Deleted Scene: Past life memory (Aeronwy)

1300 words, 4 minute read.

Lavender Moon 10, 3828
Somewhere in the Bell Mountains, Caspora
(150 years ago)

I was a beekeeper, not by choice, but by inheritance. My spouse [NAME] was the one who kept the hives, which had been in the family supposedly since ancient times. Then the sickness came, the one that left not a single family without taking along at least one member, and the bees became my responsibility.

When [NAME] passed, I walked straight out into the field to tell the bees. They were the first to know, other than me. They were the first to see me cry.

That was seven years ago now. People said that the honey wasn’t as good now that it was made by bees in mourning, whose caretaker had never re-partnered and returned sweetness to the household. They still bought it, though.

The one person who had never said such things—in fact never said much at all—was my neighbor, [Aeronwy]. The town blacksmith, who the same gossips said was cold and inflexible as iron. [Aeronwy] had never even married once, which wasn’t something to gossip about, some folk were simply happier that way…but wagging tongues suggested that in this case it wasn’t for a lack of desire, but a lack of finding someone to love em back.

I suppose that put us in the same basket, when it came to local reputation. I had never known [Aeronwy] to be anything but courteous, if a bit reserved. When [NAME] was still alive, the three of us used to share a drink sometimes on a summer’s evening, and we always traded goods.

We both worked with gold. Mine was liquid, made from the nectar of tens of thousands of flowers, which I also tended to along with some hired help during the main growing season. [Aeronwy]’s was literal, nuggets plucked out of rivers or pulled from the earth in the deep mines that pocked the flank of Mount Cináed.

One might think [Aeronwy] to be rich, but the gold was a whisper among the very ordinary tin and iron nails, horseshoes, tools, and the like that e mainly traded in. Once in a while, an important Flamekeeper from the Hearth [Aeronwy] belonged to would arrive, wearing the traditional deep-red madder cloth and accompanied by an entourage dyed in golden saffron. They all wore gold on their ears and wrists and necks, and so, the town reasoned, gold must be involved.

Lately I had taken to walking among the hives at dusk, watching the bees come home to their hives like children coming in from school. The steady hum of their wings comforted me, and I loved the way the setting sun lit them as they zipped through the air, likes sparks thrown from a bonfire.

I took with me another habit, which was a jar of my best honey for [Aeronwy]. Usually I left it on a log that sat next to the shelter that housed the forge. The empty jar was always returned to the spot on the next new or full moon, and so I would swap it for a fresh one every two weeks.

Not one of these times had I caught sight of [Aeronwy] emself. So I was surprised when I came through the trees and saw that the forge was lit, and e was working at it, singing over the roar of the flames.

“[LYRICS]”

I stopped and watched. The forge had a roof overhead, but instead of walls it had only supports made from thick, fire-resistant redwood logs, with plenty of space in between. Even from outside the structure, I could feel the intense heat baking my skin, and wondered how [Aeronwy] managed to stand so close for hours at a time.

All blacksmiths are strong, and [Aeronwy] was no exception, but whatever e was making now didn’t involve the swing of a giant hammer. Instead, e held two long poles into the mouth of the forge, from which e eventually drew a small, glowing red cup. The cup held what looked like the surface of the sun, and was poured deftly into what I could only assume was a mould of some kind. There wasn’t very much of it.

It was at this point that [Aeronwy] looked up and saw me, just as e finished the last verse of the song.

“[LYRICS]”

I mouthed the last line along with em. [NAME] used to sing that song to the bees, and I carried on the tradition, hoping that it would soothe their grief for em. Sometimes it at least soothed mine. At this point, the grief was like a hard little rock that sat at the bottom of my throat. Most of the time it was just there, unobtrusive, but once in a while it would shift, and suddenly I would feel as if I couldn’t breathe.

I felt breathless now, but in a different way.

“I brought your honey,” I said, holding up the jar. It caught a ray of evening sunlight and shone like a lantern in my hand.

[Aeronwy] smiled. I don’t know that I’d ever seen em smile, at least not since those casual nights we shared with [NAME] sitting between us. E was wearing protective clothing save for on eir arms, which were muscled and covered with soot and sweat. Neither of us were particularly young anymore, but neither were we in the generation of elders.

“You can put it on the stump,” e said, gesturing to the spot I usually left it. “I do apologize, but I broke the last jar by accident.”

“That’s all right. Last moon you fixed my smoke can without charging for materials,” I said. “Besides, we’re friends.”

It was a bit of a stretch, considering how little we had interacted in person over the last few years. There was the honey, and the repair services I sometimes needed for equipment. There were the occasional small chats about the weather or the crops if we crossed on the road. We waved if we saw one another wandering the land between our houses, which was close enough to see figures through lit windows at night but far enough that you wouldn’t hear a ‘hello’ if it were shouted.

Still, I felt glad for the quiet, steady companionship.

As I set the jar on the stump, [Aeronwy] picked up the mould and cast it into a bucket of water at eir feet. The water hissed and bubbled, and as e pulled it back out, e picked up a small hammer and began chipping away.

I watched, fascinated. Metallurgy to me seemed like magic, and indeed, had been one of the original six gifts given to humanity by Cináed. I was not an avid worshiper and attended the Temple spottily, but [Aeronwy] seemed not to go at all. Perhaps e didn’t need to, working directly with such powerful flames day after day.

[Aeronwy] approached me then with palm outstretched. In eir hand, which was gnarled for eir age and well-scarred, there lay a life-size golden bee.

“This is for you,” e said. “For the honey.”

I held up my hands. “That’s—it’s beautiful—but it’s not worth, I’m not worth—“

“Then, a gift, for a friend,” [Aeronwy] amended. “I…have been lonely lately. I was wondering if you might want to spend some time together sometime. Over a drink, or by the fire. Like we used to do.”

I was silent, though I very much wanted to say yes. My tongue felt swelled, as if the little golden bee had stung it.

“I know it won’t be the same without [NAME],” [Aeronwy] said, “but I think e would be glad that we carried on the tradition.”

Slowly, I reached out and placed my hand over the bee. Over [Aeronwy]’s hand.

“I’d like that.”