Note: Something makes me feel as though I wrote this rather poorly in
comparison to most of my work. As such, I'll probably end up rewriting
this at one point or another. I just wasn't on the ball tonight,
apparently. Ah well.
---
The rain poured down, perhaps reflecting the general mood of the atmosphere. It was midday: yet, owing to the foul weather, the streets had been all but abandoned. Most of the people sat secluded in their huts, praying or reading.
Run run run-
Small pools of tepid water steadily grew amongst sticky piles of mud, overflowing and creating tiny rivers that streamed out alongside the beaten paths of the village.
-go quickly, please-
They had no purpose, those rivers: they ran out and down, here and there, sliding betwixt towering blades of gleaming grass. A small, useless, temporarily interlacing network of rain water, seeking yet never finding.
Indeed, there was no purpose in that flow. But the same could not be of the one who interrupted it, flopping down into the mud with a hard slap. His face was smeared with a tenuous mixture of mud, rain, and tears. With a shaking, thin arm, he attempted to hoist himself up, only to collapse again. The grime squished with a sickening sound between the rips in his clothing. He choked lightly on a cough and sobbed.
-I love you, please go before he-
His path was slow and laborious, yet it held an ultimate destination: grandpa. Grandpa could fix it, he could help, help them both –
Thunder sounded overhead. His small frame, wracked with pain and misery, shrunk away from it instinctively. Half of him desired to vanish into the mud, to become one with it, and endure no more pain: but the rest of him sought out that calming, reassuring voice, accented and ever steady, sarcastic and yet wholly loving.
-comes back-
But it was not to be. No sooner had the small, crawling boy spotted the entrance into the forest than a huge arm encircled his waist and hoisted him up. At first, he was utterly confused: but as reality set in, he began to gnash incoherently, squirming with more might than he thought possible.
His captor fought with him. "Whoa, kid! Ease up on the engines a bit, there! What the hell are you doin' out here-"
But the boy would not surrender up his rage for anything in the world, let alone his usually rational mind. "Grandpa, grandpa!" he screamed, voice echoing in the greyed air. The thunder boomed again, but he hardly cared this time.
The much larger man, face obscured by the darkness of a hood but with his huge, corded arms bared to the falling rain, pulled the boy into a tight, squeezing hug. "Shit, kid, there's nothing over there! Calm down, I'm not gonna hurt ya-"but his entreaty to the child was interrupted as vicious teeth bit deeply into his muscles. He yowled but did not relent in his grip: rather the opposite, in fact, essentially compressing the boy into his chest. Already injured, the boy simply fainted from the pain, his final raging squeal silenced prematurely.
The man dropped his load into the mud again, gazing at his own arm. "Good Yevon, you little bastard, you've got a set of choppers on you there! I'm bleedin' like hell!" Ripping a swatch of cloth from his cloak, he wrapped up the injury, and kneeled before the unconscious boy. A quick check of his mouth confirmed both that he was still breathing and had not bit his tongue, which the bigger man had feared momentarily. He breathed a small sigh of relief.
"Little bastard." With a large, worn finger, he roughly slid one of the boy's eyes open. Yep, Al Bhed. What other reason would there be for him to be groping around in the middle of the rain, in such a haven as Haliki? None of the residents would have ever allowed such a thing had it been a Yevonite out here. Sliding up the boy's shirt, he checked him over: his skin looked rather flayed, and very bruised, although the man had no idea whether that was his own work or someone else's. The fact remained that somebody had cruelly whipped the boy, and left him for dead.
Or maybe he escaped. A myriad of possibilities flashed through the man's mind, all detailing the fate of the lad prior to their scuffle in the rain. These particular Yevonites always struck the man as particularly zealous, and not the least bit tolerant of those outside their faith. Hell, had the man himself not been an absolute bear, they probably would have called for his dismissal from driving the boat over every few months a long time ago.
"Well, shit, doesn't look like I'll be leaving you to their tender mercies, kid. I have that much of a heart still, at least." Hefting the boy's tiny, immobile frame over a shoulder, the big man carried his load off to his boat, and far, far away from Haliki for a very long time to come.
