Logs:Yom Zeh Mechubad
| Yom Zeh Mechubad | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 11 Av 5783 בָּרוּך אַתָּה ה׳ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶך הָעוֹלָם אַשֶׁר קִדְשָׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו וְצִוָנוּ לְהַדְלִיק נֵר שֶל שַבָּת |
| Location | |
The sounds of the camp -- at once dwindling and growing, as some inmates find their way out but family and friends truck in en masse to claim their loved ones -- are a nearby buzz, but here in this little copse of trees, things feel almost peaceful. A rustle of breeze overhead, the first lightning bugs starting to glow. There's a small plinth here at the center of the clearing that once held some statue, but both its statue and memorial plaque have been broken off and are nowhere in sight. Instead, atop the empty plinth -- a pair of candlestick holders, elegant glass in a twisting double helix design of watery blues speckled with glimmering silver. Jax -- armor and sword nowhere to be seen, currently; he's just in a black kilt interspersed with rainbow panelling paired with a breezy lightweight button-down in peacocky blue-greens -- is setting these up, very lightly softening the bottoms of a pair of short white candles against the brief-glow heat of his hand before he tucks these into their holders and steps back. Wendy is looking a little wilty in the heat, her breezy flutter-sleeved maxi dress damp with sweat, long braid clinging where it drapes around one side of her neck, but for all that there's a warm glow in her expression even before she offers her matchstick to Jackson to light. She steps forward, lighting each candle in turn before waving her hands slow over the flames and then covering her eyes. Her voice is steady and clear as she sings the familiar blessing. She drops her hands, turns back towards the group -- as the candlelight flickers over the crowd of faces gathered here, a very small smile touches her lips. There's a borrowed kippah, embroidered with the Bengals logo, hastily pinned to Avi's kinky hair, but the rest of his clothing -- denim shorts, sneakers, a multicolored vertically striped button down -- is solidly his own. He's been standing to one side with his mom and sister beside him but takes a half step forward, holding up an ornate glass cup, the same silver-speckled oceanic shade as the candlesticks. He stumbles a little in the Hebrew on the longer blessing, once gently prompted in the Correct Words by his little sister, but at least through the borei pri hagafen he is confident. Even more confident in the swig of wine he takes. Thick hair neatly combed and freshly trimmed under his black and red kippah, face fresh-shaven, in jeans and sandals and a red and white striped seersucker button-down, Joshua looks like one of many who have turned up to support. Were his hands empty a second ago? Maybe, possibly, though unremarkable-looking as he is it's likely few enough notice when his hand shifts to the side, plucking a two-handled cup (aged, simple but well-crafted in a smooth black clay) from -- where? Unclear, but it's in his hands now. His hands are steady as he splashes the water over first one hand and then the other, but with the words of netilat yadayim there's just the faintest tremor in his deep voice. Shane has to stretch just a little up onto his toes to carefully take the colorfully embroidered challah cover off of the two loaves sitting on the plinth. He folds the cloth neat and sets it to the side before he lifts the twin plates -- steel, here, rather than the colorful glass. He lifts them high -- well, for him, at least, and though sure through the hamotzi, as the blessing comes to an end he's frowning a little uncertainly between the loaves and the crowd around. B's hand has been resting lightly on her twin's elbow through the blessing, but she drops it soon enough. Tilts her head slightly, and glances from the bread to the crowd and back. She does not have Joshua's trick for simply appearing things; she's very prosaically digging a handful of knives out of the picnic cooler that the Shabbat accoutrements came in, and offering them out on both webbed hands. Who knows where Magneto managed to change into a crisp silver-accented black suit with accompanying wine-red tie in the chaos of the camp -- has anyone seen his tent? Even with his helmet replaced by a black velvet yarmulke, old and soft, his presence remains distinctive among the minyan. Does Magneto need to lift up one hand for the knives to rise from B's palms? Does the Master of Magnetism need to drop his arm for the blades, glinting in the blessed light, to carve braided bread into more than enough pieces for everyone? No, but he does anyway. The platters of challah circle through the gathering, one starting at the back of the crowd and working forwards. The other starts at Erik's left, hovering in front of Spencer first, before spinning to the other blessing-leaders. Spence has been quiet when he sings along to the blessings, the slump of his gradually broadening shoulders more tired now than tense. He towers over his siblings where he stands beside his father, one hand on his sister's shoulder, and when the steel platter comes first to him he looks past it at Erik with wide, wondering eyes. Takes a piece of challah. Lets his gaze travel across the candle-lit faces, those in the flickering half-light beyond, but still within the sacred peace of their small refuge. It's not the first real smile he's managed since the raid, but there is something lighter in it when he takes his first bite of the blessed bread. | |
