Renata, 988
They had both put on their clothing in silence. They always wore simple clothing, Quirinus wasn’t much like his father when it came to what they wore. Heculma Helvig was a man of formal wear. Everyone knew this.
The silence between them was awkward and made the length of time longer and more drawn out.
Their washhouse was warm, as the sun peaked over the horizon. Betla was now on her way out of the washhouse but stopped as she heard her husband say something to her. “I hate this,” Quirinus said suddenly, not daring to look at his wife. “I am sorry,” he continued, walking in the opposite direction she was facing. She turned toward him, to see him walking away, seemingly ignoring her.
She wondered how many apologies he thought it would take. He reminded her of her father now. Perhaps not all too similar, but same enough for a comparison. She sighed lightly as he left, leaving her alone. She realized there was nothing she could do, she still remained in shock. Wanting to forget what had happened yesterday. She wondered if he still minded her visiting Anges and Anne, her only friends in this world. He seemed not to before, but suddenly yesterday, he did. Perhaps this was his true form. Maybe he was an evil man just like his father and her father, she wondered.
She walked towards their longhouse again, wanting nothing more than to spend her time in her books once again. Her only escape from the life she never wanted. A clan leader’s wife whose duty was nothing more than to produce heirs. Unfortunately, even that she failed. Two sons. One of whom, had constant gossip of the wife’s loyalty, after all, children only received the looks of their fathers.
She hated this life more than anything. She wished her father won the war, even then there was no telling who she could have married then. Women were merely property, slaves, in the eyes of all above. She had no say. Her mouth was sewn shut, she could not speak.
Later that day, she went to the slave huts to visit her friends, who did not think of her as so. Quirinus was nowhere to be found. None had seen him. As Betla walked to the huts, she looked at the stone wall surrounding the farm - built after the battle here, to keep invaders out. But everyone knew any invaders would come from the sea. Luckily, the wall went past the land and into the harbor, closing most of it off.
Betla arrived at the slave huts, she entered Anne and her family’s hut, ignoring the common courtesy of knocking before entering. This time she she wasn’t panicking or crying from the many arguments she and her husband had. She tried her best to smile and ignore her negative emotions.
“Good morning,” she said. Anne sat alone at the table knitting, when she noticed Betla, she put down her yarn and yarn sticks to greet her. “Good morning, Sou po,” she said to her. She remained sitting, motioning for Betla to sit next to her at the table, Betla obligated. She rested her head on the table, closing her eyes, wanting nothing but a peaceful sleep.
“What did Quirinus say?” She asked, not looking up. “Just not to gossip,” Anne replied, smiling.
“Do I annoy you?” Betla asked, moving her head in the direction of the woman, but leaving it to lay on the table.
“Of course no. I cannot say same for my mum,” Anne replied, resting her head on the table as well, to look at Betla.
The two women looked very similar. If one did not know the Helvig’s, they would think they were sisters. The only thing that threw it off was the difference in clothing and the wrinkles. Betla was dressed like a regular Helvig Yjonquen - a royal. She wore her hair in a braid that went along her back, forbidden to cut it until she was thirty years old, out of child-bareing years. Then she would be forced to maintain a hair cut that was shoulder length with no braids.
Anne, however, as a slave was mostly allowed to wear as she pleased. As long as she was ready to work and her clothing wasn’t proper, it didn’t matter. The irony of these beliefs remain so unthoughtful in this land.
Betla nodded. “The only way out of this life is death,” she said, her voice shaking as tears fell down into the table.
Anne stroked the woman’s head, trying her best to soothe her. She felt terribly sorry for Betla Helvig. She would live like this forever. She knew the irony, of course, her mother knew most of all as well.
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