Chapter Text
Just down the plaza’s road, people’s weeps rang in his ears, tears falling as rain did beforehand. It was the fourth funeral today–and it was 2pm.
Shuffling his cards in magnificent forms, dancing across his arms and between his fingers, Shamil sits cross-legged on the pavement, still damp from the rainfall. He could feel the fabric of his jeans soak through, leaving a dark spot. Frigidity spread across his skin beneath.
The walls surrounding him on either side are moist, centipedes and other crawlers slivering between the cracks in the mundane bricks.
Barely any proper time to grieve before the memorial is replaced and the cycle continues. He was pretty sure it was a kid this time, a girl. The cause was, like many others, hypothermia or malnutrition. Or, so he suspects. Probably a troublemaker, as most children were (knowing from experience,) and went out to play when the snow caught up to them, which swallowed them whole.
Spring, the period of blossoming flowers and rising suns, is the ugliest season.
When people mention the time, they always bring up how the fiery ball of our solar system creeps over the edge of the peaks surrounding their village in the early morning hours, sending rays through their windows and assaulting their eyes. Sometimes people think of how their favorite blossom would start rising from the soil, or how animals quit their vacation and emerge from hibernation.
Maybe even how rain pours from the dreary clouds above, drenching our clothes and causing our produce to become soggy if not brought to the dry, warm inside fast enough.
No one mentions the death. Or, more accurately, the mourning.
Winter, or, as Shamil liked to call it, the Season of Bones, is ruthless. It ravages the crops, which are already limited, causes outbursts of illness, and, worst of all, is cold. The air stills to the point that your breaths materialize while snow coats your clothes till you're drenched and sludging your way home.
Fire, you say? Nope! Can’t get much of that either!
You need wood to make fire. Crispia stood at just the base of an incredible mountain, which stole most of the greenery from them, leaving them barren. Around them, as well, had barely anything except for grass and soil for miles. Except for a sole field of blooms that grew on the opposite of the mountain, which was lined with a wide-spaning lake. The sun often hides behind its slopes, gracing shadows upon Crispia often.
The only good acre of trees, lush and not rotting or dead and worth chopping lies at the upper slope of the mountain. It’s led by a rocky trail, giving you a great view of the 100-foot drop two meters to the left. Fun, right?
Plus, the harpies rule that portion of the Mountain. Huge, 10 foot tall creatures who could fly at neck-breaking speeds. No one dared to go up after midnight, or, at least, without a weapon. Often, they didn’t bother them unless provoked, so no one wanted to do just that.
So, due to these very reasons, the snowy portion of the year takes out nearly a third of Crispia; from frostbite, hypothermia, malnutrition, the works.
This is why Spring is such a, to be blunt, depressing time. Shamil swears that nearly half of the village is dressed in black. Long days filled with one small funeral per hour which includes some tears, already half-wilting flowers, and a shitty, black and white, dull photo of the victim.
Oh, the bugs suck, too. He forgot the bugs.
If he cared to, he’d go over and check, probably just to see a cheeky photo and dozens of bouquets. He doesn’t know many children anyways, except when putting on half-assed puppet shows for some of them, who crowd around him like ants. They all looked the same anyways. Dirty in the face, scraggly hair and crooked buck teeth that took up their mouth when they grinned.
Alas, he had his own people to take care of. Including himself.
“Hello.”
The timid voice made his head shoot up to find the source. Speaking of children, said vocals came from one. Maybe 12 or 13, who stands just at the opening of the lane. Her brown hair reached her waist, knots travelling through it. Not as long as his own, but she’s getting there. Green eyes–not the type of bright, colorful green you’d see on a poorly drawn rainbow. No, hers are dull, almost apathetic.
Funny. She could be Mysta’s doppelganger, only younger.
She’s in a dark, flimsy gown that looked like it’d been stretched far too much. Maybe it was passed down between her siblings, who knows. Probably a friend of the girl who died, it would make sense. Her ears are beginning to grow their tips, more downward and soft than his own upcast and pointy ones.
