1021, One year after the great secession and the formation of Soleil

"Mama, I'm tired," said Jeanne. She didn't know why they were traveling again. Usually, when they got to a new village, they stayed for several weeks, but this time, they had only stayed a couple of days. Her feet and calves ached from walking so much, but thankfully, a stranger had given them a ride on her wagon.

"Call me mother, my little sun."

"But mama is easier," said Jeanne as she hugged into her mother's waist as the back of the wagon they rode on hit a particularly bad bump. The wagon smelled bitter and foul from all the herbs packed around them, and so when Jeanne buried her face into her mother's chest, she tried to keep her mother's sweet scent of lilac and honey in her nose.

"Yes, darling, but I taught you to speak proper. And we must thank the Light for granting us the good fortune of having this wagon pass this way."

"Mhm," said Jeanne as she let her mother's word slip into one ear and out the other. She felt her attention fading away as her mother held her close, enveloping her in warmth and sweetness. A soft hand stroked through her hair, gently combing out the blonde bunches that had tangled from their days of travel.

Jeanne loved how soft her mother's hands were. Once, when they had stayed at a blacksmith's home, the smith there had showed off how callused his hands were. Jeanne thought the hands were ugly, like chipped bricks or rough rocks. Her mother's hands, though - they were so pale and clean and warm no matter where they went or how hard they travelled.

One thing Jeanne wondered when she saw the blacksmith and his son and daughter was where her father was. After all, she had to have one, but mother never told her. Sometimes, Jeanne would think about why they were traveling so much, and maybe, she thought, they were trying to find father.

But when Jeanne asked if that was the reason, mother had stiffened up like a statue, her eyes growing distant, and Jeanne knew then never to bring the topic up.

As the wagon rocked, it simultaneously lulled Jeanne to sleep and jolted her awake in regular intervals, and she made out snippets of hazy conversation.

"How far to Riviera, good herbalist?" said mother.

"If we ride through the night, we will make it an hour past midnight," responded a woman's voice. It was a melodic and gentle one, and her words seemed to come out almost in song. It was quite unlike the firmness that usually marked mother's voice.

Mother sighed in relief. "I thank you from the depths of my heart. I know it does not mean much in these times, but I will pray the Light blesses you with fortune."

"A child's smile is reward enough, and your daughter has a particularly beautiful one." The driver whipped her reigns, beckoning the horse to move faster. "Do you have lodging for the rest of the night? If not, you are free to stay at my home. It is right outside Riviera, and it will be safer to wait out the dark."

Mother stopped stroking Jeanne's head. One of Jeanne's eyes lazily opened, and she saw that mother was reaching for the coin pouch at her waist. The leather bag, though, pressed flat against her hip, empty.

"I cannot pay you," murmured mother. She cast her eyes downward. She always did that when she got upset. Her eyes met Jeanne's, and then mother looked away in shame.

"I wasn't asking." The driver did not say anything more.

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Jeanne woke up when the wagon jolted to a stop. Mother had laid Jeanne's head on her lap, and when Jeanne groggy eyes opened, the first thing she saw was mother's face looking down at her. Mother was fast asleep, her head bowed down and her long tips of blonde hair gently caressing Jeanne's face.

"Mama, wake up," whispered Jeanne as she tugged at mother's arm. She could see how tired mother was, how her eyes had sunken in under bags of darkness and wrinkles of weariness, and felt terrible about waking her, but the driver had stopped.

Mother visibly pulled herself out of sleep in stages. First, she murmured inaudibly before squeezing Jeanne's small hand. Then, her eyes wavered open, and when they spotted Jeanne, her lips smiled. She patted Jeanne's forehead with a tender hand before she took in a breath and became serious.

"Come, my little sun." Mother grasped Jeanne's hand and led her to the edge of the wagon. Jeanne shrunk back as she saw the drop and clung to her mother's waist. Even though she could make the jump, she never could get rid of the fear of heights.

Mother smiled as she grabbed Jeanne in her arms and carried her down the wagon. When mother let her down to the ground, Jeanne could feel that the night of rest had done wonders for her legs. The aches had faded to faint pangs of dull pain, but it was manageable. Still, she couldn't shake off her sleepiness.

The driver came around, lantern in hand, and took off her hood, and Jeanne gasped at her hair. At first glance, it looked normal, black and tied into a sporty ponytail, but there were strange streaks of emerald green that cut through the black.

"Pretty," whispered Jeanne.

The woman knelt to Jeanne's height and smiled. She had a friendly face with soft features. Faint lips, a button nose, and round eyes that clearly reflected her warmth of spirit. "Thank you, little one, but looking at you, when you grow up, you'll be a much finer lady than I."

"Won't she?" said mother proudly.

Jeanne blushed and looked away. She had always thought herself so awkward and round and dirty compared to her mother who shone like the sun, ever beautiful, ever calm.

The woman led them to her house. It was a cottage, and under the faint lantern light, she could make out a field behind it with plants with tall wheat. She did not like wheat fields. The tall and packed stalks made her feel claustrophobic, like they were towering over her and ready to collapse on her.

