She's stunned, dazed, but aware that her husband has saved her.
No miracle at all.
He sets her down in a safe place, then goes back for the others. She coughs and coughs, ridding her lungs of smoke. She is burned and soot-covered, and it takes nearly all of her energy to sit up against the tree.
She watches as her husband runs in and out of the house, carrying people out. She watches as neighbours form a bucket chain, fetching water to extinguish the fire. She listens to other neighbours, women too weak to help, cluck and gossip about the unluckiness of the house catching fire on her wedding day.
It's an omen, perhaps. The East and the West remain divided. This attempt to join the two sides together, this farce of a union, is not looked upon with pleasure by the Five Makers. She knows that these Eastern women, these painted fools, see her as ill luck. Perhaps they even believe it was she who started the fire. She rubs at her face, rubbing away soot, or perhaps a tear.
"Mujian!" She doesn't look up, only nodding to acknowledge his presence. She stares at his torn and dirty shoes, picking at her own ruined finery. Neither his nor her family could ever have afforded such a festive wedding. Their lords had chosen to pay for everything, after selecting one man and one woman of marriageable age to be matched as a symbol of unity. What fools.
She had to leave her family, and for what? This lumbering ox from the other side of the river.
She says nothing, unresisting, as he picks her up carefully, like a porcelain doll (though she is a better archer and horsewoman than he could ever be) and carries her to a safe place.
The house is saved, but no one can return yet, so they must spend their wedding night elsewhere. She yields to him.
original
She's stunned, dazed, but aware that her husband has saved her.
No miracle at all.
He sets her down in a safe place, then goes back for the others. She coughs and coughs, ridding her lungs of smoke. She is burned and soot-covered, and it takes nearly all of her energy to sit up against the tree.
She watches as her husband runs in and out of the house, carrying people out. She watches as neighbours form a bucket chain, fetching water to extinguish the fire. She listens to other neighbours, women too weak to help, cluck and gossip about the unluckiness of the house catching fire on her wedding day.
It's an omen, perhaps. The East and the West remain divided. This attempt to join the two sides together, this farce of a union, is not looked upon with pleasure by the Five Makers. She knows that these Eastern women, these painted fools, see her as ill luck. Perhaps they even believe it was she who started the fire. She rubs at her face, rubbing away soot, or perhaps a tear.
"Mujian!" She doesn't look up, only nodding to acknowledge his presence. She stares at his torn and dirty shoes, picking at her own ruined finery. Neither his nor her family could ever have afforded such a festive wedding. Their lords had chosen to pay for everything, after selecting one man and one woman of marriageable age to be matched as a symbol of unity. What fools.
She had to leave her family, and for what? This lumbering ox from the other side of the river.
She says nothing, unresisting, as he picks her up carefully, like a porcelain doll (though she is a better archer and horsewoman than he could ever be) and carries her to a safe place.
The house is saved, but no one can return yet, so they must spend their wedding night elsewhere. She yields to him.
It is no miracle.