Chapter Two: Child of Mist
A week after I killed that man I became extremely sick, developing a high fever. The hallucinations and dreams started soon after. My parent's and the soldier's deaths were the most common, but there were many others. The worst one was when I hallucinated that my hands were covered in blood. The hallucinations distracted me from the changes caused by this sickness.
My once dark brown hair turned white and the natural blue of my eyes became pale. It upset me greatly when I got over being sick. As a thief I tried to blend in as much as possible and the white hair would make it impossible to blend in. I began moving as soon as I was strong enough to walk, foraging for food instead of stealing in the towns as I usually did. My travels brought me to a place called the Valley of Mist (named such because of the heavy mist that only lifted two hours a day).
My clothes were worn and I didn't have any shoes which was bad since it was still cold. Knowing that if I didn't get new clothes I'd freeze to death I snuck into a shop in the village. There I stole a set of pale grey clothes and a soft set of snow boots. They clothes were made of a light durable fabric that trapped body heat and consisted of a long sleeved shirt, pants, and a child's cloak. You may expect me to tell you that everything was fine after that, but it wasn't.
Ever since the night I had killed the drunken soldier I had suffered night terrors. My sickness and the hallucinations it had conjured gave more fuel to my nightmares. I would often walk through the valley after waking up from those dreams hoping it would calm me down. It did for a short time, but my dreams were steadily driving me to insanity. My solution was drastic. Some of you may be able to guess what that solution was. Those of you that haven't are either to naive or extremely stupid. I was six with the blood of a man on my hands and so desperate for the dreams to end. For me it felt like the only solution.
There is a river that cuts through the valley known as the River of Dreams. Its waters were harsh this time of year as the snow from the mountain fed it. This was the first time I tried to commit suicide and it wouldn't be my last. People say I was lucky to survive. It wasn't. Human compassion is what saved me. Compassion from a stranger that saw me as a hurt person.
His name was Yori and he was a gypsy. He was short with a rugged appearance. His brown hair was always ruffled; the gold and green steaks weren't parted in any particular pattern. He was barefoot and was dressed in a loose cream shirt with brown pants. Bracelets and tattoos adorned his arms and he carried a hard oak staff. Honestly he looked more like a pirate than a gypsy. His eyes are what made all the difference. They were a bright liquid blue that showed his kindness and compassion.
The first thing he said to me was, "promise you'll never try to end your life again."
I had promised before promptly falling unconscious.
When I woke up Yori was sitting next to me. There was a gentle rocking motion as if we were on a ship. He stared at me for a minute before speaking.
"I'm not going to ask your name or why you jumped in the river, but I am going to ask that you stay with me for a while. Obviously, you've been leaving on the streets, but I don't think you know the language associated with that lifestyle." He paused and tilted his head thoughtfully, "I'll teach you."
His directness surprised me. I liked it. He became my friend and was more than willing to teach me not only the language of the streets, but how to fight with a staff. Probably not the smartest idea to teach a suicidal child to handle a weapon. The language wasn't really a speaking language. It was about reading people's emotions and intentions. I learned that a person's eyes really were the windows to their soul. He was surprise by how quickly I learned. Three weeks passed before Yori started calling me something that wasn't kid.
I was lying on the cot in my room, staring at the deck above thinking trying to keep myself from thinking about my nightmares. Yori had gone into town to trade for supplies, leaving orders to stay below deck. I groaned and rolled over, pressing my face into the river. The door squeaked when he entered.
"So, you got yourself quite a reputation," he leaned against the doorframe cheerfully, "to think that the villagers believe you to be a spirit. Although, I think the name does suit you, Child of Mist."
"What are you talking about?" I demanded in confusion. He grinned and sat next to me before proceeding to tell me how several villagers he seen me wandering around the valley. They came to believe that I was a spirit, unable to come up with any other logical reason for a six year old to be wandering alone. They had named me Child of Mist. It surprised me at first, but I grew to like it.
It wasn't long after I found out about the name that I discovered something else. Yori was a waterbender and so was I. He taught me how to bend and heal; shortening the title the villagers had given me to Mist. I agreed with him about the name suiting me with my white hair. Eventually I would leave, but I was happy just being with him.
Sorry for the long wait. This story is a little difficult to write. It's also gonna be more like she's telling the story and not living it, if that makes sense.