draaaaaft of something idek
oh god what is this i don't even let's count how many times i changed tense without thinking h-haaaa
She’s born in the mountains, to the snowdrifts and soft summer winds. She learns to walk on dirt floors and soft grass, toddling along while clutching to goats or to someone’s hand-it doesn’t much make a difference to her. By the time the girl is old enough to know that she has no mother or father, she’s already become accustomed to the life of a communal child-staying with whoever has the time to keep an eye on her for the morning. At night, she sleeps in the loft in the house of an old woman. The woman isn’t her grandmother, or any relation, really, but she tells her stories of old, some frightening and others that leave her with a strange feeling in her heart.
She knows that she’s different, but doesn’t understand why. She knows that other children her age sleep in the beds of their mothers and fathers who call them endearments, only calling them by their real names when someone was bound to be in trouble. Maybe she does have a name, but no one calls her by it. Everyone, adults and children alike, simply call her Little Shining Stone, which she is clever enough to know that that is no name. When it rains during the summer, the other children are able to sneak out and play, splashing each other and tumbling in the mud, but she is closely guarded during any sort of storm, any sort of odd weather. Sometimes, when the mood shines just so, she is forbidden from the loft of the old woman, instead kept in a small hut with barred windows and a guard. No one tells her why, and she never asks; that’s simply the way of the village.
One day, when she’s a little older, the old woman takes her aside. “Put your hands together like this,” the old woman instructs, cupping her hands in demonstration, “And imagine, imagine with your whole heart, that there’s a tiny little star growing from your soul, right in your hands.”
And so she does, cupping her hands in front of her, and focusing, focusing hard on the spot in front of her, right where her palms meet. She doesn’t quite know what the old woman means by reaching into her soul or whatever, but she wants to please her, and so she keeps trying, beginning to grunt from the exertion of all of her focusing. After a bit, though, the old woman swats her hands away, sighing.
“It won’t happen today, Shining Stone,” she says. “You’ll sooner wet yourself than make fairy fire. We’ll try again tomorrow.” And so they do, again and again for weeks on end before the old woman considers defeat. “Maybe you don’t have what I thought you did,” the old woman mumbles to herself as she turns away. The girl doesn’t know what the old woman is talking about, but she can hear the note of disappointment in the old woman’s voice. There are a few more tries, once during the thick of a storm, several times under various moons, but nothing happens other than mounting frustration. Eventually, the old woman gives up. Occasionally, the girl tries to catch the old woman’s attention by stopping and trying to cup her hands in front of her, but the old woman now only scowls at the sight, turning her face away. Gradually, the old woman’s stories stop, and the girl somehow feels more lonely than she ever has before. The villagers, once ever vigilant are suddenly lax around her, and on full moons she’s allowed to sleep in the loft and not the barred hut. The realization that she is an orphan and alone is sudden and sharp, and she has no idea what to do with the onslaught of emotion. One day, unable to handle these feelings, she runs.
She follows the goat trails, skipping up the rocky cliffs. Vaguely, she recalls having been brought up here once or twice-she knows that there’s something here for her, something that might help… Eventually, after several hours of climbing, she finds her.
The small shrine was carved into the side of the mountain in remembrance of a local saint. The girl hadn’t been in school with the other children her age and had never been taught the saint’s name, but she did like the tender look on the statue’s face, smiling as the girl thought a mother would. Exhausted from her climb up to the shrine, the girl curled up to the statue, lying her head on the feet of her stone mother. When she wakes, the sun has already set and the moon is quietly shining down on the shrine.
The girl had never been out so late alone, let alone so far from home. But she wasn’t frightened, much rather, she felt oddly relaxed and at home. Bringing her knees to her chest, she glances up to the statue again, and again she feels a warm sensation run through her, soft and gentle. For the first time since the old woman had stopped telling her stories, the girl brings her hands in front of her, cupping together, and she just wishes-
The glow is soft at first, barely giving off any light, but it grows steadily, glowing brighter and brighter until it reaches a peak, mottled blue and white shifting and swirling within the ball. For a moment, she just stares at it, then looks up to the stars above, then to the face of the saint who smiles benevolently at her and her accomplishment. For another while, she sits and watches the small ball of light cupped between her hands, admiring the swirls of color, but if she looks to the south, she can see the lamps in the windows of the village below. They may not be looking for her, but maybe, she thinks, this ball would please the old woman and make her tell stories again.
So she takes the way back down, letting the light guide her through the treacherous slopes and cliffs. If she was minding the time, she might have noticed that the trip down was much shorter than the trip up, but she was focusing elsewhere, trying to make sure that nothing happened to the ball of light. She was so focused that as she neared the village, she didn’t notice the commotion coming from the square.
“It’s midnight and you still have found her?” That voice is unfamiliar to her-or it would be if she was listening.
“It’s not so easy, mister,” someone replies-one of the elders of the village. He knows better than to be rude to someone with a musket. “It’s-we should call off the search for her for now. It’s that hour, and if they catch us out here, who knows what will happen to us.”