“Hey.” Was all he could mutter back, mustering up a smirk that showed off his chipped tooth on the right. One of the many fights he’s been in; hurt like hell, too. “You here to play, kid? You got any games you enjoy? Or I can show you a trick, if that’s more of your cup of tea!”
She kneeled down, already scuffed up knees hitting the concrete. “I don’t know any games, sir.” Ha! Sir, that’s a new one. Usually it’s scum or good for nothing. Sir, he could get used to. “A trick, please?”
Well, since she asked so~ nicely…
Shamil spread out the deck, face down, across the ground, most probably soaking them. The red backings stood proudly to the sky, as if beckoning her to choose them. “Pick one, and only one. Don’t let me see it, and I will guess it!” He stuck a hand arrogantly to his chest.
Tapping the metal can beside him, labeled Tips in his messy handwriting, Shamil smirked at her. “And, if I guess right, or impress you, then a teeny bit of cash is wanted, girly.” It had two loonies, an old ass penny and a five dollar bill. Could be worse.
Hesitantly, as if it would bite, she grasped a lightly damaged card, protectively holding it to her chest. A foreign gap was left in the middle of the array, leaving him to gather them all up and place them to his side for further use in a not-so-neat stack.
“Alright, girly,” She didn’t like the nickname, by the way her face twisted ever so unpleasantly. Shamil stuck with it. “I’m about to read your little mind!”
For a liar, that was the honest truth.
Channelling into his SoulJam, hidden underneath his gruffed blouse, he reached out and grasped a tendril of power. It was pulsing with life, blue and strong. He slipped into the girl's mind painlessly (he hopes) and searched for the card with analytic eyes.
Memories played and danced around him as he waltzed through, evading thoughts left and right. Both the sour pangs of the worse, and the sweet flow of the better graced his SoulJam, mingling with his magic tenderly. He wasn’t blocked by wall after wall, nor was met with screaming protests pounding at his skull. Just… content.
A decent girl; one of few left in this town.
But, there, amidst the normal complexity of her mind, was a single, blood-red card. Found it.
“Ooh~ a good pick indeed!” He drawled, creeping out of her mind in the blink of an eye. Said eyes were uncertain, brows furrowed as she stared at his cocky grin. “A nine of spades! You got some resilience in you, girly!”
A blatant, but white lie. It actually means lots of problems and loss. But she could believe otherwise.
Looking from her card, to the con-artist, then back to the card, her face grew bewildered. Reaching to his side, she threw down the deck, maybe expecting them all to be the same. They weren’t, and her brows only continued to narrow. “How’d you do that!? You must’ve cheated, there’s no way you knew!”
“Ah, so you are impressed!” A giggled uprooted from Shamil’s throat at her outburst, muscles aching as his shoulders bobbed up and down. “But I’m afraid I can’t say! A magician never revealed his secrets! It’s protocol!” He held his hands up in a feigned surrender.
“Do it again!” Her yells echoed through the alley, shoving the cards back into his lap with a fervor to prove him wrong.
Sighing, Shamil scooped up the cards once more, shuffling them in ways that left the child in awe, mouth agape. Round after round rolled by, the air warming and the sun revealing itself over the mountain’s sharp peaks. The girl cried out in denial as he kept winning, finding the card within her mind every time.
Eventually, she gave up. Instead, she wanted him to read her future.
Thank the Witches, his magic was thoroughly drained.
“Finally accepting defeat, huh girly?” She pouted as he snatched the tarot cards from his small bag. A stitched section stretched along its middle, old and barely holding together. He could basically call it another pocket.
As he mixed them thoroughly through a basic shuffle, he looked at her. She’s scrawny, a miracle that she survived the chilly Season of Bones. “Where are your parents?” Shamil inquired with a suspicious frown and narrowed eyes. “Didn’t they teach you not to talk to strangers?”
“Nobody’s a stranger in Crispia.” She retorted simply, eyes trained on his hands. They’re worn, scar filled and calloused. Must not be a pretty sight.
He, the King of insults, paused at the clipped comeback. “Touché.”
