joy and sorrow

----------------------

Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.

----------------------

Pov of a middle class worker

"Blessed be His name," I whispered as the morning mass concluded.

"Amen," several voices replied around me, filling the small chapel with a shared echo of fervor.

The chapel was modest, with wooden benches and damp stone walls. Yet, people gathered there day after day, praying with unwavering conviction. Slowly, I rose to my feet after kneeling for so long and cast a final glance at the altar, covered in candles. The priest gave me a kind look, just as he did with every parishioner who came to seek solace in their prayers.

In most corners of Westeros, winter struck harshly. But here in The Reach, the air was a fresh whisper, more reminiscent of a gentle autumn. As I stepped outside the chapel, a soft breeze brushed against my face. I adjusted my cloak and walked along the cobblestone streets, where the mid-morning sun peeked through the clouds with a friendly glow.

My routine led me straight to the clockmaker's shop where I worked. From outside, the relentless ticking of the clocks on display could be heard—a sound that always reminded me of the steady, unyielding march of time. As I pushed the door open, a small brass bell chimed to announce my arrival.

"Good morning," said the master clockmaker, a man with steady hands and a calm demeanor.

"Good morning," I replied, hanging my cloak on a nearby rack.

The shop was bathed in light streaming through a large window. Shelves were lined with wall clocks, tabletop clocks, and pocket watches, all in various stages of repair. An apprentice polished a gear with utmost care, while the master pointed toward a large clock with a dark wooden pendulum.

"We need to adjust the mechanism," he explained, approaching the clock with delicate precision. "The noble who ordered it will be here to collect it in two days."

I nodded and sat down on a small stool at the workbench. I carefully examined each gear. Adjusting the mechanism of a pendulum requires patience; one wrong move could throw off the rhythm or damage the internal springs. I became absorbed in the task, the murmur of the street and the shop fading into the background.

I only looked up when the apprentice approached with a pocket watch that wouldn't wind properly. Examining the cylinder where the crown fit, I showed him how to grease it without overdoing it to prevent the mechanism from jamming. The master, a few steps away, inspected a wall clock carved with intricate flowers and vines.

Time slipped away amidst gears and fine screwdrivers. By the time I noticed, the golden light of midday was pouring through the window. I decided to step out to get something to eat.

I walked to a stall in the plaza where they sold steaming pies and freshly baked bread. People crowded around the vendors, exchanging greetings and coins. Even with winter battering other regions, The Reach exuded a near-festive atmosphere, thanks to abundant harvests and the state's care for its people.

"The usual?" the vendor asked with a knowing smile.

"Yes," I replied, taking a couple of pies.

I returned to the clock shop and quickly ate at a small table in the back, careful not to disrupt the master's work. After washing my hands, I resumed working on the pendulum. The harmonious ticking of the clocks accompanied my every movement.

"Ah… I almost forgot."

I turned, puzzled by the master's expression.

"What's wrong?" I asked, setting aside the fine screwdriver. "Did we forget an order for a merchant or noble?"

He shook his head.

"No… it's something else. By law, I have to give you three weeks of paid leave. The mayor's assistant reminded me: if I don't comply, I risk fines."

I blinked, trying to process his words.

"Leave? What's that? Some kind of extra training?" I asked, genuinely confused.

The master let out a brief laugh.

"No, no. It's time where you don't come to work, and I still have to pay you. Gewerkschaft proposed it, and it became law last year. Each year, you accrue three weeks of leave, plus an extra day for every year of service. So, starting tomorrow, you're off… for three weeks."

I stared at him, unable to hide my surprise. Working at the clock shop had become my daily routine, a way to keep myself distracted from the fact that I had three sons fighting in the Iron Islands. The nerves gnawed at me whenever I thought about it too much, especially when discussing it with my wife. The idea of stopping work, of being paid to stay home, had never crossed my mind.

The master looked at me with a mix of apology and amusement."I'm sorry, but it's the law. I don't want any trouble with the mayor."

I fixed my gaze on the half-disassembled clock, my hands itching with impatience. I had chosen this job, in part, to avoid sitting at home, dwelling on my sons' fate in the Iron Islands. When I'm focused on gears and the constant tick-tock, I can keep the worry at bay.

"And what am I supposed to do for three weeks?" I murmured, more to myself than to him.

The master shrugged with a small smile."Rest, take your wife for a walk… Clear your mind. Maybe even visit relatives in another town, if you'd like. The important thing is that you're not here. The law is clear: I can't let you work."

I nodded, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach my face."Alright… I guess I'll try not to go mad away from the clocks."