"It's not much, but I hope it will do," said the woman.

"You tend to fields though you are a herbalist?" said mother.

The woman shook her head as she withdrew a pair of bronze keys from a waist bag and fiddled the cottage door open. Inside, a roaring fireplace emanated tempting heat and light. "No, that rough work is my husband's domain."

Jeanne held mother's hand, and by the way it tightened, she knew that mother wanted to go inside, but mother held back.

"Are you certain your husband will be fine with this? I thought we would be sleeping in a stable or shed."

"Nonsense." The woman laughed. "He is out on a hunt right now, but if he were here, he would have welcomed the two of you with open arms. Come in and make yourselves comfortable. I will prepare you something to recover from the long ride."

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Jeanne had a restless sleep, waking up often in the cottage room. A big window let moonlight flow in, which she was thankful for, because she hated the dark. But more than that, mother had gone to talk with the cottage woman and hadn't come back to sleep by her side, and Jeanne couldn't sleep properly without her.

The cottage woman had made Jeanne and mother a drink out of herbs, and though Jeanne hated herbs and thought it would taste foul, it was surprisingly sweet, like the honeymilk that mother sometimes bought for Jeanne, though recently there hadn't been enough coin to spare for that.

The herbal drink gave Jeanne a burst of energy, and this coupled with her mother's absence, made it impossible to sleep properly.

But Jeanne didn't mind much. Mother had always told her to be brave and stand up to the struggles the world threw at her, and she figured she was doing a good job by never complaining that she wanted honeymilk every now and then.

An hour later, though, and Jeanne, wrapped up like a miniature monk in warm animal skins, shuddered not because she was cold, but because mother had been gone for so long. She scooted to the wall, pressing her ear to it, and she could hear murmurs as mother and the woman continued to talk.

Jeanne quietly put the skins down and creeped to the door. Mother talked a lot with people, people they never saw again as they travelled, but even so, mother never let her hear what they ever talked about.

A lot of the time, mother would talk to people in hoods, and those scared Jeanne enough that she usually didn't want to stick around to hear anyway. She always admired mother for being brave enough to stand up to the hoods.

Jeanne knew mother wouldn't like it if she sneaked out of the room while she was talking, but Jeanne couldn't wait any longer. On her tiptoes, she gently opened the door, hoping it wouldn't creak. It didn't, and she made her way out, hiding behind a bookcase.

Though all she could see was dark wooden walls in front of her and the faint light of the fireplace in her periphery vison, she could hear mother and the woman's voices clearer now.

"And where will you go?" said the woman.

"North." Mother's voice. It sounded tired. Quiet. Wavering. Jeanne was surprised. Mother's voice usually never sounded like that. "Past Montagne. The Elves still have temples dedicated to the old light, so I am certain they will take me in."

A pause.

"Nonsense," said the woman firmly. "You will never make it that far. Even if you did manage to get to Montagne, crossing the mountains will require far, far more than healing spells, and with the ongoing purge, nobody will lift a finger to help you. And the elves are a gamble. They may worship the old light, but they will have no pity for a southerner such as yourself."

"And how would you know?" Mother sounded almost angry.

"Then look upon me, and you will know I do not speak of matters I know nothing of." There was a rustling sound, and then an audible gasp.

"You, you're…," said mother. Mother was usually never surprised. Jeanne wanted to leave her hiding spot, her hands starting to sweat, but she resisted the temptation.

"Yes, I admit it," said mother after a moment. She sighed. "It is folly, but I must still leave. I must continue north, somewhere far, far from here. They may find me, but if I can just go far enough north, then they will not find her, because if they do find her-"

Mother's voice caught in her throat.

"I know," said the woman, her comforting, sing-song voice back again. "I know."

"I am a terrible mother. For what I am to do, no amount of prayer will ever forgive me."

"For what you have to do." The woman's voice became firm again. "I know not the doctrines of your god, but I would never hold this decision against you. It is the right one, no matter how painful it may be, and you have my word that she will be taken care of."

"I hear that an oath made by your kind is never broken. Please, tell me that is true."

"It is."

Another pause. Jeanne thought about going back to the room, but then she heard mother starting to sob.

"I can't do this," said mother. "I cannot."

Jeanne could not bear it any longer and burst out of her cover. It hurt her so much to hear mother crying because mother never cried, no matter how penniless or tired or hurt they got, and so something really, really big must have happened to get her like this.

"Mama, what's wrong?" said Jeanne as she came up to mother sitting next to the woman around a small table. Jeanne tried her best to comfort mother by running up and hugging her waist, but mother, cried even harder, her belly heaving up and down as she took in quick breaths in between sobs.

Jeanne started crying too. She did not know why, but she couldn't help herself seeing mother like this. When mother reached down and felt Jeanne's tears with her soft and warm fingers, mother stopped crying immediately, almost like a switch had been flipped.

"I'm sorry, my little sun, mother was just a little tired." Mother ran a hand through Jeanne's hair, tousling it. She hunched over and picked scooped Jeanne up in her arms. "You must have been so very lonely. Come, let us go to sleep."