There was a snort, then “Them? I don’t care about them. My job is to retrieve her and return her to her relatives, not worry about old superstitions and witchcraft.”
Another snort, and the sneer on the old woman’s face was audible as she spoke. “If they cared so much about her, then why didn’t the rich fool come for her years ago?”
“If you care for her so much, then her relations would have been informed of her parents deaths immediately,” he snaps back in reply, and is about to continue when the girl makes her way through the crowd, having spotted the old woman at the center of the ruckus. She beams as she crowd parts for her, holding the ball of light up for the old woman to see. “Is that her?” he demands, “You! Are you Maria?” There are gasps from the villagers gathered in the square, and finally the girl takes notice of the stranger in the center of it all.
Maria? She had never been called that before, but it doesn’t sound wrong at all. She wants to reply, but the old woman is suddenly pulling her back. “She belongs here, to us,” she growls. “You see? She’s too close to the mountains and magicks here, they’ll mistreat her in the city.”
The stranger scowls at the old woman. “That? The fairy light? They have schools for people like her-ones that won’t let her disappear and run off on her own. Come, Maria.” The girl looked to the stranger. His face was rough, but she didn’t think he was quite grown, yet. He was scowling and he didn’t sound very nice with that order, but then again, it was getting very late in the night and maybe he just felt grumpy because he was tired.
“You can’t take her,” someone else in the crowd says, and there is a rumbling agreement. His face darkens in the light of the glowing ball.
“If she isn’t prepared to go in the morning, then I won’t be returning alone,” the stranger says, finally. “Prepare her for a long ride-she will be provisioned for once she gets to her cousin’s home.” He punctuates his sentence with a firm stomp, marching off into the woods. The villagers watch him as he goes, turning to each other when he is out of sight.
“Her mother had always been bad luck,” someone finally says. “Always had a weird feeling about her. If she doesn’t go, Edelstein will have his men on us quick, and they’ll burn our harvest, too.”
“Then we’ll harvest early,” someone retorts sourly. But no one seems to agree with him-the threat of a burnt harvest may be a bit much, but having any soldiers in the village was an unwelcome thought. There is a bit more mumbling between the villagers because the old woman, still clutching the girl to her, spits, muttering a vile sentiment towards someone’s mother before pulling the girl away to her home. The ball of light, still precariously resting on the tips of the girl’s fingers falls, forgotten and ignored by the old woman, and dissipates into the darkness.
There are no stories from the old woman that night.
She’s born in the mountains, to the snowdrifts and soft summer winds. She learns to walk on dirt floors and soft grass, toddling along while clutching to goats or to someone’s hand-it doesn’t much make a difference to her. By the time the girl is old enough to know that she has no mother or father, she’s already become accustomed to the life of a communal child-staying with whoever has the time to keep an eye on her for the morning. At night, she sleeps in the loft in the house of an old woman. The woman isn’t her grandmother, or any relation, really, but she tells her stories of old, some frightening and others that leave her with a strange feeling in her heart.
She knows that she’s different, but doesn’t understand why. She knows that other children her age sleep in the beds of their mothers and fathers who call them endearments, only calling them by their real names when someone was bound to be in trouble. Maybe she does have a name, but no one calls her by it. Everyone, adults and children alike, simply call her Little Shining Stone, which she is clever enough to know that that is no name. When it rains during the summer, the other children are able to sneak out and play, splashing each other and tumbling in the mud, but she is closely guarded during any sort of storm, any sort of odd weather. Sometimes, when the mood shines just so, she is forbidden from the loft of the old woman, instead kept in a small hut with barred windows and a guard. No one tells her why, and she never asks; that’s simply the way of the village.
One day, when she’s a little older, the old woman takes her aside. “Put your hands together like this,” the old woman instructs, cupping her hands in demonstration, “And imagine, imagine with your whole heart, that there’s a tiny little star growing from your soul, right in your hands.”
And so she does, cupping her hands in front of her, and focusing, focusing hard on the spot in front of her, right where her palms meet. She doesn’t quite know what the old woman means by reaching into her soul or whatever, but she wants to please her, and so she keeps trying, beginning to grunt from the exertion of all of her focusing. After a bit, though, the old woman swats her hands away, sighing.
“It won’t happen today, Shining Stone,” she says. “You’ll sooner wet yourself than make fairy fire. We’ll try again tomorrow.” And so they do, again and again for weeks on end before the old woman considers defeat. “Maybe you don’t have what I thought you did,” the old woman mumbles to herself as she turns away. The girl doesn’t know what the old woman is talking about, but she can hear the note of disappointment in the old woman’s voice. There are a few more tries, once during the thick of a storm, several times under various moons, but nothing happens other than mounting frustration. Eventually, the old woman gives up. Occasionally, the girl tries to catch the old woman’s attention by stopping and trying to cup her hands in front of her, but the old woman now only scowls at the sight, turning her face away. Gradually, the old woman’s stories stop, and the girl somehow feels more lonely than she ever has before. The villagers, once ever vigilant are suddenly lax around her, and on full moons she’s allowed to sleep in the loft and not the barred hut. The realization that she is an orphan and alone is sudden and sharp, and she has no idea what to do with the onslaught of emotion. One day, unable to handle these feelings, she runs.