Humming calmly, she pointed to the funeral service, which looks as if they're just starting to pack up. Finally. “They’re somewhere over there. I sneaked away; didn't want to stand in a crowd of crying people.”
A startled laugh took even himself by surprise at her bluntness, but it only made Shamil more entertained of this kid. “What? Not friends with that girl? Was she a jerk? You can be honest with me.” She really can’t. Shouldn’t.
She simply shook her head, the hair that curtained her face swayed. “No, she was nice, I just wasn’t friends with her. A classmate from the schoolhouse.” Ah, right. The rundown building at the main road that taught their entire population what they needed to know.
Bullshit. Math and grammar won’t help you when you’re scrounging around for food.
A bored, acknowledging noise came from Shamil, who finally settled the pack down in front of him. “Alright, girly~” Hand rested on the deck, a grin pulling at the corners of his lips. “Let’s see your future!” He announced, slamming the first card down.
Strength, upturned.
“This means, well–it obviously means you're strong, but it also means that you’ve got that compassion in ya! Some good, strong-willed well being.” Poking a finger towards her heart, she batted his hand away. Shamil snorted, then used said hand to set the second one down next to the first.
The Hierophant, reversed.
“Taking after me, huh? This one means rebellion, taking your own path instead of the one paved for you. A good thing, in my sense.” And it was. He’d rather die than live out a life written for him. “It's never good to let others make you someone you're not, this is a great sign for you!”
Crossing her arms, she looks deadpanned at him. “Says the one performing magic tricks for money.” The girl mumbled under her breath, which had him gasping in mock offense.
“How dare you! This is art!” Gesturing to his cards, “It had you impressed earlier, as well! You were all: ‘Oh! How did you do that!’” Shamil raised the back of his pale hand to his head dramatically. “And no tip for it either! The scandal!”
She let out a long, drawn out groan of frustration and begrudgingly dropped a bill into his small jar. Ten dollars, the most he’s got all day. A good margin of the cash in that thing is pickpocketed as he weaved around the town’s crowds. “There. Happy, stranger?”
His smile grew ear to ear, extending his hand as if to shake hers. “Very. And, please, Shamil is the name. Don’t wear it out, I still need it!” A chuckle erupted as she slapped his hands away harshly once more. Rebellion, indeed.
Ah, right. The third card. The finale.
“And here, my dear child, is your final card. Your destiny, your–” Shamil’s voice died out in his throat as he glanced at the third card. Thankfully, the girl couldn’t see it at this angle, left confused and waiting.
Death, reversed.
After a short moment, he pulled back on his smirk and, with a sly of the hand, slipped the card into his sleeve. The card he switched it with, however, was a–
“The Sun! Good things are in for you, girly!” Setting the bright card on the ground, keeping the real, darker one hidden away in a secret pocket he had stitched himself. He didn’t need her to know the even darker meanings of it, even if she didn’t believe in this reading at all. “Happiness and all that boring, sappy stuff. Success, even!”
Looking mildly suspicious, she opened her thin-lipped mouth to say something, maybe ask a question. But, was interrupted before she could by two booming voices calling out.
“Mari!” A brunette called out amidst the crowd, now dispersing like ants. Said man’s name was Lattimer. An uptight fool, in his opinion. They did have many similarities, the hair, the face shape and their straight noses were all the same. Must be his daughter, considering the way she got up to meet him halfway upon his arrival.
Lattimer, or, as he was nicknamed, Latt, narrowed his eyes when he saw Shamil, beckoning Mari to come to him. “Come on, Mari, it’s time to head home. And, don’t hang around with people like that, okay. Scam artists.” Even as he tried to say the last part quietly (to be ‘polite’, no less), Shamil heard it clear as day, ears twitching.
“What was that, Lattie? Why don’t you say it a little louder so little old me can hear?” Cheek resting upon his rough hand, he continued leisurely. “She came up to me, don’t blame the artist for his art!”
A scowl formed on the brewer’s face, guiding his daughter closer, awfully protective, by the shoulders. He was tense, by the way Mari’s dress scrunched up under his fingers.
Fully ignoring Shamil, Latt turned to his child, resting a tender hand onto her thick head of hair. “Did he steal anything from you? Don’t tell me you gave something to him, Mari.”