"A change of scenery will do you good. When you come back, you'll have a clearer mind," he said, patting my shoulder with a hint of camaraderie. "And don't worry—I'll handle the orders. Though I might need to hire extra hands since the apprentice also has a right to leave. Maybe we'll start selling stock instead of just custom orders."

I thanked him, a knot tightening in my stomach. The last thing I wanted was to stay home with nothing to occupy my thoughts. Whenever I stopped to listen to the silence, the fear for my sons grew unbearable. Still, I knew the master well enough to understand he was trying to help, not harm me.

"So… I don't come back tomorrow?" I asked quietly, as if I needed confirmation once more.

He nodded firmly.

"That's right. Take the day off. And the ones after that. When you return, your tools will be waiting, and hopefully, there will be good news about your sons."

I kept my eyes on the workbench for what felt like an eternity. Then, I took a deep breath and gathered my things. I wasn't sure how I'd feel stepping out of that door, knowing I wouldn't return to my usual routine for weeks. But there, amidst the scent of oil and the rhythmic ticking of the clocks, I realized that perhaps I needed time to find peace at home with my wife.

"Thank you, master," I murmured before leaving the shop, trying to hide the mix of nerves and gratitude in my voice.

I finished assembling the clock I'd been working on, ensuring the minute hand fit perfectly, and closed the day's work. The master nodded approvingly, his eyes holding a mix of sympathy and pity. I left the clock shop with the strange sensation that, the next day, I wouldn't return to the life I'd known for so long.

When I arrived home, my wife greeted me with a tired smile. I told her about the forced leave and watched as her eyes widened in disbelief.

"Three weeks… without work?" she whispered, making sure she hadn't misunderstood.

I nodded, removing my cloak and hanging it by the door.

"That's right. The master says it's the law. And we'll still be paid."

She sighed, looking around our modest home. It had been some time since we'd spent the last of our gold and silver on war bonds for the King of Prussia. Like many other parents, we had done it with the hope that our sons would be better equipped and spared the freezing cold of winter in the land of pirates. But that decision had left us with few resources, and any notion of celebration was more symbolic than lavish.

Still, my wife managed to prepare a small feast in honor of my newly earned "vacation." She set the table with a simple stew, some bread baked that morning, and a jar of expensive wine we had been saving for special occasions. I sat down and watched her in silence, thinking about everything we had sacrificed for the war, our sons far from home, and how, despite it all, she still found ways to spark a little joy amid uncertainty.

"Let's make a toast," she suggested, raising her glass.

I lifted mine, feeling a lump form in my throat.

"To us… and to the hope that this will all end soon."

The night passed peacefully, and when exhaustion finally overcame me, I slid into bed, recalling the master's advice: "Rest, enjoy this time." But my thoughts lingered on my sons, fighting in a place where winter would soon turn cruel.

The next morning, I woke before the sun had risen to light the streets. I was used to rising early for the clock shop, and it was difficult to accept that I didn't need to get dressed and rush out the door. I stayed in bed for a while, trying to convince myself to sleep longer, but I couldn't. Eventually, I got up and found myself staring at the small improvised workshop we had at home: tools neatly stored and a few minor repairs waiting for my attention.

"Already up?" my wife asked, peeking into the room.

"Yes… I can't help it," I replied with a sheepish smile.

With nothing urgent to do, I decided to tackle the small house repairs that we usually reserved for holidays. I fixed the loose hinge on the kitchen door, cleaned the soot from the chimney, and inspected the roof to ensure it wouldn't leak when the persistent autumn rains came to The Reach. My wife watched me with mild surprise; typically, such tasks were delayed, yet here I was, doing them all at once.

"Wouldn't you rather rest?" she asked, dusting a forgotten corner of the house.

I shook my head.

"I'd rather keep my hands busy. If I sit still, my mind runs wild… thinking about them."

She nodded silently, understanding without needing me to explain further. For a moment, our eyes met, and I felt the shared longing between us: that our sons would return safely, far from the snow and the battles raging in the Iron Islands.

That was how my first day of "vacation" passed—without the clock shop, without urgent orders from nobles, but with the constant company of my own thoughts. Whenever worry crept in, I focused on a household task, repeating in my mind the prayer I'd said in the chapel: that the Lord would protect our boys in that kingdom battered by cold and war.

That night, exhausted but at least satisfied with having accomplished something useful, I sat down to dinner with my wife. She served me a hot meal, and I gave her a grateful smile. Perhaps these days would be difficult for me… but if fate allowed, they would also provide a much-needed reprieve for two parents who had given everything for their children's safety.

