Le foyer après la guerre
Coup de cœur pour ce magnifique récit…. Il faut pouvoir apprécier la langue dans sa beauté, mais malgré tout, une traduction sommaire donnera probablement une bonne idée du contenu même si le côté littéraire sera « perdu » : « Home is where the Hearth is » par Scealai Beag.
She stopped outside her home and dropped her shield and spear upon the ground. Tired aching pained muscles shirked the pack from her shoulders.
Walking into the welcoming darkness of her home she moved towards the back and froze.
She was not alone.
Her eyes roamed the space as her hand drifted towards the blade at her hip, warrior instinct triggering a primal warning in the recesses of her brain.
The fire had been banked before she left for the Battle. Now it danced merrily in logs that must have been burning for hours, her cauldron strung over the heat, yet no scent of cooking filled the space.
Inhaling deeply she picked up a smell from the second alcove of the cave, where the spring filled the pool. The movement of the water and the damp earthy aroma almost masked the scent, one that was strangely more earthy than the very rock and clay around it.
Moving forward confidently now, she entered the back of the cave knowing full well who was there.
The hulking broad figure was silhouetted by the candles at play about the pools edge and she heard a strange noise as something, blocked from her sight, dropped into the water’s depths.
How is it that you come so freely into this space?
Her voice cracked the silence wide open with its demand. Her Will driven into the words, a Will that commanded armies and made the very air freeze, and time cease its march.
The figure stood slowly, turning towards her.
As His eyes fell upon Her, the primal part of her brain shuddered and a need to fight or flee skittered its way toward her thoughts only to be crushed mercilessly by her Will.
She was the better of most and the equal of only one, She would dictate her path.
Her eyes fell to his hands. Broad and strong, with skin creased from work, they were held palms up, out towards her.
In the darkness, she could barely see his face but the smile he wore was as plain as the dawn and almost as bright.
Silence, warm and comfortable rolled itself back into the space.
Stepping forward she spread her arms out wide. They had played this game before.
With gentle hands, he pulled the léine from her shoulders and the trews from off her legs.
With vestments of war left in a bloody pile on the rock, he lead her to the pool. As her foot touched the water she could not suppress her hiss of surprise.
The water, normally cool and refreshing, was warm as steam rose from its surface.
Her eyes locked on his as her brain worked rapidly. Her exhalation had not gone unnoticed and a soft chuckle rumbled from his chest.
Rocks. Heated on the fire and placed in the water.
It was a statement of a truth discovered with quick thinking and perception, and though there was no question to it, he nodded in answer.
Stepping down into the rock pool She turned to see if he would follow. Surprised again, she took pause to watch as the game changed further, he sat upon the pool’s edge and lifted a comb into his hands.
Turning her back to him She settled into the water, then felt his big gentle hands undoing her war braids one at a time, lifting water cupped in his palm to wash and work the blood and viscera from her mane.
As the last braid was cleansed the heat had soaked its way into her, relieving her war weary muscles of their aches. With her hair fanned out about her she felt the comb enter her tresses.
The basso voice slipped softly through the silence, and as the rumbling relaxing song began on his lips, the Dagda began to comb the Morrigan’s hair.