A considering expression took over her face, eyes glancing between her father and him. Then, at the worn out tip jar, dusty and unused. A faint sense of sympathy seemed to contort her features.
Wettening her lips, she sent a soft smile Latt’s way. “No, nothing, Dad. Just played some cards, that’s all.” Mari shrugged.
A moment of doubt crossed her father’s face, looking at Shamil with it more than at her. Latt let out a deep sigh, nudging Mari’s back as his face schooled and ignored the card-player entirely. “Alright, if you’re sure. Let’s go home, ‘Mar. We wouldn’t wanna leave your father waiting.” To that, she nodded, starting down the road with him.
Shamil didn’t know if he was imagining it or not, but as she walked away, she just slightly turned back, sending a knowing smile his way.
When you’re broke, and only scam people and steal for a living, buying things can be tricky. Especially if all Shamil got today… was $17.01.
Wading through the townspeople, the heat imprinted itself onto his skin, likely causing it to burn later due to its fragility. His equally fragile body throbbed with each step, already feeling stiff from sitting for so long earlier.
Stands full of fruit, on the verge of falling off the cliff of being ripe, some hand crafted clothes and small, useless trinkets lined the road. Sellers beckoned people to purchase from theirs like sirens in the sea.
He approached a few people observing the goods, picking them up and squeezing to see their freshness. Shamil thought they may burst them open in their vice grip. A package of bland, straightened pasta, strawberries and some assorted peppers were his choice; filling but lasts for a while.
When Shamil handed the items to the worker, he eyed him carefully as they checked the price tags, summing up the price. He was a ragged, deep voiced man with a beard down to his throat. “Not stealin’ from us today? What a surprise.”
“Be grateful I’m not, old man. Seventeen bucks is all I got.” He gestured to the food, whipping back his head to rid his hair from his face. “Is that gonna cover it?”
After finishing the total, the guy practically snatched his money from him, only throwing back his purchase and a looney in return. Beardy threw the rest into his rickety cash register, coins jumbling together carelessly. “Barely. Things have gotten expensive nowadays, kid. Gotta make more than that.”
Damn inflation.
Bristling, Shamil snided, “Okay, one, I’m not a kid. I’m 22. And, secondly, you try living with rusty-ass limbs and doing labor. I can’t, for your information, and I’ve got a stupid sister to feed, so, stay out of my business.” Without waiting for a reply, he waltzed off, a tomato hidden in his pants pocket.
He was halfway through the crowds, tucking the plastic bag of produce into his own bag, he suddenly paused, feet halting to a standstill as he reran the short conversation in his head. Distantly, he could hear frustrated citizens berating him to stay out of the way, wading around him like oil and water, but he didn’t even turn.
…Stupid sister.
Fuck.
It was her damn birthday today! That’s why Suri was all dressed up (well, as much as she could be) this morning!
And he had a dollar left. People were beginning to trickle out of the square, leaving mere beggars and salespeople. No pickpocketing.
But, what could he get her that doesn’t cost anything? Not a crocheted piece, he was out of wool and it was too late to start a project. He had nothing of worth, so what did she like that is a fine gift? What do girls like? Uh, shopping she can’t do, no dresses, no jewelry…
Oh! Flowers. Flowers he could get for free as Mother Nature so graciously never put any tax on them other than soil, water and sunlight. What does she like… oh yeah, matthiola’s. She had a weird love for the way stocks looked, even though there are so many better ones to choose from. In his own opinion, milkcrowns are way better.
Welp, to each their own.
A deep groan left him as he took a sharp turn, heading down a dark alley with a renowned purpose. Get Suri a gift, go home, give it to her, then sleep. A solid, beautiful plan.
Exiting the lane, he thudded down Crispia’s stoned streets, leading to the outskirts of the village, sharp bladed grass brushing his mud stained sandals. On the opposite side of the mountain lay a nice, calmed valley. It usually grew stocks around this time, as well as other assortments. You got to it through one of the Mountain’s many gaps, walls so close you would think they’d crush you.