"Get some rest," she said as she cleared the dishes.

"I'll try," I whispered, gazing out the window at the night sky.

And so I fell asleep, silently praying that somewhere far away, my three sons were gazing at the same stars and finding a glimmer of hope in their own winter night.

The week passed with surprising ease. "Perhaps it's because, for the first time in a long while, my mind isn't entirely consumed by work at the clock shop," I thought as my wife and I visited places we had always postponed. We fixed everything we could around the house: doors, windows, and other minor issues that didn't require the help of architects or builders, even though their services were free.

We started going out more often. We visited the amphitheater to watch celebrations hosted by the local nobles, who were rejoicing over recent victories in the Iron Islands. Occasionally, we boarded a boat that sailed along the Mander River, stopping in various towns to admire the lush vegetation and soft autumn hues of The Reach. While I marveled at the picturesque scenery, I couldn't stop thinking about our sons. "Where are they now? Have they heard the news of victory? Are they still safe?" I wondered, trying to quell the ever-present anxiety.

One evening, as we prepared dinner together, chopping vegetables at the kitchen table, we heard a knock at the door. When I opened it, I was greeted by the most joyous sight I could imagine: my three sons, standing together with dust from the road covering their clothes and happiness radiating from their faces.

One of them had his arm immobilized in what looked like a plaster splint—"a hollowed rock," he called it with a laugh—and I noticed several scars on the others. But they were alive.

"Father!" they exclaimed almost in unison, and I struggled to hold back tears as I rushed to embrace them. My wife, upon seeing them, let out a cry of joy that echoed through the entire house.

"When did you return? Are you all alright?" I asked, words tumbling out as I scanned their tired but living faces.

"We just arrived, Father," my eldest replied, trying to hide the discomfort in his injured arm. "We wanted to surprise you."

We were about to sit down and hear their stories when a heart-wrenching scream pierced the air, coming from the neighboring house. I froze, as did my sons. We stepped outside and witnessed a scene of pure sorrow: a woman kneeling on the ground, cradling a small child in her arms while another clung to her side. Her desperate sobs shattered the stillness.

Beside her stood a noblewoman, gently consoling her with soft touches and murmured words we couldn't hear. Behind them, a contingent of Teutonic knights—King Wilhelm's personal guard—stood in stoic silence, their rigid posture a stark contrast to the grief before them.

"It's the Queen Consort," one of my sons whispered, his voice tinged with awe as he recognized the noblewoman.

"The Queen Consort… here?" I repeated in disbelief.

A chill ran down my spine as I pieced together the situation. That poor woman must have just received the news every parent dreads: an irreparable loss, perhaps of her husband or a close family member. "What a cruel contrast," I thought, glancing at my sons, alive and well beside me, while that mother was consumed by her grief just a few steps away.

I hesitated, unsure whether to approach. My wife joined me outside, covering her mouth in shock at the sight. No one spoke, and the air felt colder than usual. My sons stood solemnly, likely recalling the horrors of the war they had left behind.

The Queen Consort briefly glanced our way, acknowledging our presence, but her attention quickly returned to the grieving woman. One of her attendants handed the mother a cloth to dry her tears.

"It's unfair," I thought bitterly. "We celebrate life and the return of our boys, while others bear the unbearable weight of loss." My heart ached at the thought of what it might have been like if fate had dealt us a different hand.

My eldest son—his arm still in its splint—met my gaze with concern. His expression mirrored my thoughts: that woman was a reflection of what countless soldiers had left behind. That thin line between the joy of reunion and the devastation of loss could be shattered by the arrival of a single messenger.

I held my breath, unsure of how to offer comfort. "Maybe we should stay close, in case they need anything… water, food, a shoulder to cry on," I thought, ready to take a step forward. But before I could move, the woman let out another piercing cry and collapsed into the Queen's arms.

My wife gripped my hand tightly. She was trembling slightly, perhaps imagining that we could have been in that woman's place.

"Let's go inside," she said softly. "They need their space."

I nodded, my heart heavy, and we returned to the house with our sons. I closed the door quietly, feeling the weight of the neighbor's sorrow seep into our thoughts.

As we sat down to a subdued meal, my sons began recounting their journey in quiet tones, carefully avoiding the grimmer details. My wife listened, occasionally brushing away a tear that escaped. I, on the other hand, swallowed hard, acutely aware that the war was not only fought in distant lands but also in the hearts of those waiting for news—good or bad—just around the corner.

------------------------

Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

----------------------

I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.

----------------------