She tilted her head to a side, staring at the Dunmer woman as she moved slowly in the kitchen. The knife kept hitting the wooden counter, thuds after thuds briskly punctuating each measured gesture: she couldn't stop staring, blinking silently as she sat upon the low stool. One of its wooden legs was shorter than the others, and, as she swayed back and forth, feet dangling one palm above the ground, it made a faint noise, making the whole thing rock while she moved.
The woman, whom Falanu had seen a few times, before, speaking to her parents, was older than her mother, and far less delicate: she was tall, and wrinkly, and had an odd smell, like herbs and poultices. Unceremoniously dropped at her doorstep along with a couple of small wooden crates, after one night spent in a cold inn's bed, she had waited, bewildered, until the woman arrived, only to usher her inside with just a brisk introduction. Meruse Maeba was the stranger's name, or so she'd told her, right before asking her to sit and wait as she cooked. Unsurprisingly, it didn't take very long before the child grew restless: even though astonishingly precise, the knife's movements could not hold her attention for more than a few minutes.
"I don't want to be here. I need to go back home." And did she sound convinced! Firm like only a child could be, she did not move from her spot, still obeying Meruse's request, but looked up at her in expectation, waiting, no doubts, to be accompanied back to her house.
"You can't, child." The healer turned around to glance at her for a moment, before returning to her task, dumping whatever she'd been cutting into a clay pot. "This is going to be home, from now on. We'll prepare your room together after lunch."
"I don't want another home. They're waiting for me." Falanu kept swaying her legs, making the stool hit the wall hard with the vehemence of her movements. Ooops. She resolved to sit still for the moment being, at least until a potted plant on the nearby desk attracted her attention; then, kneeling, she propped herself up to look at it, oblivious to the confused look the woman gave her. The room was silent for a while, the knife abandoned upon the counter: only the chattering from outside continued, faint and distant, as the workers returned home for their meal.
"They didn't tell you anything, did they?" Meruse's stunned glance turned into a stiff grimace, and she took a few steps towards the child, to kneel in front of her, studying her. "Girl. Look at me. Do you even know why you're here?" She raised one knobby hand, to gently turn her head away from the plant, and sighed at child's lack of response, still grimacing. "Those damn fetchers... Nobody's waiting for you. Your parents are no longer there, child. You'll need someone to take care of you, and I am in need of a helper. You'll stay with me, from now on." After that, she muttered a curse under her breath, clearly displeased. She'd expected those fools to at least explain what happened: why she would no longer see her parents, killed by a drunkard over a debt he could not repay. Not the details, perhaps, but at least the gist of it.
"I can go there and wait for them."
"No... no, child, you can't." The woman gave another sigh, still kneeling, droopy, wrinkly eyes staring into the girl's stubborn ones. "Your parents died, yesterday. Do you understand?"
Silence. Dead silence, and a confused, suspicious frown on Falanu's face, as she repositioned herself upon the stool. The woman opened her mouth, to repeat the question, but the little girl interrupted her, crossing her legs upon the wobbly seat.
"But what if they return?"
"They won't. Their bodies do not work any more, they can't be repaired. Not ever."
"Oh."
She'd seen children react to death before: it was hard to predict what they might say or think when faced with a loved one's loss, whether there would be tears, or anger, or frozen shock. This one was remarkably calm, and remained deep in thought for a little while, nibbling on one fingernail, still squirming upon the stool. Then, all of a sudden, she appeared to liven up, speaking quickly, and moving even faster, almost knocking the vase off the desk as she stretched her arms.
"So who's going to make clothes for everyone, now? I should make the clothes. Where's my scrib? Is he in one of those crates? And who's going to help me open them, if dad isn't here?" Falanu scurried off, determined, towards the crates, dodging the woman in front of her, who just shook her head before following her, in order to allow her to fish into the wooden containers for her toy scrib. As the flurry of words continued, Meruse found herself questioning her decision to adopt the seamstress' daughter, with all that pent up energy, and the grieving that would certainly follow once she was ready. That girl's fire would need to be channelled into helping her with the house, and the healer job: a selfish reason to adopt a child, perhaps, but she would be fed, and protected, and taught a trade, and that was more than could be said from the other orphans wandering the streets. And there would be a decent amount of coin waiting for her, once she was old enough, a posthumous gift from her parents, in order to build a future for herself, there or elsewhere.
The questions didn't stop, even after the toy was retrieved and the woman returned to her cooking, struggling to give her satisfactory answers. They did not stop as they ate, over clattering redware, and they did not stop as they cleaned up the table, right before heading back to the crates. It was only after that, when Meruse accompanied her to her little room and helped her organize her belongings, that the girl slumped down on the bed, still clutching the toy in her hands, vermilion eyes staring empty at the wall as she made herself small. "I miss mum and dad. I want to go back home."
She refused to speak any more of them, a decision that Meruse respected, figuring she'd at least give the child time to mourn as she saw fit. In a few years, she'd have more questions, without a doubt. In the meantime, one could only hope she'd grow accustomed to the changes quickly.