Ordeal of control

Lucrezia Iunia Bruta; Somewhere; Possibly around the tenth month; building the shrine

Where a river is born.

This had the best possible place, after all this was the start of my own adventure, of my own redemption, of my own legend here.

Even just to honour my home, I had to do this.

Maybe not when I found the first step, or when I understood where I was, but still, this was the official first step, and no one could say the opposite.

And if one did, I was the one writing the story and so their own words would find themselves not penned by my own hand.

Unfortunately this first step, to be official, needed something monumental.

Or at least something to remember my own gods, and my own ancestors.

“So you mean to say you want to carve the rock beside spring with nothing but your own hands?” The Peregrino asked, incense and some thick branches of olive, bayleaf and pine in a bag behind his bag.

Naturally I had learnt somewhat of his moods, and was perfectly aware that “asked” in this case was more akin to a mock than a true question, but I, while nodding, answered his unspoken, and possibly unwilling, request: “Yes. It will not be beautiful, or as worthy to the gods as the work of an artisan, but it will be all I can give, and it will be something to remember them by for the Saturnalia, and for the coming months before I depart.”

The Peregrino grunted at that answer, then he put down the bag and stretched his back, unused or simply not liking the labour it took to reach this place.

He probably had already seen its beauty but, if I was a poet, I would write down such words about the rising mountain tops, crowned with clouds and higher than the Olympus and the forge of Vulcan.

Or I would write about the valley, such that it seemed an enormous sword had cut the mountains in twain down the valley, and the rising smoke from the far houses was but the wounds trying to close themselves.

Maybe I could even talk about the far off fog that I knew hid a lake, which with my lacking imagination I would call the gem of these mountains.

But I was far from being a good poet, and so I inhaled and then exhaled, finding my inner fire, given to us by Vulcan for our first breath.

Then I punched the rock.

The first line appeared with the first contact, alongside a sonorous crack and a small jump by the Peregrino, who quickly hid it and put his hands on his ears.

Hmph.

Another and another attack against the rock, trying to make a small alcove.

But it was taking too much, and I could see the cracks going where they shouldn’t.

Mother did say I was more of a speaker than a thinker or a maker, and I bit my lower lip at those thoughts.

But I went on.

The upper part of the rock, which I didn’t wish to break, broke.

“Oi.”

Another punch.

This time it was the right part of the rock, and not the center.

“Oi!”

The crack went down to the base of the rock.

A hand appeared on my shoulder, and I stopped, out of breath and my heart beating like a wardrum.

“Stop doing this, your hands are already bleeding!” The Peregrino shouted, grasping my wrist and dragging it up to my eyes.

My knuckles were red, swollen, with many small cuts and yes, they were bleeding.

Angry lines started going down them when he dragged me towards the small river and, with strength I didn’t know the medicus had, dragged me down near it.

He didn’t immerge them, even if I knew my blessing would not let me lose them to frost, but, after taking a clean cloth from the bag, he dunked that in the water and started cleaning my hands, muttering curses all the while.

I simply stood there while he treated my hands, staring at the cracked rock, but not in the way I wished.

My teacher would be ashamed of me, he had made pillars of marble perfect with but a finger.

My mother would be ashamed of me, she had seen something in me that simply wasn’t there.

I was ashamed of me. Much so.

“Look, if your end goal is self-harm, you could have avoided making me come with you with this cold, and just used the branches against your knuckles, you fool!” The medicus grounded out, his tone furious and lips peeled back, while his gloved hands trembled slightly while putting some kind of ointment and then bandages.

That ointment quickly made my hands feel better, but the look in his eyes made me turn away like a scolded child.

Mayhaps I was that, it would have not surprised me.

“So, what is that you want? A shrine or just breaking your hands? Because if it’s the second I will drag you back and tie you down to a bed, forcefeed you through the winter and then kick you out when the ice will thaw!” He continued, almost biting out each word while he tightened the grey cloth bandages.

I did not answer, and simply looked down, ashamed of myself.

There was only silence in that moment, the only sounds being the river flowing, the crows cawing over us, and the scrunching of the snow.

“Ingrid, please do not say that Grandpa decided to also launch himself somewhere, I am very close to just tie him up alongside the fool here.” The medicus grunted out while finishing his work and getting up, not looking at me.

I didn’t turn towards the red haired nana, who spoke up, somewhat amused and somewhat concerned: “Well, if this is what happens when you do walks, I ought to come here more often, Vic!”

I only lowered my head, the shame remaining a companion.