The impasse was dark, crowded with lavender that lines the narrow trail. Shamil’s hand traced the scraped walls, rough against his digits. Deep, jagged gouges trailed in the wall above. He decided to ignore it, for his remaining sanity's sake.
If he was lucky, he could get there before nightfall came.
He was, in fact, not the luckiest guy.
Due to his sore feet and steadily numbing legs, he had to take a breather frequently, sitting at the base of the mountain, back against the hard stone. Beads of sweat dripped down his face and seeped into his pores, slicking his forehead and dampening his shirt.
It took him about… roughly 8 breaks before finally coming to the edge of the lush span. The plants were looming, about halfways up his body. Blossoms of all varieties spread out, tickling at his pant legs that uncovered his boney ankles from overwear.
The sky settled into a deep orange hue, their source of heat about midway to its napping place. God, what he would give to nap now. But, he couldn’t. He was on a mission. The sun would just have to mock him from afar.
The sunset reflected off of the stark royal blue of the vast last to his side. A sharp and noticeable contrast, though weirdly a beloved one by people. Well, he supposes opposites attract. Lilypads floated on the surface, wading through the water as the crickets chirped.
Drawing a huff from him, he no less collapsed on the grassy earth, staining his pants a yellowish color. Shamil was surrounded on all sides by flowers, some crashed under his landing. The mooncrown’s and matthiola mingled side by side, their vines intertwining and bending easily with the wind. Mixed amongst them were others; sunflowers, that stood vibrant and tall, carnations, whose petals glistened in the light, and roses of every color.
This place may possibly be the most peaceful in all of Crispia. Though, he barely felt calm, and that didn’t change now. Pessimism was his right hand man, making him focus on his sweat-slicked clothes and stabbing body instead of the soft air that made his bangs whirl. But, at least here he wouldn’t be bothered by nosy townspeople.
Leath, skilled hands plucked the stocks in a jerked motion, one by one. Shamil sat aside the ones with wilting sections or had the roots clinging to the bottom from the harsh pull. Between plucking them, he’d pause to swat away the vibrating bees flitting around him in an angry protest. As the nonexistent clock ticked away, he had plucked probably a dozen or more stocks, pink and fluttering.
Shamil tucked them at his side before reaching out a hand to grace the mooncrown’s soft edges. The sweet smell curated with the pollen, his fingers pricking lightly as they ran over the sharp thorns along the base.
People would always say that mooncrowns bloom where someone’s tears once fell. That they seeped into the soil and their sorrow grew a being of beauty. But, even beautiful things have their ragged edges. Especially beautiful things.
Glancing around the field, a bark of a laugh escaped him, “Who the hell cries this much?”
There were hundreds of the species dragged along these grounds. He’s lived here his whole life and never once did he not see them here. Day and night, their presence was always made apparent.
Speaking of night, the sun had just now decided to lower itself beneath the cliffs. It showered him in darkness, and fireflies took it as their cue to spring up. Their lights dotted his vision like a gentle assurance, flying by without a care. The beginnings of stars splattered faintly in the sky like freckles against one's face.
Shamil plucked the flowers from their spot beside him and stood on stiff legs. Vegetation creaked beneath his worn shoes, crying out from their deathbed. Humidity filled the air, making his clothes fill with hot air and cling to his skin–
A pained whine was drawn from his throat, cutting through the air.
His muscles throbbed and cramped relentlessly. Shamil was on the ground before he knew it, clutching at them, pounding on them to try to make it go away. Matthiola scattered on the ground as his fists bashed, causing them to slip from his grasp. It was unbearable. His mouth opened in a soundless scream-
A booming, keening shriek pierced the air. It froze over.
Shamil’s head shot up. It wasn’t his own. It was loud and disturbed, echoing as if it shook the mountain itself. Pain became a background noise as a rare feeling of fear coiled tight in his chest. Weirdly enough, his SoulJam pulsed with fervor at the yell, as if calling back to it. It was warm, vibrating happily, which it’s never done before.
Besides that, he didn’t know what the noise could’ve come from. Can’t be a bear, they’re more deep-throated, couldn’t be a bird, their too small–
A bird.
