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A sea shower washed over the Isle of Yeal, Beowulf found himself visiting his parent’s house. Water splashed against the window before he looked back towards where his mother worked at her potter’s wheel. The clay she was working with was a bright red color from the dyes that were added to the clay. It was taking shape into a bowl with high walls and a shallow bottom. He had often watched his mother as she worked, she almost seemed at peace. Her mind on the clay as it was molded and shaped. Giving it life that the world around them could not.

‘So what do we owe this honor to? You rarely visit anymore.’ His mother asked as she looked up towards him for the slightest of moments, before looking back at her work.

”I wondered how you guys were doing. You were always having me deliver something to someone else while I was younger.” He commented looking at the many clay productions that sat around the work space.

Some were finished, painted with unique designs. Others were waiting to be cooked to make it more sturdy. Then there were those that were still wet and moldable. These he was never allowed to touch for fear of things becoming imperfected. Side glancing towards his mother he reached out towards one of the still moist clay vases, but his hand didn’t get too far.

‘Don’t even think about it young man. You may be an adult now, but I still won’t tolerate your childish antics.’ his mother scolded as Beowulf pulled his hand back and gave a cheeky grin.

”Now why would I do anything harmful?” he asked playfully. While it had been on his mind, he really wouldn’t try and seriously harm his mother’s business. ”Besides, you work too hard on these things. And how many were broken in the past?”

‘Too many,’ was his mother’s short and curt answer. ‘Now if you please, let's move ourselves away from the pottery and towards a more safer location.’ she motioned towards a chair for him to sit in that wasn’t near anything breakable.

”I know I was clumsy back in my youth, but was I really that bad?” he asked moving towards the chair, but…. His passing just wasn’t wide enough as he brushed against a ready to bake pot and it toppled to the ground.

The white clay creation rocked back and forth before it and the small table it was placed upon topped with a resounding crash. Beowulf nearly jumped out of his skin, though wished to shrink very small. He could feel his mother’s eyes boring holes into his back as she stood from her work, the potter's wheel slowing on its own.

‘What did I just tell you?’ she asked, her voice sounding very stern. It was one that he had heard a lot of when he was younger.

”I didn’t think I was that close!” Beowulf protested, ”Besides it was an accident, you know I don’t break things on purpose.” At least he hoped that she knew this.

‘I remember when you were five and you brought down almost a whole table's worth of clayware down around you.’ she scolded as he backed away from his mother, minding to be headed away from the rest of the tables of clayware.

”I was five then, and I just wanted to see what you were doing. How was I to know it wouldn’t hold my weight back then?” He scrambled to try and get around his mother and out of the work room. ”Besides, dad found it funny.”

‘Your father would find anything you do funny.’ his mother snorted as she followed her foolish son from the room and into the hallway. ‘He even found your birth hilarious because he thought you were a doll I had been carrying around for a few months.’

Beowulf found himself cornered as he looked fearfully towards his mother, his father was away and couldn’t save him this time. ”You know I didn’t mean to break anything this time. I was doing what you wanted me to, I was moving away from the clayware. How was I to know that one table wasn’t stable?” He asked, trying to get out of his mother’s wrath.

‘We shall see, let’s go look at the table and find out.’ she turned around, Beowulf heaved a sigh before following at a distance.

The table laid on its side, the only ‘leg’ that held the top and bottom together was cracked near the base. Beowulf’s mother lifted up the small table and looked at it, noting the crack and that it had made the whole thing unstable. She placed it back down and made a pass by the table and it wobbled every so slightly. Nose scrunching she sighed, her anger leaving her as she looked back towards Beowulf.

"Get the broom and dustpan, it seems the old table has seen its last day in this room.’ his mother said as she picked up the small table once again and headed out of the room with it. The destination for said table was the firewood pile.

”I am sure dad can maybe fix it. I know how much you liked that table. Specially when displaying something.” Beowulf offered as he fetched the broom to pick up the clay pieces. ”Or we can find someone to make a new one just like it with a more sturdy wood.”

These were options that he offered to his mother as she looked at the small table over. The crack looked like one that might have been fixed, but she didn’t know. Setting it aside she looked back towards Beowulf as he cleaned up the mess and deposited the clay into a bin to be repurposed.

‘Maybe you’re right, for now, let's get some tea.’ she said turning towards the kitchen, Beowulf happily following, knowing that he just barely survived his own mother’s wrath.

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