Post by khrys on Jan 6, 2010 20:02:15 GMT -5
The boy couldn't handle her full name. He stumbled in the middle, able to hold only the beginning and end in his mouth. Eventually, when he wanted to have a turn at the campfire with the 'poke-stick' or show her a bruise on his arm, he simply called her 'rain' and waited for her to turn her eyes to his soft face and simple expression.
As they sat around the campfire for the second night, Bronachraen offered the smoking remainder of the boar spit to the boy's father. He was a man in his mid-twenties whose soft-palmed hands had fresh freckles, advertising how unused to daily sun he was. Bronachraen had considered herself lucky to meet these two who kept a secret story - it meant she would be allowed to keep her own.
The curly-haired boy leaned back from the trio's tiny campfire and extended two short legs, dipping his right hand into a pant pocket and fishing about for something that had fallen deep. His seven year old face with it's flat features and pig nose took on an expression that mimic'd the ripples of a heavy stone tossed into a placid lake. His happy, slanting eyes became completely round, his nostrils flared and his spit-glistened lips transformed into a round "O". Fingers grasped the item and he withdrew it as he emitted a high pitched squeal of glee.
"Gobbys an' Orcs'll hear us. Shhh Paddy," was his father's gentle admonishment as the pocket gave up the treasure: a copper stone centipede. "Shhh Paddy," the boy echoed, delightedly travelling the insect across his palms and the back of his hands. The two adults spent the next ten minutes in silence, watching the boy play.
She was hoping to look less vulnerable travelling in a group, yet this was now bringing it's own risks: While the boy was not the sort to be a danger to himself by eating strange moss, he did have a habit of shrieking whenever something delighted him utterly. The risk that they would be sought out by beasts each time a bug, cloud or blade of grass was announced had her weighing their company against the dangers of solo travel.
"His mother doesn't want him," the man sighed. Bronachraen's head lifted from the log, dreading what it meant that his accent had magically disappeared.
"It's more than shame," he watched the centipede cascade from palm to palm, seemingly unsurprised at the boy's unawareness that the thing was dead. "She's certain that she'll lose her chair if she raises him. The other ladies..."
Bronachraen felt the cold settle into her chest; a feeling that came over her each time someone tried to pry. As more of the runaway tale spilled from his mouth and his shoulders lightened, she felt the weight of his secret crawl across the ground toward her, lumbering over her spine and add to the weight on her chest. Each bit of tale he lay out was an ante at a table she did not want to play.
His tale came to its end, "...but we'll decide where, once we're in Bree."
"BREE!" squealed the boy in echo and promptly rolled back onto his heels to fall on his rump.
As they tamed the fire for bed, his body faced hers, inviting her to lighten her own burdens. Bronachraen ignored the signal. He continued smiling in a gentle, supportive way as they prepared their bedrolls, remaining silent so she could gather wool before spinning her own tale. Even under the moon, now on his back and staring at the stars, he kept his ears open for her first words.
They never came. She rolled over and fell asleep promptly.
Sad, he too rolled over, his back to the warm coals. After a half hour, his breathing grew slower and deeper and sunk into a steady rhythm. It was a few hours after that when she woke, rose quietly and began putting her belongings into her backpack. Once everything was bundled, she pulled a small honey bun from her food stash - it was sticky and sweet and quite possibly the only food the boy might have for the next day unless his father learned to beggar travellers who passed. She left it wrapped in it's original leaves so that it wouldn't be found by ants and placed it near the boy's head. Then she stole off, back on to the road, heading south.
A couple hours later, there was a shine off the black bear's fur as it's thin muzzle emerged from the brush, sniffing. It's weak eyes couldn't make out the details of what lay a few hundred metres off, but it's nose was sharp enough to discern sweet from smoky and so it shouldered the branches aside and came into the open, toward the two forms asleep around a ring of rocks.
As they sat around the campfire for the second night, Bronachraen offered the smoking remainder of the boar spit to the boy's father. He was a man in his mid-twenties whose soft-palmed hands had fresh freckles, advertising how unused to daily sun he was. Bronachraen had considered herself lucky to meet these two who kept a secret story - it meant she would be allowed to keep her own.
The curly-haired boy leaned back from the trio's tiny campfire and extended two short legs, dipping his right hand into a pant pocket and fishing about for something that had fallen deep. His seven year old face with it's flat features and pig nose took on an expression that mimic'd the ripples of a heavy stone tossed into a placid lake. His happy, slanting eyes became completely round, his nostrils flared and his spit-glistened lips transformed into a round "O". Fingers grasped the item and he withdrew it as he emitted a high pitched squeal of glee.
"Gobbys an' Orcs'll hear us. Shhh Paddy," was his father's gentle admonishment as the pocket gave up the treasure: a copper stone centipede. "Shhh Paddy," the boy echoed, delightedly travelling the insect across his palms and the back of his hands. The two adults spent the next ten minutes in silence, watching the boy play.
She was hoping to look less vulnerable travelling in a group, yet this was now bringing it's own risks: While the boy was not the sort to be a danger to himself by eating strange moss, he did have a habit of shrieking whenever something delighted him utterly. The risk that they would be sought out by beasts each time a bug, cloud or blade of grass was announced had her weighing their company against the dangers of solo travel.
"His mother doesn't want him," the man sighed. Bronachraen's head lifted from the log, dreading what it meant that his accent had magically disappeared.
"It's more than shame," he watched the centipede cascade from palm to palm, seemingly unsurprised at the boy's unawareness that the thing was dead. "She's certain that she'll lose her chair if she raises him. The other ladies..."
Bronachraen felt the cold settle into her chest; a feeling that came over her each time someone tried to pry. As more of the runaway tale spilled from his mouth and his shoulders lightened, she felt the weight of his secret crawl across the ground toward her, lumbering over her spine and add to the weight on her chest. Each bit of tale he lay out was an ante at a table she did not want to play.
His tale came to its end, "...but we'll decide where, once we're in Bree."
"BREE!" squealed the boy in echo and promptly rolled back onto his heels to fall on his rump.
As they tamed the fire for bed, his body faced hers, inviting her to lighten her own burdens. Bronachraen ignored the signal. He continued smiling in a gentle, supportive way as they prepared their bedrolls, remaining silent so she could gather wool before spinning her own tale. Even under the moon, now on his back and staring at the stars, he kept his ears open for her first words.
They never came. She rolled over and fell asleep promptly.
Sad, he too rolled over, his back to the warm coals. After a half hour, his breathing grew slower and deeper and sunk into a steady rhythm. It was a few hours after that when she woke, rose quietly and began putting her belongings into her backpack. Once everything was bundled, she pulled a small honey bun from her food stash - it was sticky and sweet and quite possibly the only food the boy might have for the next day unless his father learned to beggar travellers who passed. She left it wrapped in it's original leaves so that it wouldn't be found by ants and placed it near the boy's head. Then she stole off, back on to the road, heading south.
A couple hours later, there was a shine off the black bear's fur as it's thin muzzle emerged from the brush, sniffing. It's weak eyes couldn't make out the details of what lay a few hundred metres off, but it's nose was sharp enough to discern sweet from smoky and so it shouldered the branches aside and came into the open, toward the two forms asleep around a ring of rocks.