Chapter 3: The Elements of Home
Arthur trudged across the boundary of his protective circle, the cart creaking behind him. His boots crunched on the frost-kissed grass, leaving a trail of temporary scars in the earth. A bird, its wings a blur of panic, hurled itself against the invisible barrier encircling the homestead with giant runic stones. Its small body rebounded and spiralled down, disoriented but unharmed. Arthur watched it recover and dart away into the darkening sky.
He turned his back to the wilds and approached the entrance of his home, the wooden planks groaning beneath the combined weight of man and cart. The old homestead stood resilient against the encroaching night. Built from weathered stone and timber, visible patches of scorched wood marred the outer walls like old battle wounds.
Pausing at the threshold, he reached out to secure one of the heavy wooden shutters that had come loose in the rising wind. The iron bands reinforcing it felt cold under his calloused hands. These weren't mere decorative touches – every aspect of the house served a purpose, a shield against the unpredictable forces that dwelled both outside and within.
The eerie melody of bone wind chimes caught his attention. Their hollow song, once a comfort, now seemed to carry a warning on the chill breeze. He paused, scanning the horizon with narrowed eyes before pushing open the heavy oak door, its iron hinges protesting with a low, mournful creak.
The warmth of the interior washed over him, a stark contrast to the biting chill outside. Arthur's eyes instinctively flicked to Sofia's closed door, a familiar sight that brought a moment's reassurance. Candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across walls lined with thick hemp rush mats - a precaution against wayward flames that had saved the structure more than once. The interior was a patchwork of practical adaptations and barely contained chaos. Sand-filled barriers were strategically placed near the hearth and kitchen, ready to absorb any excess water or smother accidental fires. Thick wooden beams reinforced with iron provided stability and containment.
The floorboards, however, betrayed signs of their own struggles. Dark, warped patches marred their surface, where the wood had swelled and buckled from persistent water damage. A few floorboards were visibly cracked and discolored, with faded water stains forming irregular patterns. The once smooth surface was now uneven, with some boards creaking ominously underfoot.
Nearby, a series of intricate water channels ran along the baseboards, ostensibly for drainage but suspiciously complex. The channels seemed to have been overwhelmed at times, as evidenced by damp, moldy spots where the wood had begun to rot.
Smooth river stones embedded in the floorboards formed curious patterns but had also contributed to the wear. The stones were partially displaced, some cracked or chipped, disrupting the originally intended pattern. Scorch marks on the ceiling hinted at past mishaps, and now faint, uneven patches of smoke damage marked the walls, where the structure had once been exposed to drafts and errant flames.
James, his eldest at 15, knelt by the hearth, frustration etched across his face as he struggled with flint and steel. Sparks flew, but the kindling remained stubbornly unlit. The wrought iron fire screen stood open, its unique hinged design allowing full access while still providing protection when needed. Across the room, Ceres, aged 10, was engrossed in washing dishes, his movements unnaturally fluid as water seemed to dance around his hands. In the corner, little Sara, barely 5, sat surrounded by her stone toys, meticulously arranging a set of family figurines with an intensity that belied her years.
Arthur set down his axe, the thud drawing James' attention. The boy looked up, frustration evident in his eyes.
"Having trouble there, James?" Arthur's voice was gruff, but not unkind.
James' shoulders tensed. "I've got it under control."
Arthur nodded, but his gaze fell on a singed blanket tucked hastily behind a chair. "And what's the story behind that?" he asked, gesturing towards the evidence of a recent mishap.
James followed his father's gaze, his cheeks flushing. "It's nothing. Just a small accident. I handled it."
"Did you now?" Arthur's tone was measured, but James could sense the underlying tension. "Handling it means preventing it in the first place, James. Remember what your mother used to say?"
A flicker of pain crossed James' face. "...The flame obeys the hand that tends it." James muttered, striking the flint again with more force than necessary. "You don't have to hover. I'm not a child anymore."
"No," Arthur agreed, his tone softening slightly. "But you're not a man yet either. The path between is treacherous, especially for one with your... gifts."
James finally looked up, his eyes flickering with a mixture of defiance and uncertainty. "Sometimes I wish I didn't have them at all."
Before Arthur could respond, a splash and a yelp drew his attention to the far side of the room, the kitchen. Ceres, ten years old and full of restless energy, stood surrounded by a puddle of water, his clothes soaked. He was handling dishes with surprising efficiency. Water seemed to move with an unnatural fluidity, cleaning utensils faster than should be possible for a child his age.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Ceres, what have I told you about-"
Before he could finish, a bowl slipped, more water splashing across the floor. Ceres yelped, trying to contain the spill, but only managed to create a bigger mess.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to- I was just trying to finish quickly!"
Arthur strode over, his footsteps heavy. "And in your haste, you've created more work for yourself. Clean it up. Without shortcuts."
Ceres nodded, reaching for a cloth with a chastened expression.
Arthur's voice softened slightly. "Diligence over speed, remember? The task isn't done until it's done right."
As Arthur's lecture to Ceres faded into the background, a small hand tugged at his sleeve. He turned to see Sara, five-year-old Sara, her wide eyes shimmering with innocence in the candlelit room. She held out her palm, revealing a collection of stone figurines seated around a crude table.
