[That is a good point, and he carefully fits that in with the rest of the reasons on his mental list of pros and cons to experience whatever memories are in these wreaths, woven into the flowers and charms and twigs. It's not necessarily a great reason, but it's still a reason, and somehow having actual reasons gives him some leeway in allowing himself to do this thing which is dangerous in its own way.]
I don't know how much use it will be, but it's worth looking at.
[Putting down the other wreaths he'd brought from the table, he lifts his hands to take the one Reynir is holding out. Onni had, for some reason, thought that the wreaths only provided one memory each, didn't realize that there could be more than one. So he closes his eyes and inhales the scent of the flowers, thinking about being a child and holding Tuuri.
But when the memory starts, it isn't that. Onni is still a child, about 8 years old, standing solemnly in front of his grandmother, who is sitting on the front steps of his old home in Toivosaari. Her hands are lifted and she's gesturing, speaking in crisp, brisk Finnish. Lips pressed together into a line, Onni lifts his own hands and tries to copy the movements that his grandmother is making in the air, and she reaches out to correct his form, lightly slapping his wrists and knuckles and fingers until they're making the right shapes, at the right levels. She repeats a line of poetry to him, makes the gestures at the same time, and he repeats it back to her, stumbling slightly over the words and making the gestures she had.
Nothing happens, and she leans in to scold him lightly about belief and spirit and the strength of the gods, and then they do it again. This time, his grandmother produces a small flame between her hands at the end of it, to demonstrate, and then Onni recreates it, his face screwed up into an expression of concentration. When he finishes the spell, a massive burst of flame shoots up from between his palms and he yelps and falls back just fast enough to avoid losing his eyebrows to it. The flame disappears as he flails his hands and his grandmother's eyes are wide and a little surprised.
The noise catches the attention of the people inside the house, and Tuuri, only two years old, toddles out of the door towards them, a little off balance, her arms spread wide.
"Onnniiii...okay?" she squeaks, and squats down by where his head is still lying on the wood of the porch, digging her fingers into his hair and tugging. He laughs, he tells her he's okay, and then his mother shows up in the door, comes out and has a quick, whispered conversation with his grandmother about the fire and the magic.
Once they're done, his mother scoops up Tuuri in her arms and plants her on her hip, holds her hand out to him. He takes it, and starts talking excitedly about the fire he'd made and how big it was and how scary it was while she leads him inside the house, to where a wooden cutting board holds a fresh loaf of bread and a little glass jar of homemade preserves.
Opening his eyes, Onni gasps softly, stares straight ahead of him, shakes his head.]
no subject
[That is a good point, and he carefully fits that in with the rest of the reasons on his mental list of pros and cons to experience whatever memories are in these wreaths, woven into the flowers and charms and twigs. It's not necessarily a great reason, but it's still a reason, and somehow having actual reasons gives him some leeway in allowing himself to do this thing which is dangerous in its own way.]
I don't know how much use it will be, but it's worth looking at.
[Putting down the other wreaths he'd brought from the table, he lifts his hands to take the one Reynir is holding out. Onni had, for some reason, thought that the wreaths only provided one memory each, didn't realize that there could be more than one. So he closes his eyes and inhales the scent of the flowers, thinking about being a child and holding Tuuri.
But when the memory starts, it isn't that. Onni is still a child, about 8 years old, standing solemnly in front of his grandmother, who is sitting on the front steps of his old home in Toivosaari. Her hands are lifted and she's gesturing, speaking in crisp, brisk Finnish. Lips pressed together into a line, Onni lifts his own hands and tries to copy the movements that his grandmother is making in the air, and she reaches out to correct his form, lightly slapping his wrists and knuckles and fingers until they're making the right shapes, at the right levels. She repeats a line of poetry to him, makes the gestures at the same time, and he repeats it back to her, stumbling slightly over the words and making the gestures she had.
Nothing happens, and she leans in to scold him lightly about belief and spirit and the strength of the gods, and then they do it again. This time, his grandmother produces a small flame between her hands at the end of it, to demonstrate, and then Onni recreates it, his face screwed up into an expression of concentration. When he finishes the spell, a massive burst of flame shoots up from between his palms and he yelps and falls back just fast enough to avoid losing his eyebrows to it. The flame disappears as he flails his hands and his grandmother's eyes are wide and a little surprised.
The noise catches the attention of the people inside the house, and Tuuri, only two years old, toddles out of the door towards them, a little off balance, her arms spread wide.
"Onnniiii...okay?" she squeaks, and squats down by where his head is still lying on the wood of the porch, digging her fingers into his hair and tugging. He laughs, he tells her he's okay, and then his mother shows up in the door, comes out and has a quick, whispered conversation with his grandmother about the fire and the magic.
Once they're done, his mother scoops up Tuuri in her arms and plants her on her hip, holds her hand out to him. He takes it, and starts talking excitedly about the fire he'd made and how big it was and how scary it was while she leads him inside the house, to where a wooden cutting board holds a fresh loaf of bread and a little glass jar of homemade preserves.
Opening his eyes, Onni gasps softly, stares straight ahead of him, shakes his head.]
That wasn't the same memory, was it?