stretch to prevent injuries and then perform for herself and no one else. Performing to an audience she loved too, of course, she loved any opportunity to show off, but there was something magical about being alone and performing alone. Perhaps that was because it wasn't something she usually did. She finished off her hip stretches and moved onto her back stretches. Then she stood up and performed a few basic cartwheels, handstands and flips. Now for a sequence. Run, cartwheel, flip, flip, split jump, back flip... and then she stumbled a little, too off balance to continue. Precious frowned in concentration. She really should have been able to get that last part of the sequence right, it was unbelievably easy. She must be losing touch. Gritting her teeth, she scolded herself inwardly and then prepared to try again. Run, cartwheel, flip, flip, split jump, back flip... she stumbled again. Angry at herself for the continued mistake, she growled quietly. It was completely pathetic. She could not even manage a simple forward flip, split jump, back flip. Again. Run, cartwheel, flip, flip, split jump, back flip, back flip, split jump, handstand. Finally. She would have to practise for at least two hours every day with no exceptions. After not having practised at all for so long it was obvious that she could not even manage sequences. Drills and stretches. Back to the very beginning, she thought angrily. Her cartwheels were barely up to scratch, her forward flips worse than mediocre and her back flips abominable. Sequences were beyond her. And she had no one to blame but herself. So, basic drills. Run, cartwheel, cartwheel, cartwheel, cartwheel, so on and so forth for all eternity, at least that was how it felt to her.

But then she heard the sound of weeping. She stopped and stood still, trying to pinpoint it. Over there, it was coming from past that hill. She ran towards it. Run, cartwheel, cartwheel, cartwheel, cartwheel, cartwheel, flip, flip, flip, flip... and then she could see the source of the crying. A slim, fair skinned girl sat with embroidery in her lap. Her eyes were a pale blue and clouded, her pupils far lighter than they should be. So this was Mercy Bell, afflicted with cataracts and often talked about by the other villagers. She looked to be around Precious's age. Precious was startled to see her prick her finger. That could only have been on purpose. She walked towards the seated girl until she stood just in front of her.
"That was unnecessary," she pointed out. "I'm Precious, an outsider as you have no doubt guessed."
She plonked herself down in front of Mercy, studying the other girl. How must she look to her? She wore dark red breeches and an undyed tunic of the type that was ordinarily worn by young men. Her long, golden brown, wavy hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail.

[Mercy Bell]

Mercy was surprised to see a person suddenly impose themselves into her line of sight. She hadn't heard the usual rhythmic sound that meant footsteps (having not so very good hearing, she listened for rhythm more than for sound). Furthermore, the person was an array of very odd colours. The voice was that of a woman, and the accent was slightly off; she confessed to being a stranger to Benevolence. Even so, there was no skirt, and that was very odd. The only woman that she ever saw in britches was Izzie, and the young Strangeway was not even quite yet a woman at all. Stranger still, the pants were of a bright colour she hardly saw around the village at all. Red was not particularly favoured here, for superstitious reasons. The Strangeways were regarded as being marked by some evil for their red hair, and even the younger Miss McKay and Miss Doyle were given grief for it. What really struck her was how very tan the woman was. She looked like a person who lived upon the sun, so bronzed was she. It was really quite strange and beautiful; something Mercy had never seen. Being able to only see in faint blurs of colour and movement, she was curious about the woman's face. Would it be chiselled and exotic, like Rosie's? She had to refrain from reaching out to touch and to gain that information in the only way that she could.

"I was just making sure to remember what it feels like," She said, lifting her finger. It had stopped bleeding. "One should never forget, no matter how talented they are at something, what it feels like to be injured and to continue anyway." It was not the whole truth of why she had done it, but it was a sentiment that she believed in. It was a bit of a mantra among the town: when once skilled, never forget the pain of unskilled hands. It helped to appreciate work and perseverance. It was exactly the kind of thing one could expect from a village whose residents lived off of their own skills and hard labour.