A harpy.
Just barely, on the edge of the peak closest to him, a dark figure was detected, Shamil’s pupils contracting instantaneously. It was only a few hundred feet above him, the creature could fly down here in probably two seconds flat if it wanted to.
Though Shamil couldn’t see them, he could feel the eyes figured on him with a scary level of sharpness.
The stocks were quickly gathered in his hands, forcing himself to his feet even as they dared to give out. Every step brought a new wave of uncut agony that spiked through Shamil’s body, his hand distinct in its grip around the flowers. The thorns cut into his palm, blood dribbling down his wrist.
But it was better than being killed. Or eaten, whatever their sick method was.
So he ran, faster than he thought he ever had before. Never looking back, he bolted through the passageway, pitch black between the crest of the mountains. His feet reverberated as they padded down the rough ground, even as spontaneous rocks almost tripped him. His shaking hands held him upright against any near surface whenever his vision blurred.
Even though he didn’t have much, he did have his life.
And he was not going to lose it today.
It was only when he nearly crashed into Mysta, who was packing up her small shop, that he ceased his sprint.
The collision was only slight, more of a bump than anything. But, almost as soon as he found one, he fell into a chair, one of dingy, white plastic that looked as if it would break under his weight. Luckily, he was a quite light.
What he also was, was sweaty, very sweaty. Rivers of it poured down his red face, legs tingling unpleasantly as well as his palm, now scarlet-soaked. Head hanging back, heaving breaths filled the air. A month ago, it would’ve been visible, but now, all that could show for it was the way his lungs clenched and greedily embraced every ounce of oxygen.
“What the hell!?” Was his friend's immediate, stunned reaction to Shamil, before her face schooled until only twitches of frustration remained. “One, why the fuck are you running? Two, if you ever run into me again like that I will slap you. Three–”
A slender, long nailed hand, uncharacteristically gentle, grasped his own, unclutching his digits from the stocks. Mysta always showed this kind of care whenever one of them was hurt. Shamil jokingly calls her the ‘mom’ of the group, though gets slapped upside the head for it without relent. “-you’re bleeding.” She finished, placing the matthiola to the side.
Between huffs, he muttered, “Real observant, thanks.” When she glared at him, he scoffed, voice breathless and slightly slurred. “S’just a few scratches, Misty. M’not bleeding to death, not stabbed nor shot.” He ran his opposite hand down his face. It was useless to convince her, she was already grabbing bandages. “And, for the first question, a wild animal or somethin’. Don’t know what it was, exactly.” He lied.
The gauze was dry, primarily unused as she opted for singular bandaids instead. But this was more spread out, so she opted for this instead. “Doesn’t matter, your house is dirty as hell, do you want it to get infected?” Mysta deadpanned, “Plus, why were you out picking stocks, of all things, so late? I know they're not your favorite.”
Of course she knew that. As little as she commented or spoke up, she seemed to take in every ounce of information spoken aloud.
Shamil’s breathing had decided to finally come down and even out, thank the Witches. “Yeah, but they are Suri’s and I only had a dollar to spare.” Gesturing to the flowers he gave her a small smile, feigning innocence. “Do… you happen to have a spare letter and piece of paper lying around, Misty~?” He batted his eyelashes for a dramatic flair.
Mysta met him with a sharp tug on his bandages, tying them tighter than they needed to be just out of spite. “You expect me to give you those because of what? That you got a few cuts and are poor like every other person? No.”
“Oh, come on. I’m your buddy, aren’t I~?” Shamil drawled, a grin spreading out his face. “Plus, it’s for Suri~ You wouldn’t make me go home with only a few measly flowers and nothing else, would you~? She’d be heartbroken! Plus, I’m legally impaired, you have to be nice to me.”
As much as he despised speaking of his disability, it had a chance of doing him a rare favour this time.
At their little house just down the corner, a pair of crutches were stored away deep under his bed. They were practically crushed between his busted up mattress and the boards supporting it, hidden away so that Suri couldn’t force Shamil to wear them. The pair was hard, old and were the ones where the velcro scratched your arms uncomfortably; so graciously given by the small medical center down the road.
