[✐fanfic challenge] ygodrabble: piece of the sky
Challenge Name and Number: #030, “Cards”
Drabble Title: Piece of the Sky
Word Count: 597
Warnings (if applicable): n/a
Pairings (if applicable): n/a
Summary: Some tombkeepers' rituals are kept secret even from their leader.
Malik used to hate the first day of the month, but now it's his favorite.
He wakes early, pillow pressed to his grin as if the shadows might tattle. All day long he fidgets, foot jiggling until his father yells, a traitorous smile always two muscles away from pasting itself across Malik's face. His father can't know, lest the ritual stop.
Later in the day, Malik peers up at the carvings on the wall, branding them in his memory and almost forgetting three of them will someday be branded into his back. “The spirit shall ever return to guard the master,” he murmurs, running his fingers over his favorite, the misshapen teardrop he fancies is smiling, too: a secret smile. He doesn't have this one yet, but someday, he swears. Someday, somehow.
At last the day has finally worn its way to night and his sister returns; Malik waits in his room, lifting his mattress, looking at his treasure, putting it down again and just imagining until the door opens and the moment has come.
“I could only slip three today,” his sister whispers, shutting the door tight; she always looks so mournful, at least until Malik opens his presents. “But you know, you shouldn't get any at al--”
Malik's already pounced. Everything about his monthly gift is new, and exciting, and different, and he soaks it all in: the packaging's unfamiliar feel, the crinkly way it rustles when rubbed, the way it shimmers. And the pictures - why are they so vibrant?
Finally he can't take it anymore: the smooth, shiny packaging rips delicately between his hands. He brings the present up to his face and inhales, gently. Nothing under the ground smells like this - waxy and alien, like promises. Or hope.
The preliminaries completed, Malik flips through his spoils, admiring the garish colors and the jagged, unfamiliar script. Sometimes he can pick out individual letters, and he thinks he knows how to write his name. “Malik”, he can write. “Monster,” “spell”, “trap”. “Sacrifice.”
He tears through the second bundle with far less pretense, sparing just a preliminary glance; appreciation comes later, when he should have long since snuffed his candle and slept. For the third, however, he slows. After this, it's back to dullness and roughness and must. Nothing new for thirty days.
His heart aches, stiff, as he slides the images atop each other. Nothing useful in this one, he notes sadly. Nothing at al--
He stops. He sucks in a breath. His sister looks over; Malik, staring down, doesn't notice. So it's supposed to be blue, he thinks, sliding a finger lovingly across the smile only he can see. It's supposed to be blue, and it glistens like water. Water, rising everywhere. To protect him.
“Malik?” his sister asks; he blinks and sweeps to her side, arms tight around her waist but still clutching his present. “Thank you, sister!” he whispers again, squeezing to show all the enthusiasm he can't voice aloud. “Thank you so much!”
She smiles again, pats his head; Malik hides his own against her stomach. It'd really come, just as he knew it would someday. All the way from the world above....
These presents are his first glimpse at that world. Malik tells himself he's content like this, receiving a piece of the sky once a month. Certainly now, as he holds his sister tight, he can't imagine ever wanting anything else.
But the part of himself that knows better realizes: someday, this won't be enough.
Drabble Title: Piece of the Sky
Word Count: 597
Warnings (if applicable): n/a
Pairings (if applicable): n/a
Summary: Some tombkeepers' rituals are kept secret even from their leader.
Malik used to hate the first day of the month, but now it's his favorite.
He wakes early, pillow pressed to his grin as if the shadows might tattle. All day long he fidgets, foot jiggling until his father yells, a traitorous smile always two muscles away from pasting itself across Malik's face. His father can't know, lest the ritual stop.
Later in the day, Malik peers up at the carvings on the wall, branding them in his memory and almost forgetting three of them will someday be branded into his back. “The spirit shall ever return to guard the master,” he murmurs, running his fingers over his favorite, the misshapen teardrop he fancies is smiling, too: a secret smile. He doesn't have this one yet, but someday, he swears. Someday, somehow.
At last the day has finally worn its way to night and his sister returns; Malik waits in his room, lifting his mattress, looking at his treasure, putting it down again and just imagining until the door opens and the moment has come.
“I could only slip three today,” his sister whispers, shutting the door tight; she always looks so mournful, at least until Malik opens his presents. “But you know, you shouldn't get any at al--”
Malik's already pounced. Everything about his monthly gift is new, and exciting, and different, and he soaks it all in: the packaging's unfamiliar feel, the crinkly way it rustles when rubbed, the way it shimmers. And the pictures - why are they so vibrant?
Finally he can't take it anymore: the smooth, shiny packaging rips delicately between his hands. He brings the present up to his face and inhales, gently. Nothing under the ground smells like this - waxy and alien, like promises. Or hope.
The preliminaries completed, Malik flips through his spoils, admiring the garish colors and the jagged, unfamiliar script. Sometimes he can pick out individual letters, and he thinks he knows how to write his name. “Malik”, he can write. “Monster,” “spell”, “trap”. “Sacrifice.”
He tears through the second bundle with far less pretense, sparing just a preliminary glance; appreciation comes later, when he should have long since snuffed his candle and slept. For the third, however, he slows. After this, it's back to dullness and roughness and must. Nothing new for thirty days.
His heart aches, stiff, as he slides the images atop each other. Nothing useful in this one, he notes sadly. Nothing at al--
He stops. He sucks in a breath. His sister looks over; Malik, staring down, doesn't notice. So it's supposed to be blue, he thinks, sliding a finger lovingly across the smile only he can see. It's supposed to be blue, and it glistens like water. Water, rising everywhere. To protect him.
“Malik?” his sister asks; he blinks and sweeps to her side, arms tight around her waist but still clutching his present. “Thank you, sister!” he whispers again, squeezing to show all the enthusiasm he can't voice aloud. “Thank you so much!”
She smiles again, pats his head; Malik hides his own against her stomach. It'd really come, just as he knew it would someday. All the way from the world above....
These presents are his first glimpse at that world. Malik tells himself he's content like this, receiving a piece of the sky once a month. Certainly now, as he holds his sister tight, he can't imagine ever wanting anything else.
But the part of himself that knows better realizes: someday, this won't be enough.