SMALL
By Sache8
Though she be but little, she is fierce.
-- William Shakespeare --
She's so small.
Small like a cannonball, compact with destructive force. When she fights, her eyes burn with every ounce of that pride she attributes to her people. She is fast. She is cunning. She knows she is good. Her smallness does not equate to frailty. She also knows I can best her. Every time. And yet she shows no shame.
In every sense, I would be perfectly justified to admire her just for this. But it is not the warrior that draws me.
It has been a long time, a very long time, since I've remembered the way a woman can linger. But I have been restless for so long. My soul is still not at peace; I am uncertain if it will ever be.
She is soothing. Maybe not a cure, who can really say? But I like that she's quiet. Everyone else around this place never shuts up. They seem to have this idea that talking will help. As if talking about my homeworld's destruction makes it feel better, or builds its walls again, or populates it.
I can see that she wants to be trusted. Those same eyes that can be full of fire are, in fact, most of the time filled with questioning compassion, sorrow, and an unspoken desire to help. But how can she help, she wonders? What can she possibly say that would be of any benefit?
It frightens me. Not many things do, anymore. It's not just the way I understand her without a single word, but how I fully I am aware of it, and how swift its onset. I wonder if she knows that she helps me without having to say a single thing. So quiet. So soothing.
So small.