Work Text:
There's a hitch-click in her left knee when she wakes up. In fairness, there's a hitch in her left leg as she tosses to sleep. It will work its way out as she rises to do the work of the day.
Work in sorrow. Her people have chosen to follow a madman into the dark forest where dangers gibber in the crags of the earth and loom of close trees.
She'd hoped that the women of her city at least would listen to her when she pointed to his manifold foolish ravings, but no.
So into the forest they are going.
As the woman prepares for the journey, the hard horrible journey, she packs a jar of water.
It's magic in a way that her left leg is not. It will refill with water as such is poured out. Not quickly. It's not that kind of magic, but it will refill. Though the carrying of it, that will be the burden of her back. Of her right leg and her left.
As the woman prepares for the journey, the hard horrible journey, she packs a small hand ax.
It's magic in a way that her left leg is not. It will never dull no matter how much wood that it chops. Though the wielding of it, that is the task of her arm. Of her right arm to swing, and her left to carry the wood. For fires to cook. For new homes. Maybe. Someday.
If they survive.
The woman rubs her left knee.
They will survive.
The woman has a magic urn and a magic ax. She will chop wood and carry water.
But as she rubs her left knee to get ready for the day, she's really not looking forward to it.
Ready or not, she will chop wood and carry water.