"Look, Papa," she said, her voice a whisper of wonder, "they're having supper together."
Arthur knelt beside her, his joints protesting the motion as he brought himself eye-level with the miniature assembly. The figures were carved with care, each one unique, their features softened by years of play. But it was the stone matriarch, with her etched smile and arms extended as if to embrace her family, that seized his attention. A pang of melancholy tightened his chest, the weight of memories unbidden yet inescapable.
"Very lovely, Sara," Arthur murmured, his fingers brushing over the mother with a reverence that belied his gruff exterior.
A comfortable silence fell, broken only by the scraping of Ceres' cloth and James' renewed attempts at the fire. Arthur's eyes swept over the room, noting the stillness that had settled since the earlier commotion. He sighed and moved to the large oak table at the center of the room, its surface worn smooth by years of use. The table was the heart of the home, the place where meals were shared, stories were told, and plans were made. He traced a finger along one of the deep grooves carved into the wood, a reminder of a long-ago accident involving a misplaced hunting knife.
Arthur sighed heavily, rubbing his tired eyes. He needed to focus, but his mind kept wandering. His gaze landed on the door to Sofia's room, which stood slightly ajar, something he hadn't noticed before, a sliver of dim light spilling into the hallway. It was peculiar for her to leave the door open like that; Sofia was meticulous about privacy.
He crossed the room to investigate, pushing open the door with a creak. "Sofia, are you here?"
Arthur's call was met with silence. Arthur stepped inside, his boots making muffled thuds against the thick rug. His eyes were immediately drawn to the disorder that seemed out of character for Sofia. Her old boots lay haphazardly near the bed, a clear sign she had left in a hurry—perhaps even barefoot.
Arthur stepped further into Sofia's room, his eyes scanning the disarray. The metal shoulder and wrist armour were carelessly draped over a chair, her throwing knives lay half-buried beneath a pile of books and papers and her broom leaned against the corner of the room.
Arthur's eyes fell on the pristine cage in the corner of the room. The cage was empty, and although it was well-maintained, it felt oddly out of place. PonPon, Sofia's beloved pigeon, was not in his usual spot. Arthur frowned. Sofia had always taken great care of PonPon; for him to be missing indicated that Sofia had left with him. But why would she go out at this time, especially without her usual gear?
Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair. Sofia had always been quiet, content to lose herself in books and sketches. But lately, her silence had taken on a defiant edge. She reminded him of a coiled spring, taut with potential energy waiting to be released. Her recent forays outside the protective boundary were becoming more frequent, each one fraying his nerves a little more.
Arthur's gaze shifted to the cluttered desk against the wall. Despite Sofia's usual disorganization, the desk had been a sanctuary of sorts, filled with her sketches and research. His eyes fell on a stack of papers scattered across the surface, some of which were marked with complex notations. He could barely make out a few recognizable symbols but understood little of their meaning. Ibernia was a land of ancient traditions and cryptic texts, and though he had lived in Sangrevor, the capital, for years, its alphabet remained a mystery to him.
He picked up a crumpled sheet with a series of symbols and lines that might have meant something profound to Sofia but remained indecipherable to him. His eyes caught a familiar, albeit worn, photograph tucked beneath a pile of notes. It was a photo of his late wife Helena, her smile captured in a rare moment of peace. Next to her, a younger Sofia, holding her mother's old broom.
Arthur's gaze shifted back to the desk, where Sofia's scattered notes lay in chaotic disarray. Despite the jumble, there was a recurring theme in her writings—a quest for understanding.
Arthur's attention was drawn to a carefully folded letter wedged between two books. The envelope bore the elegant script of Ibernian, but the name "Helena Salvatoris" at the end was clear. This was the final letter from Helena, read to the family after her passing. He remembered the somber day when Sofia translated it for them, the letter holding Helena's last words and her hopes for her family. The broom Sofia now used, a cherished token of her mother, seemed almost a burden in the light of Helena's final wishes.
Arthur's heart ached as he unfolded the letter, the sight of Helena's flowing handwriting evoking a pang of nostalgia. Though he could not read it, he understood enough from Sofia's translations—the letter was a message of love and encouragement, a last gift from a mother who had tried to impart wisdom in her final moments.
Arthur sighed and placed the letter back carefully. The letter and the photograph spoke volumes about Sofia's current state.
Arthur stood quietly for a moment, the weight of unspoken concerns heavy in the air. Sofia's room, usually a cluttered haven of disorder, now seemed more like a shrine to her grief and unresolved questions. He looked around one last time, trying to piece together what might have prompted her sudden departure.
As he left the room, his mind raced with possibilities. Was Sofia in danger, or was she merely seeking answers in her own way?
"Where's Sofia? The sun's nearly set."
James and Ceres exchanged a look. "She mentioned the creek," James offered. "Said she wanted to sketch or... something."
Arthur's jaw tightened. "And you let her go alone? This close to nightfall?"
Ceres piped up, "Sofia can handle herself! She's probably lost track of time reading again."
"That's precisely what worries me," Arthur muttered.