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Old Songs, by StarSpray
Format: ficlet
Genre: het, family
Rating: PG
Warnings: brief description of wounds
Characters: Beorn, OCs
Pairings: OMC/OFC (Beorn's parents)
Creator's Note: Names of OCs are of Anglo Saxon origin from behindthename.com, except for Grimbeorn which I took from Beorn's canonical son for his father.
Summary: Wise women were ever busy, be it for healing or for wisdom or for burials.
Wassa sat cross-legged by the fire, keeping one eye on Beorn as he slumbered in his nest of furs, and the other on the roots she was cleaning. From the roof rafters hung bunches of herbs, fresh and dried, that filled the small hut with a myriad of fragrances. Outside the men were holding a debate over where to hunt and when. The goblins had been busy in recent weeks. It was dangerous to stray far from home and alone, especially close to dark. At night the watch fires were kept burning.
The roots she bundled together to hang beside the yarrow. By the time she was done Beorn had woken and begun to fuss. "Hush, hush," Wassa murmured as she scooped him up, swaying as she held him. He had been feverish, and was still fussy, but calmed as she smoothed his unruly dark curls from his forehead. A kiss to his nose brought out a smile.
Soon he would be too big to settle on her hip as she did her work, brewing teas and making salves. It was both a sadness and a joy, for it meant he would be soon big enough for other things—to follow her through the woods to learn her craft, and to follow his father in other, wilder pursuits. She hummed a wordless tune, old as the mountains in which they lived, as she stirred the cauldron over the fire. Beorn sigher softly and leaned his head on her shoulder, eyelids drooping again already.
Grimbeorn entered the hut. He had twigs and leaves caught in his beard, and blood smeared on his hands. "Bada is back," he said. Beorn's eyes opened at the sound of his father's voice. "He is in a bad way."
"What happened?" Wassa asked as she handed Grimbeorn a cloth to wipe his hands before allowing him to take Beorn.
"Goblins," Grimbeorn replied grimly, watching her gather what she would need—bandages, needle and thread, honey and herbs to stop the bleeding and prevent festering.
"So close?" She looked outside; it was later than she had thought, the sunlight already fading as it sank behind the mountain peaks. Grimbeorn only nodded.
Wassa hurried to Bada's hut, finding his wife and daughter already heating knives to cut out the barbed arrows the goblins used; one stuck in his shoulder, the other in his leg. He was white-faced, and did little more than moan softly as Wassa prodded at the sounds, trying to discern how deep they were. She took up a chant as old as the song she had hummed to Beorn, of healing and of easing of pain and of sleep; the other women joined her, and they worked in smooth cooperation to remove the arrows and clean and bind the wounds.
They were lucky, for there was no poison. Lucky also that Bada had made it back to the village even with the arrow in his leg, for they were prepared and ready to fight back, as men and women and as skin changers, when the goblin raiding party came in the darkness.
By sunrise the goblins had been driven away, and Grimbeorn led a party after them to take advantage of their weakness in the daylight. But back at home wise women were ever busy, be it for healing or for wisdom or for burials, and there was plenty of healing but, thank the Powers, only a single funeral to be held. Beorn had slept through the fight, and watched the funeral rites with the other children, all of them solemn and silent.
Grimbeorn returned that night, when Wassa had no voice left, and after she had distributed the last of her store of oils meant to help with sleeplessness—for no one could rest easily after such a day. He was grimly pleased, for no goblins had survived their flight back to their holes. "But we found the hole, and it is new," he told her as they prepared for sleep. "It is too close. We will have to move."
She only nodded. But that night her dreams were troubled, filled with the chittering and shrieking of goblins, and a sense of dread threading through it all. Someday, they might not be able to move far enough away. They might not be able to drive them back. Someday the goblins would come and they would burn and none of her herbs or ancient songs would save them.
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- Erulisse (one L)
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