It was often wondered just how exactly their marriage had come to be. Lyra always found herself delighted by the gossip: that people thought the match impractical amused her far more than it did her beloved husband. That she took a gil for every incorrect guess from the row of mother hens who worked the market stalls she frequented was not too far from the truth.
Garren Blackstone was never too open about personal details and the nature of his marriage was certainly about as private as it got. Even his closest friends could get little more than vague suggestions no matter how many pints of drink they urged into the blacksmith-turned-priest. “Bugger’n curse the lot’o ye,†he would grumble and slur, taking great care to scowl at every single one of his companions, blurry and otherwise. “Bugger an’ curse ye thrice. Love’s love an’ tha’s that.â€
Garren Bellows was the name he was born with and it was from modest stock that he was raised. It was an old clan who boasted quite loudly that they were amongst the most skillful of Gyr Abania’s smiths: Byregot blessed their strikes while Rhalgr fed their forges, so they said, and they could craft hammers that would last for ages. The Bellows coffers never quite reflected the fame their fathers felt were owed and so they never quite found their way into nobility.
Blackstone, too, was an old name in Gyr Abania. Some might have even said that it was ancient, with roots that stretched down to the earliest days of the city in which they dwelled. When the clans still warred over land and people, the witches of yore were said to spit flames so hot they scorched the very stones of their battlegrounds. Their conquests were swift and ruthless and they spilled blood to the gods that they might live forever.
( “Did they?â€
“Did they what, sweetling?â€
“Live forever?â€
“My dear child,†Lyra said and leaned in close to whisper against Delial’s brow. “Surely, no one lives forever.†)
They were healers in more recent days, midwives and potion-makers to aid families they might once have spurned. Lyra Blackstone was no different: she was skilled in finding just the right herbs and mushrooms for anything from chills to fevers and she had helped deliver more than her fair share of children. With roots so deep, they only spread as they rose through the ages. Their number was many even if they all did not wear the name of their mothers. Some wore no name at all. They were not wealthy and worked for charity and good will and their houses, sparse as they were, dotted Gyr Abania like so many stones across the mountains.
It was with great surprise and thinly veiled distaste that Father Bellows saw his son marry so low. Yet despite her birth, Lyra was as bright and as elegant as a queen, with eyes like amber and a smile that could hold even the most fierce of blizzards at bay. Soon it was not asked why he would marry her but the reverse: where she was warm and charming, he was rigid and ornery even at the best of times.
It was love, however queer it was, and there was simply nothing that could be done. When he took her name, even Mother Bellows had given up hope that her son would seek a woman of higher standing. That their first child would be born early in the following winter was but the first of three final nails in the coffin that was her hope.
“Love’s love,†Garren might say to his fellow and leave it at that.
Lyra Blackstone would only smile as any woman enamored might and hold out her hand. It was one gil for every five guesses in actuality for she was nothing if she was not charitable.
Garren Blackstone was never too open about personal details and the nature of his marriage was certainly about as private as it got. Even his closest friends could get little more than vague suggestions no matter how many pints of drink they urged into the blacksmith-turned-priest. “Bugger’n curse the lot’o ye,†he would grumble and slur, taking great care to scowl at every single one of his companions, blurry and otherwise. “Bugger an’ curse ye thrice. Love’s love an’ tha’s that.â€
Garren Bellows was the name he was born with and it was from modest stock that he was raised. It was an old clan who boasted quite loudly that they were amongst the most skillful of Gyr Abania’s smiths: Byregot blessed their strikes while Rhalgr fed their forges, so they said, and they could craft hammers that would last for ages. The Bellows coffers never quite reflected the fame their fathers felt were owed and so they never quite found their way into nobility.
Blackstone, too, was an old name in Gyr Abania. Some might have even said that it was ancient, with roots that stretched down to the earliest days of the city in which they dwelled. When the clans still warred over land and people, the witches of yore were said to spit flames so hot they scorched the very stones of their battlegrounds. Their conquests were swift and ruthless and they spilled blood to the gods that they might live forever.
( “Did they?â€
“Did they what, sweetling?â€
“Live forever?â€
“My dear child,†Lyra said and leaned in close to whisper against Delial’s brow. “Surely, no one lives forever.†)
They were healers in more recent days, midwives and potion-makers to aid families they might once have spurned. Lyra Blackstone was no different: she was skilled in finding just the right herbs and mushrooms for anything from chills to fevers and she had helped deliver more than her fair share of children. With roots so deep, they only spread as they rose through the ages. Their number was many even if they all did not wear the name of their mothers. Some wore no name at all. They were not wealthy and worked for charity and good will and their houses, sparse as they were, dotted Gyr Abania like so many stones across the mountains.
It was with great surprise and thinly veiled distaste that Father Bellows saw his son marry so low. Yet despite her birth, Lyra was as bright and as elegant as a queen, with eyes like amber and a smile that could hold even the most fierce of blizzards at bay. Soon it was not asked why he would marry her but the reverse: where she was warm and charming, he was rigid and ornery even at the best of times.
It was love, however queer it was, and there was simply nothing that could be done. When he took her name, even Mother Bellows had given up hope that her son would seek a woman of higher standing. That their first child would be born early in the following winter was but the first of three final nails in the coffin that was her hope.
“Love’s love,†Garren might say to his fellow and leave it at that.
Lyra Blackstone would only smile as any woman enamored might and hold out her hand. It was one gil for every five guesses in actuality for she was nothing if she was not charitable.
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