She follows the goat trails, skipping up the rocky cliffs. Vaguely, she recalls having been brought up here once or twice-she knows that there’s something here for her, something that might help… Eventually, after several hours of climbing, she finds her.
The small shrine was carved into the side of the mountain in remembrance of a local saint. The girl hadn’t been in school with the other children her age and had never been taught the saint’s name, but she did like the tender look on the statue’s face, smiling as the girl thought a mother would. Exhausted from her climb up to the shrine, the girl curled up to the statue, lying her head on the feet of her stone mother. When she wakes, the sun has already set and the moon is quietly shining down on the shrine.
The girl had never been out so late alone, let alone so far from home. But she wasn’t frightened, much rather, she felt oddly relaxed and at home. Bringing her knees to her chest, she glances up to the statue again, and again she feels a warm sensation run through her, soft and gentle. For the first time since the old woman had stopped telling her stories, the girl brings her hands in front of her, cupping together, and she just wishes-
The glow is soft at first, barely giving off any light, but it grows steadily, glowing brighter and brighter until it reaches a peak, mottled blue and white shifting and swirling within the ball. For a moment, she just stares at it, then looks up to the stars above, then to the face of the saint who smiles benevolently at her and her accomplishment. For another while, she sits and watches the small ball of light cupped between her hands, admiring the swirls of color, but if she looks to the south, she can see the lamps in the windows of the village below. They may not be looking for her, but maybe, she thinks, this ball would please the old woman and make her tell stories again.
So she takes the way back down, letting the light guide her through the treacherous slopes and cliffs. If she was minding the time, she might have noticed that the trip down was much shorter than the trip up, but she was focusing elsewhere, trying to make sure that nothing happened to the ball of light. She was so focused that as she neared the village, she didn’t notice the commotion coming from the square.
“It’s midnight and you still have found her?” That voice is unfamiliar to her-or it would be if she was listening.
“It’s not so easy, mister,” someone replies-one of the elders of the village. He knows better than to be rude to someone with a musket. “It’s-we should call off the search for her for now. It’s that hour, and if they catch us out here, who knows what will happen to us.”
There was a snort, then “Them? I don’t care about them. My job is to retrieve her and return her to her relatives, not worry about old superstitions and witchcraft.”
Another snort, and the sneer on the old woman’s face was audible as she spoke. “If they cared so much about her, then why didn’t the rich fool come for her years ago?”
“If you care for her so much, then her relations would have been informed of her parents deaths immediately,” he snaps back in reply, and is about to continue when the girl makes her way through the crowd, having spotted the old woman at the center of the ruckus. She beams as she crowd parts for her, holding the ball of light up for the old woman to see. “Is that her?” he demands, “You! Are you Maria?” There are gasps from the villagers gathered in the square, and finally the girl takes notice of the stranger in the center of it all.
Maria? She had never been called that before, but it doesn’t sound wrong at all. She wants to reply, but the old woman is suddenly pulling her back. “She belongs here, to us,” she growls. “You see? She’s too close to the mountains and magicks here, they’ll mistreat her in the city.”
The stranger scowls at the old woman. “That? The fairy light? They have schools for people like her-ones that won’t let her disappear and run off on her own. Come, Maria.” The girl looked to the stranger. His face was rough, but she didn’t think he was quite grown, yet. He was scowling and he didn’t sound very nice with that order, but then again, it was getting very late in the night and maybe he just felt grumpy because he was tired.
“You can’t take her,” someone else in the crowd says, and there is a rumbling agreement. His face darkens in the light of the glowing ball.
“If she isn’t prepared to go in the morning, then I won’t be returning alone,” the stranger says, finally. “Prepare her for a long ride-she will be provisioned for once she gets to her cousin’s home.” He punctuates his sentence with a firm stomp, marching off into the woods. The villagers watch him as he goes, turning to each other when he is out of sight.
“Her mother had always been bad luck,” someone finally says. “Always had a weird feeling about her. If she doesn’t go, Edelstein will have his men on us quick, and they’ll burn our harvest, too.”
“Then we’ll harvest early,” someone retorts sourly. But no one seems to agree with him-the threat of a burnt harvest may be a bit much, but having any soldiers in the village was an unwelcome thought. There is a bit more mumbling between the villagers because the old woman, still clutching the girl to her, spits, muttering a vile sentiment towards someone’s mother before pulling the girl away to her home. The ball of light, still precariously resting on the tips of the girl’s fingers falls, forgotten and ignored by the old woman, and dissipates into the darkness.
There are no stories from the old woman that night.