"I am Mercy Bell," She said, offering a small smile. "It is very pleasing to meet you, Miss Precious." She wanted to ask where Precious had come from. Why did she look so different? Why was she so bold? Was Precious her only given name, had she no family name? What strange, exciting places must she have seen? Even so, she refrained, not wanting to be rude. Blind though they were, her milky eyes shone with curiosity as they stared over Precious' right shoulder.

[Precious Petulengro]

One should never forget, no matter how talented they are, what it feels like to be injured and continue anyway. Well, Precious had certainly learnt that lesson, and not just today when she realised her arrogance in thinking she was too skilled to practise and nearly fell flat on her face. Other times too. The gypsies would have agreed, she thought wryly. The gypsies. They had always believed that pride would be her downfall, that only if she practised humility would she reach her full potential. Today, true, pride had shown itself in such a way that she suffered a setback. But that was arrogance, different to pride, if only slightly. She didn't agree with the gypsies on the matter of her pride. Yes, she loved performing and showing what she was capable of. But wasn't that a gypsy thing? They performed constantly when the time was right, and still fairly frequently otherwise. Why shouldn't they enjoy it as she did? That was part of the reason why she had split apart from them when she was old enough to survive on her own. She felt tied down by their influence, like they were holding her back with foolish words of wisdom that were anything but wise. It was so much better on her own, where she went where she chose and performed when she wanted, rather than having to do what the gypsy elders decided. Precious was a free spirit, she hated being tied down. Although the gypsies had been kind to her, and guided her well when she was younger, they were too restricting as she grew older. So she had broken off with them, and eventually ended up here.

She came back to the present when Mercy spoke again. Mercy Bell. Precious gave no sign that she already knew the other girl's name. She wondered if she knew how much she was talked about, that she was talked about at all. Gossip spread around a town this small like wildfire, and Mercy, with her clouded eyes and cataracts, needing some sort of suitor but without one so far, was a good topic for discussion. She could see the curiosity in the other girl's eyes as they stared unnervingly out into the distance.

"Do you like stories?" Precious asked. "I could tell you many if you desired it. I like telling stories."

She did like telling stories. Stories were wonderful, stories were magic. She stood up abruptly, needing to stretch. With straight legs she stooped and pressed her palms flat on the soft grass, her torso flat on her legs. Then she stretched up again and arched her back.
"That feels so much better," she murmured to herself, before sitting down again.

[Mercy Bell]

Mercy tipped her head, averting her eyes. She often hid her eyes when there was a long silence, self-consciously wondering if they were the cause. She hadn't been so vain about her eyes until she was fifteen, when the son of a merchant told her sister, Mary -- right in front of her -- that the only being that had eyes like that were demons. Mary, bless her wild heart, had given the boy a good sock in the eye and had been avoided avidly by all of her usual suitors for at least six months. Still, as far as she knew, Mary had never voiced regret. Mercy appreciated the gesture. Either way, she now wondered if her eyes frightened others so much.

When Precious did speak, Mercy's face lit up. "Oh, yes! Please! I've never left the village. What is... what is beyond here? Where do you come from?" Her enthusiasm spilled out into her words. She gasped, though, as she saw a very strange thing. Precious... did something to her body that no person ought to be able to do. Cats could do it. People couldn't.

"Did you..." Her voice was hushed with awe. She lifted one hand to nervously pick at the neckline of her gown. "Just... fold yourself in... in half?"