No. Shamil would rather deal with falling down every time he over-exerted his withering body than wear those in public.
When she met him with a thoroughly unimpressed look and began ambling away, he tried to follow, rising from his chair, which squeaked unpleasantly. But, before he could, he was shoved back down by a quick hand. “Sit. I don’t want you passing out in the middle of my bakery.” A pointed finger was shot in his direction, almost as pointed as her voice. “This is the last time I’m doing you a favor, Shami.”
Sound fading, her feet tread into the back of the building, and his lips curved upwards. Shamil knew it wouldn’t be the last time. Mysta always had a soft spot for their small bubble of friends, even if she didn’t admit it.
Shamil’s eyes slipped shut a few moments later, exhaustion a soothing lullaby that made the aches and tingling become a quiet hum. But, before darkness enveloped him, something was tossed at him carelessly, hitting him square in the chest. His eyes bugged open once more to find the source.
It was a pale yellow card, one that had the standard ‘Happy Birthday!’ written in a cursive font; the ink was still slightly wet. The writing was slightly tapered off at the end, making it known that Mysta wrote in a rush.
A quill feathers stood proudly, resting on the table at his side, placed by Mysta, glistening in the soft, honey glowing lights that hung above. Sitting beside it was a small pot of onyx ink.
Before he could pick it up, Mysta tugged slightly on his pale bangs, making Shamil let out an annoyed hiss. “Don’t write something stupid, or unthoughtful. You already came home late and I’d bet at least $20 on the fact that you didn’t even remember the occasion this morning. Much less wish her good wishes.”
“I wasn’t planning to write an essay, Misty.” He groaned dramatically.
“Well, you are.” She muttered, unamused, as she wrapped the long-stemmed flowers into a paper wrapping. “And do it quickly. I want you gone in ten minutes; maximum. Got it?”
Letting out a half-assed acknowledgement, he started to scribble lines down the thick paper. Though he did go to school and definitely wasn’t a slacker in any means as a child, his handwriting has never piqued like Mysta or Suri’s have. His was blurred together, a little crooked and some lines were sloppier than others due to the improper use of the quill.
It didn’t take him less than ten minutes, due to having to flex his hand from his rigid fingers. Mysta’s face grew more irritated by the minute, but she closed up shop around him. Maybe to convince herself not to punch him. Sweet scents of pastries wafted through the place as they were packaged, frosting and batter looming in his nostrils.
Mysta silenced Shamil with a glare before he could even ask for any. She probably already gave some to Suri, so he didn’t bother to get anymore. Well, for her, at least.
After writing what he deemed a good amount, Shamil eased himself up from the chair, waiting a moment to let his body balance itself, before plucking a roll of tape off the table. He tore off a small bit with his teeth after taking way too long to find the edge where the tape began, eventually folding and sticking the letter to the flower’s base.
It wasn’t perfect. Some of the flowers bent out in odd ways, some were missing petals, and the paper used was tacky and frail.
It’s fine. Nothing is, really.
Shamil gingerly hauled up the flowers, tucking them in the crook of his elbow like the swaddle of a newborn. He bellowed, “Alright, Misty, I’m heading off! Good seein’ you, always is, but I gotta scadaddle–!” Before he could get out the rest of his words, lined with a smirk, hands were already pushing him out the door swiftly.
“I can’t say the same about you. Get out.” Mysta grumbled with a harsh irritantance.
“Aw~ come on! You know you love to see lil’ old me! You wouldn’t have helped me out if you didn’t~!” Shamil taunted, now perched outside.
With a final glare, the roll-up door slammed shut without a word, creating a barrier between them. A bark of laughter was drawn from him, reverberating into the night sky.
Classic Mysta. Always the giver, but never owning up to caring.
The walk home was short, thank the Witches.
Their tiny house was hidden away, non-visible to the public eye. Wouldn't be a problem if it was, though. Not like they had much to steal, anyways.
