A/N: written for the Diversity Writing Challenge, H18 - write in present tense.

it smells of smoke and fur
Chapter 1

His house smells moist and warm, and his parents do as well. Not quite Annad yet; she is too newborn to have the scent of the fields cling to her. But Jiller and Sefton do. They've worked long years in the fields: through the damp springs, the cold winters, the burning summers…

It is Rowan's fifth summer and the only ones to whom the field clings to more strongly are the Bukshah. Their thick clumps of wool drag through the grass and come away with pollen and dry soil. And, while gently running a comb through their thick hides, Rowan gets the field all over himself as well.

Sefton laughs and sends him off to bathe. Then a heart dinner after a day in the fields. Then sleep with a jolly song that has child smiling and father laughing again. Jiller used to laugh as well, but now she is getting a little worried. 'There are younger children,' she says to Sefton, when she thinks Rowan and Annad have gone to sleep and can't hear. Annad is too young anyway. But Rowan takes a long time in falling asleep and so he can hear their whispered conversation downstairs. 'Rowan is getting too old.'

Some days, Rowan peeks through the cracks in the loft. Then he can see their expressions as well. Jiller, her face drawn and worried. Sefton, worried but also amused. 'Rowan loves the Bukshah,' he says. 'And we of RIn are awfully set in our ways.'

Jiller's glare is more exasperated than angry, Rowan thinks. He rarely sees his mother angry. Disappointed of late though. Because Rowan isn't growing up as fast as the other children. Because he clings to his timidness even now, when he should be tall and stout and brave. When he should be pleading to leave the Bukshah to a younger child, to do something for the village: to harvest in the fields alongside his parents, to chop the firewood for their winter stores or churn the cheese and pasteurise the milk for their food. But he doesn't want to do any of those things. He is happy with the Bukshah, and he knows there aren't any children in the village who truly want the position as the keeper of these gentle beasts. If they do, he might reconsider – he might cave in embarrassment or guilt – but they don't, and so he doesn't ask. And though his parents whisper…and, by their looks, the other villagers do as well, no-one asks him to leave the Bukshah and take on another role.

But it sometimes feels like that, when lying in the loft listening to his parents talk about him. Hear the disappointment lacing his mother's tone. And her worry. And his father's worry as well. And he thinks his father is actually happy he's so different from the rest of the children as well, but he can't quite place why he thinks such a thing and he can't ask.

At least the smell of the field is strong in him as well. Though his hands are soft and smooth: unmarked from blisters from the hoe or cuts from the tall stalks and prickling weeds Jiller hacks down. At least there's that one thing they all share: their love for the field, even if he can barely walk across it, let along pull weeds all day long. The fragile skin of his palms tear after the first few, and Jiller tuts and sends him off to clean his hands and wrap them up and go back to the Bukshah.

At some point they decide he's better for him to stay with the Bukshah and Jiller doesn't bring him to the fields to work anymore. Rowan still goes: of course, the Bukshah feed there and sometimes roll about in the spring and Rowan's duty is to follow them. So he sits on the fence while they grace peacefully and sometimes he sees his parents in the field, working together. Sefton heaves the wheelbarrow and the hoe. Jiller does the finer things. And Rowan, Rowan just watches until a Bukshah whines and he goes over to them and talks in a soothing voice and tries to work out what's wrong. Often they just want a pat or some water, and he'll unlatch the gate so they can go to the stream and drink and come back.

Annad is in the nursery at these times, at the nursery with the other children – all the too young ones while their mothers and fathers and older siblings work. The nursery Rowan had spent his first three years when he'd been too young too, but then there was the Bukshah, and then the fields. But he hasn't left the Bukshah. He'll never leave the Bukshah. Or maybe he'll grow stronger like is mother wishes and maybe his father wishes that as well. And then he'll work in the fields full-time and leave the Bukshah to someone younger. Annad, maybe. Or another child born to their village.

But he won't. The village knows it. He knows it as well, and it's not because he loves the Bukshah so much. The people of Rin are practical, not idealistic and sentimental. But Rowan is both of those things. He is the sort of child who would have died early in in the history of their people. He wouldn't have survived a year as a slave.

Rin is proud of its heritage: proud to be the descendants of the slaves who fought for their freedom and escaped from the Zebak across the ocean. They are proud to be the descendants of the ones who crossed the desert, made alliances with the natives of the land – the Maris on the shores, the Travellers who drifted about inland. They are proud to be the descendants of the ones who chose this place and beat it into the village it is today. The ones who worked hard to create the life they now enjoy. The ones whose strength made it all possible.

Rowan is also proud to be a part of this village, but he is not strong like that. It is true: the whispers. As a slave he wouldn't have lasted long at all. Heights make him dizzy – even the ladder in the food storage shed. And he has a whole list of other things he fears. The dark…and that's why he loves the attic. It's never fully dark up there, even though it's creaky, and high. He has the window but he rarely looks out of it. It's only for the light.

And, in the mornings, it lets in the faint scent of ash when the dragon roars. And he dresses and goes into the Bukshah fields.

By the time he's seen to them and returned, Jiller has the food prepared and has eaten her share and is ready to head out into the fields. She is strong. She's never been a keeper of the Bukshah – she's worked on the field from as soon as she was old enough to. The children usually start with pulling out the weeds. It's a simple job, hard to make mistakes with. But it needs strong arms. Rowan doesn't have those – and he manages to makes mistakes anyhow. His hands get cut up. It's an embarrassment after the first few times and it always hurts.

One day they got infected and that's the last straw for both of them. Moreso for Jiller because Rowan knows he'll go to the fields again if his mother asks him. Not because she forces him but because she'll be disappointed if he doesn't. And his father as well. His father always says he should try his best but often Rowan wonders if it's because he doesn't think he is.

Rowan thinks he does. He is simply not physically strong. He exercises with the other children, practising archery and swordsmanship with them, but that's all he can do. Before, the teachers would make him do more. Say if he builds up muscle, he'll be able to handle working in the fields, and to build muscle he only needs to train his body more. But he can't. He finds himself dizzy and unsteady on his feet and he simply has to stop. And the people of Rin are hardworking, not cruel. They see limits. They see his limits. And they accept that he'll take years before he can do strong muscle work, work children will have started years before.

Rowan thinks that would have been okay if only there are other children like him, except there aren't. Rin doesn't breed children with weak constitutions. There is a half-Traveller boy who lives in the bakery with his Rin-born mother and even he is strong, and the people of Rin laugh at the Travellers' tales and enjoy the spirit of festival they bring, but think them whimsical, and weak. But maybe it'll still be okay. One day he will have to stop being a keeper of the Bukshah. In some years when he's almost an adult and too big. And it will be too late for him to start work on the fields then. Perhaps Annad will inherit them instead. No, it's likely she will. She's so young and yet she's already proven stronger. Her grip is stronger. Her cries are stronger. And she doesn't scare at every loud noise like he'd done from his cradle. She'll be Annad of the fields and Rowan, after the Bukshah, will find something else to do. Maybe he can teach Rin's history to the young ones, or become the Wiseman –

He shivers. That is a silly thought. Sheba, the village's Wisewoman, is more frightening than heights or the dark or not fitting in. But it is not so silly a thought, because the Wisewoman or Wiseman of the village is ostracised, and Rowan is that already.