[Precious Petulengro]

Precious smiled at Mercy's excitement. She couldn't imagine never having left a single, tiny village. Even when she when she was a little girl of only seven she'd traveled, although not nearly as much as she did now. Now she traveled constantly, something she adored. She would not settle down for all the gold and devilishly handsome men in the world. Sometimes she stayed in one place for up to a whole month, although that was very unusual for her. Most of the time she moved every day until she reached a town, when she stayed for a week or so, depending on the town. Some, like the desert town of Tia, she didn't sleep a night in. Tia was a horrible place; it made her skin crawl just thinking of it. Its economy heavily relied on slaves for a start. That meant that the streets were lined with grimy, leering slave merchants and weak slaves, their skin marred with scars from their many beatings and faces crying, or worse, empty. And the men had rights to every woman. She hadn't stayed there a second longer than she had too, she'd simply strode right through and kept going. But there were happier places, places where light shone out of every face and paradise seemed just around the corner.

Then she laughed openly as Mercy was awestruck by her stretching, not self concious in the least.
"Yes," she said simply, with a small smile. "It takes practise, but it's not impossible. I can do other things too."
She spread her legs out to either side of her so that they formed a one hundred and eighty degree angle. Happy as always to be showing off she smiled again and slid her legs back to a 'normal' position.

"So," she said. "To the matter of what is beyond here. Hmm. Would you like to hear of places terrifying and skin crawling, or places of joy and good fortune? Perhaps joy and good fortune first. And somewhere very different to here. What about the city of Aredosios?"
She settled herself down, brushing the grass off her breeches absent-mindedly.
"Aredosios, sometimes called the centre of all trade. That is untrue of course, no one city can trade in everything, although I will admit that with a port of that size it comes rather close. But I am getting ahead of myself. Where to start? In size. It's one of the largest cities in all the lands, and believe me that's saying something. Times the whole of Benevolence by two and you will have one of the smallest of nearly a hundred districts that make up the city. Nearly all of the streets are reserved for the merchants who trade in nearly everything. Furs and silks, gold and jewels, weapons and mercenaries, exotic fruits and ordinary vegetables, magic amulets and crystal balls, clothing made in fashions from many different lands and much, much more. It's a city valued by gypsies like myself because it's not just wealthy, upperclass merchants who are allowed to trade. Gypsies can too, and street pedlars and so many other people. Of course, like any other city it has its slums, its darkened alleys where few dare venture. But the larger portion of the city is clean and well lit. And the port, oh the port." Precious' voice grew dreamy as she visualised it all. "It's so big and there's so many people, young boys of only five years playing their games and getting under people's feet, older women of forty years gossiping as they call their children home again and men in their prime, twenty years old and strong and handsome, flirting with all the ladies and bidding fairwell to their sweethearts as they set sail once again. The port of Aredosios is truly amazing. You would have to see it to fully understand. But am I boring you with my tales of places you might never see? Then again, you never know. Perhaps you will see all the places I have seen and more."

[Mercy Bell]

Mercy bit her lip, trying not to gasp as the blur that was Precious formed itself into another seemingly impossible shape. Mercy was tempted to try it. Who knows? She never had. She would be embarrassed to be seen trying, though as was said, it takes practice. She saw no reason why she couldn't just... stretch a little. Maybe that was something that she could do, something physically impressive, that wouldn't put her in danger.

She bit back her questions once more, a smile growing on her lips as Precious prepared to tell a story. She could hear the reverence in her voice. There was storytelling in her blood, surely -- John Bell always said that it was either there or it wasn't, and you could tell which it was when a person spoke. Mercy closed her eyes -- perhaps a useless gesture -- and let herself sink into the images being painted. The picture was indistinct in her mind, but the colours were bright -- a big splotch of blue, perhaps the wrong colour entirely, because she had never seen the ocean. She imagined the sounds, shouting, hawking, wares being bargained for... children playing... the smell of spices and the press of bodies, the patter of dancing feet and chiming, exotic music.

She managed to keep her smile. Places you may never see. That made it anything but boring. "By the will of the gods, I will never again see as other people might." She paused, biting her lip.

"But oh, tell me what it... what it smells like, again? What does the sea smell like? What is it like to stand next to it? Is the air different by the sea?" She'd heard that everything was different by the ocean.