|littleloved_one (littleloved_one) wrote in vox_lacuna,|
@ 2008-01-14 02:45:00
|Entry tags:||1959, first times, lovette rosmerta, pensieve|
Lovette Rosmerta, January 1959, Pensieve Memory
Name: Lovette Rosmerta
Format: Pensieve Memory
Date: January 1959
Summary: Lovette's first taste of mead.
The memory begins in the snow. Two figures, one large and one small, make their way through the drifts piled high where the street would usually be. It follows the two into the largest building on the square. Once inside, Lovette steps away from her mother and looks, wide-eyed, around the room. The air is thick, both with the heat of the fire and the heavy smell of pipe tobacco. The windows, darkened by the heavy snowfall outside, let in very little light, and so it is the dozens of flickering candles that help to illuminate the room.
Lovette, who has never before been in a pub, frowns and asks her mother, "Where are the three broomsticks? I don't see any at all."
Looking harried, Madeleine Rosmerta does no more to answer her daughter than to push her into an empty seat at a table in the corner. Taking a knee, she speaks softly and quickly. "Stay just here Lovie. Don't go anywhere, and don't talk to strangers, yeah? I'll be back in no time at all." Madeleine leaves the pub through the door that she just entered by, and Lovette is alone, even as she is surrounded by strangers. Being seven, Lovette is generally inclined to disregard her mother, and so after only a cursory consideration of the room, she gets herself up from the chair and moves toward what looks like a much more interesting vantage point, one of the tall stools that line the bar. She climbs it ladder-like, and perches at the top, her round face scanning the room once again. Disappointed - still no broomstick in sight - she turns around to look behind her. Surprised and delighted, with all thoughts of brooms erased, she sees the glittering rows of jewel-like bottles that line the shelves behind the bar. The flickering candlelight dances through the layers of glass and shimmering liquid, reflecting off Lovette's brown eyes. So entranced is she that she does not hear that man approaching on her right.
"Hello there pretty miss. May I buy you a drink?"
Gasping, Lovette turns to the stranger. He is seated on the stool just next to her, but even sitting down he is very, very tall. She thinks he must also be very, very old, for his beard is long and he is wearing glasses as well. Behind the glasses - strangely shaped, as though someone cut the top half off - his eyes are blue, and as bright and sparkly as any of the glass bottles on the shelves. She likes his eyes. Forgetting completely her mother's charge about strangers, she speaks up in reply. "Yes please, sir."
The stranger calls down the bar. "Mortie, when you find a moment, I'll have a mead for myself and a cherry soda for the young lady." Mortie nods and the old man turns back to Lovette. "My name," he says in a softer voice, "is Albus. May I ask yours?"
"Lovette," she says, smiling.
Albus smiles back, and Mortie brings her a frosty mug of bubbly red soda. In front of Albus he places another tall glass of golden liquid. To Lovette, it looks like shiny liquid galleons. The soda abandoned in pursuit of something much prettier, she asks Albus, "May I taste yours?"
He chuckles, and Lovette is sure that he will refuse. Then he says, "You may, but only a tiny sip. You might find it a touch different from most drinks you have tasted. Mead can be quite delightful, but it is mysteriously tricky"
Cupping both hands carefully around the rounded top of the goblet, Lovette brings it to her lips and carefully sips. The taste of honey and cloves fills her mouth. It is lovely and sweet and warm at the same time. Reluctantly, she swallows the mouthful, but is delighted when the warm feeling flows all the way down her throat, lingering even when the sip is gone. She places the goblet back upon the wooden counter of the bar, wishing that her new friend had ordered her mead instead of cherry soda.