_minxy_: Teyla, and the first warm, soft thing she aquired after Athos was destroyed and she moved into the sterile crew's quarters in Atlantis.

wine red wool
by Pares

On the day her people moved to the Lantean mainland, and Halling could only meet her eyes with veiled, sober disappointment, Charin's eyes had been bright and proud. Charin was, to hear Charin tell it, a wicked old woman, one who no doubt had not deserved to live so long. Over many years and many cups of tea, she had regaled Teyla with stories of her indiscretions, her casual dismissal of many an earnest lover, the time she ruined a lucrative trading deal with the stolid farmers of Navuul by seducing the chieftan's son on the eve of his wedding to the head of a neighboring village. "He was very handsome," she'd shrugged, "and his wife-to-be was sixty if she was a day. I was 34 at the time and far more limber, I can tell you."

If she had indeed been wicked, Teyla had never heard tale of it from anyone else in the village. In fact, her father had always been rather proud of Charin's romances. "You can't catch the wind," he'd been fond of saying. "And Charin is the south breeze in spring." And despite the Navuul incident, Charin was a prized negotiator and seldom missed a trading party.

In addition to her passionate love affairs and her shrewd bargaining skills, Charin was known for her fine weaving. Although she'd had to leave her loom in the ashes of Athos, Halling and Zelenka had contrived to build her a new one with Ancient materials, and those first weeks, many a spare, efficient Lantean sleep space had been warmed by a blanket fashioned from the fre wool Charin had bartered for the season past, and had had the presence of mind to cache in the lowland caves by the river.

She was one of the last to leave that day, and as she touched her forehead to Teyla's very tenderly, she pressed a hank of wool and a bundle of weavesticks into Teyla's hands.

The wool was dense and fine, dyed with wine-red gorgot root and combed smooth. The sticks were elegantly long and polished with use.

"You have chosen bravely, Teyla-fal," she said with a raffish smile, her cool hands so light against the backs of Teyla's own. "You must make your own place here," She pressed Teyla's hands closed around the wool. "And I have long despaired of your cooking, my girl. Make your bed, then. And sleep easy in it." Kissing Teyla's temple, she let her go and climbed the jumper ramp, ready for the next new start.

END