Little thing (Faiye)
Warm breezes came wafting in from the neighboring Desert, ruffling the tall Savannah grasses. Sound of horses, neighs and snorting, rustling of leaves that still remained on the remnants of the long-dead and decayed World Tree. Sweet smells, the smell of sand and a faint hint of spice, exotic twinge of smoking incense from metal censers, hung in the ornately-crafted settlement of Sanctuary to ward off bad Spirits and human ghosts.
Small creature, child of maybe five, clad in weighted skirts of rough-woven cotton canvases and heavily embroidered suede overcoat, was darting about the tall grasses and brambles, a small streak of reds and silvers, dark blues and black through the thick foliage, barely a rustling coming from the little girl.
Pause. Darkened gaze found the Enderman, quick assessment and studying, already so much like a predator and obviously assuming the mob to be a predator, one of the Enders native to the unstable land. Of course, it was not hard to see after a short observation that this was not a native Ender, Off-Bermudan, and obviously not so hostile.
Sneaking through the grass, no words uttered, silent, point-toed boots barely crunching beneath. Graceful and well-balanced for a child her age, but still so clumsy by racial standards. It was to be expected; she would eventually grow and learn to be one of her elders, well-trained. Close enough, little arm reaching forward toward the little Enderman’s shoulder as though to tap on it, obviously not used to seeing one of Off-Bermudan descent…
Tone was sharp, older. Still feminine. Under-developed eartips perked up as much as they could, arm withdrawing sharply, head snapping to spy a taller figure at the edge of the field that made up the outskirts. Eyes blinked, pupils contracting naturally at the light of setting sun hit them. Brief glance to the outsider again before they returned to the woman standing tall and stern, arms crossed in front of her chest and equally-dark eyes to match the little girl’s leveled on the poorly hidden frame of the child.
There was no expression shared physically between eye contacts, though the air between such was easily tense, little hands nervously turning to wring the dangling sleeve of the suede overcoat. Finally, speech, small and diminutive, eartips pinning close to her head.
Silence now, running through the tall grasses, over the layers and terraces of natural blocks to reach up and take the elder’s hand as it was offered. Brief glance over her shoulder, adjustment of cap upon her head from its shift in movement. Wide ever-curious eyes fell on the Enderman before disappearing back into the confines of the settlement, through wispy clouds of sweet-smelling incense smoke.
Things die. But they don’t always stay dead. Believe me, I know.
- Richelle Mead, Frostbite (via innocent-delirium)
GRANDMOTHER’S SCHOOL. The lessons of embroidery. Samarkand region, 2007. Uzbekistan. Photographer by Anatoly Zuev.
You are meant to fight. When you are sick, your body fights for its right to function. When you hold your breath, your body fights for its right to breathe. There are billions of tiny events—from the surface of your skin, down to the very cells of your body—that have to happen in order for you to be simply sitting here today. If your most minuscule parts haven’t given up yet,
Why should you?
Do not u n d e r e s t i m a t e me
I am capable of anything