The Language of Us

It's dark in the house, but not dismally so. The low, heavy-beamed ceiling make the shadows feel like intimate friends as they chase the firelight across whitewashed walls.

She hums to herself as she prepares the evening meal. It's low in her throat, a tuneless rambling that buzzes pleasantly in her chest. Often, she finds the beat taken up by her hands as she chops vegetables and dumps them into the pot. There's no rush to her work, she's always had the ability to time their meals perfectly with his return.

Her woolen skirt brushes against her bare ankles, outside it is late spring and pleasantly warm. Her feet shift over the rushes on the floor as she sets the pot to simmer. It wouldn't be long before he arrives home. She draws one of the low stools against the wall, in the sweet spot where she can watch both the fire and the door. The sun sets as she waits, picking up the humming again as she mends her husband's best tunic.

When he walks through the door, his heavy boots send little shudders through the floor.

She looks up and grins at him, but it takes a moment for him to return the gesture. The small smile is forced and his shoulders droop wearily. Her own smile fades.

He motions questioningly to the fire and she shakes her head, adamant. Of course she hadn't eaten without him. She's always waited before, why would tonight be any different?

A few moments pass as she ladles the food into two shallow bowls and she draws up her stool to the table. He sits across from her and begins to pick at his food.

She sets down her spoon with enough force to catch his attention. He drags his eyes up to hers and sighs.

She folds her hands and rests her chin on them, gazing at him in loving concern. What could trouble this great man that sat before her?

He frowns then sets his thumbs and forefingers in an awkward triangle, then moves it in a circle.

The village.

One hand raises to his mouth then flares out with splayed fingers.

Talking.

He motions between them.

Us.

She rolls her eyes. The village was always talking, even if she cannot hear it. Their flapping mouths remind her of little birds, never still.

He waves his hand earnestly. He knows her dismissive view of the people, but, she realizes, he is truly worried about something.

He makes the gesture for talking again, then points to his finger, where a plain band of metal rests.

His wedding band?

He shakes his head angrily.

Her brow furrows. What are they saying about their wedding? They were married properly, on the steps of the steps of the church, in the sight of God and the entire village.

He sighs again, now pained. He points to her and gestures.

You can’t speak.

She jerks back. Were her vows suddenly unworthy in the eyes of the church? Her sister spoke the vows for her, and the priest had blessed them all the same.

The ring on her own hand shines dully in the firelight as she flashes it at him, hands moving quickly.

I married you, not the village.

Why should they care? He’d chosen her, the deaf outcast, when he’d had every other girl all but lined up for his attention. Had their bitterness turned into something more malicious?

I want…

His hands still and his expression contorts as he struggles to say what he wants.

She pushes the bowl away, no longer hungry.

He signs village, then again off to the side. Hooking a thumb over his shoulder, he looks deeply into her eyes.

We should move. The next village over, at least.

She stands, knocking over the stool.

No.

The fire's burning low, she reaches for another log and jabs it viciously into the embers. She can’t face him. It’s too much, too quickly. Fear rises thick in her throat.

Warm, solid hands lower gently on her shoulders and she flinches. He turns her slowly around. His dark brown eyes shine in the firelight. One hand he rests on his chest and then on hers.

I love you.

She shakes her head, tears forming. The thing he asks is impossible. Leave? The village may have never accepted her but it was home. She knew nothing beyond the town and the river that wound around it.

But he was only trying to do what was best for her, what was best for them.

Taking a shuddering breath, she leans back in his arms and holds up a hand, motioning to the two them, then pointing out the door.

I will follow you.

The rest of her heart cannot not be explained by her hands. She would go with him to the very edge of the world if that's what he desired.

She would go with him, this broad-chested, gentle-soul'd man that had taught her that some people were still capable of love.

He hugs her tight, and she melts into his embrace.

//Thanks for reading! I hope to someday bring Ilsabe and Garek's story to life as a full length novel, so I guess this counts as a super duper early sneak peak!\\