Ever conversational – even when the companion was deaf to his nagging inquests – the cloaked man could not help but ask his muted shoulder luggage "what the devil possessed you to dye your hair white, eh?"
---
The rain poured down, perhaps reflecting the general mood of the atmosphere. It was midday: yet, owing to the foul weather, the streets had been all but abandoned. Most of the people sat secluded in their huts, praying or reading.
Run run run-
Small pools of tepid water steadily grew amongst sticky piles of mud, overflowing and creating tiny rivers that streamed out alongside the beaten paths of the village.
-go quickly, please-
They had no purpose, those rivers: they ran out and down, here and there, sliding betwixt towering blades of gleaming grass. A small, useless, temporarily interlacing network of rain water, seeking yet never finding.
Indeed, there was no purpose in that flow. But the same could not be of the one who interrupted it, flopping down into the mud with a hard slap. His face was smeared with a tenuous mixture of mud, rain, and tears. With a shaking, thin arm, he attempted to hoist himself up, only to collapse again. The grime squished with a sickening sound between the rips in his clothing. He choked lightly on a cough and sobbed.
-I love you, please go before he-
His path was slow and laborious, yet it held an ultimate destination: grandpa. Grandpa could fix it, he could help, help them both –
Thunder sounded overhead. His small frame, wracked with pain and misery, shrunk away from it instinctively. Half of him desired to vanish into the mud, to become one with it, and endure no more pain: but the rest of him sought out that calming, reassuring voice, accented and ever steady, sarcastic and yet wholly loving.
-comes back-
But it was not to be. No sooner had the small, crawling boy spotted the entrance into the forest than a huge arm encircled his waist and hoisted him up. At first, he was utterly confused: but as reality set in, he began to gnash incoherently, squirming with more might than he thought possible.
His captor fought with him. "Whoa, kid! Ease up on the engines a bit, there! What the hell are you doin' out here-"
But the boy would not surrender up his rage for anything in the world, let alone his usually rational mind. "Grandpa, grandpa!" he screamed, voice echoing in the greyed air. The thunder boomed again, but he hardly cared this time.
The much larger man, face obscured by the darkness of a hood but with his huge, corded arms bared to the falling rain, pulled the boy into a tight, squeezing hug. "Shit, kid, there's nothing over there! Calm down, I'm not gonna hurt ya-"but his entreaty to the child was interrupted as vicious teeth bit deeply into his muscles. He yowled but did not relent in his grip: rather the opposite, in fact, essentially compressing the boy into his chest. Already injured, the boy simply fainted from the pain, his final raging squeal silenced prematurely.
The man dropped his load into the mud again, gazing at his own arm. "Good Yevon, you little bastard, you've got a set of choppers on you there! I'm bleedin' like hell!" Ripping a swatch of cloth from his cloak, he wrapped up the injury, and kneeled before the unconscious boy. A quick check of his mouth confirmed both that he was still breathing and had not bit his tongue, which the bigger man had feared momentarily. He breathed a small sigh of relief.
"Little bastard." With a large, worn finger, he roughly slid one of the boy's eyes open. Yep, Al Bhed. What other reason would there be for him to be groping around in the middle of the rain, in such a haven as Haliki? None of the residents would have ever allowed such a thing had it been a Yevonite out here. Sliding up the boy's shirt, he checked him over: his skin looked rather flayed, and very bruised, although the man had no idea whether that was his own work or someone else's. The fact remained that somebody had cruelly whipped the boy, and left him for dead.
Or maybe he escaped. A myriad of possibilities flashed through the man's mind, all detailing the fate of the lad prior to their scuffle in the rain. These particular Yevonites always struck the man as particularly zealous, and not the least bit tolerant of those outside their faith. Hell, had the man himself not been an absolute bear, they probably would have called for his dismissal from driving the boat over every few months a long time ago.
"Well, shit, doesn't look like I'll be leaving you to their tender mercies, kid. I have that much of a heart still, at least." Hefting the boy's tiny, immobile frame over a shoulder, the big man carried his load off to his boat, and far, far away from Haliki for a very long time to come.
Ever conversational – even when the companion was deaf to his nagging inquests – the cloaked man could not help but ask his muted shoulder luggage "what the devil possessed you to dye your hair white, eh?"