You have to walk into a narrow, dusty alleyway to get to it. A singular, dim lamp hung above their rickety, wooden door, marking their existence. Flies buzzed loudly in his pointed ears, making them twitch, swatting them away with his free, bandaged up hand.
When Shamil eased the door open with an abruptly loud creak, he was almost immediately jumped by his bright haired sister. Suri’s brows were furrowed in annoyance, form practically bouncing with a rare, restless movement. “Where the hell have you been!? It’s like – ten at night! And-" She paused, redirecting her focus to the gauze. "What happened to your hand?"
Rolling his eyes, he waded around her effortlessly. “Getting us sustenance. May not be as good as a cake, but it’ll have to do.” He grumbled, carelessly dropping the groceries onto their table and beginning to gather things he needed. "Just a few scrapes, I'll be fine. Nothing serious." He dismissed, waving her off with the same hand she was inquiring on.
“The shops aren’t even open– you weren’t–!” She paused, pupils contracting and body stilling as she took in both his words and the flowers, paired with a card. “You– I thought– I thought you forgot.” Suri mumbled, dumbfounded.
Shamil scoffed, “Yeah, I did, at first, but–” Running a hand down his face, he sighed, not looking at her. “But I did. Remember, I mean. It’s why you were all dressed up this morning, yeah? Where did you go?” His voice was uncaring, tired, but he tried to mask it with interest.
Silence filled the room before Suri found her voice again. “Oh–yeah. I didn’t really go anywhere. No one to go with, really. Everybody’s working this time of year, so no one has the time. Plus, I’m still trying to find a job.”
He should probably ask about what she did instead, or give her the stocks he had (quite literally) risked his life for. But, he didn’t. “You’re, what, 20 now? Why don’t you have one yet? Or create one. Sell lemonade or something if you’re so desperate.”
That was most likely not the best thing to say, especially not on a special day. But he couldn’t help it! They’ve been having this same fight for forever! Suri never had the motivation for labor, just like he had, but more mentally. She didn’t have the passion to do anything for money other than to play her wooden lyre in the streets. And even that she barely did!
An offended scoff was drawn from her throat. “I am trying, Shami! No one is hiring and when I do get hired, I don’t stick around for long. You know this.” Suri rounded on him, pulling at his shoulder to make them eye to eye.
“And whose fault is that?” Shamil’s teeth subconsciously bared, chipped tooth glinting as exhaustion and irritation hit like a freight train. “Go work with Mysta! She’s offered before! All you have to do is sell the goods, she’ll bake them, then you get money! It’s that simple.”
She met her kin with a barely suppressed glare. “It is not that simple! And I don’t wanna make Mysta have to split her pay, it’s unfair to her. I just–” Suri’s eyes stared at the floor. “I just… can’t sometimes.”
“All you have to do is stand there–”
“That’s not what I mean!” Arms crossing and hands gripping, her body tensed. “You just– You wouldn’t get it! You, who never had to deal with it and hasn’t ever had a single day of real labor in his life–!”
“I can’t!” Shamil’s voice finally cracked open and increased in volume. Pale hands ran through his hair where it was fraying from his ponytail. “I literally can’t, Suri! I just ran for my Witch's forsaken life trying to get you these stupid flowers,” He shoved the matthiola’s into her arms, “because a harpy was no less than ten yards from me!”
Suri’s eyes bulged, meeting his narrowed ones. “A harpy–”
“I had to basically book it to Mysta’s store so my dumb limbs wouldn't give up on me! So don’t–” Finally, he pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a breath as his eyes slipped close. Once regaining composure, he muttered, “Just– Don’t mistake my fucking flaw with your issues.”
Before she could get another word out, he placed a chaste finger to her lips. A silent 'shut up and don’t ask.’
Their eyes met and, for a brief moment, their vulnerabilities did too, like they had few times before. Shamil quickly nipped it in the bud by reaching up and ruffling her hair, messing up the long curls. It caught her off guard, making her break free from her tension-induced stupor.
With a flick to Suri’s forehead, he made his way to the door near the corner; his tiny bedroom that barely fit a bed. He can’t even count how many times he’s fallen off of it. The food was forgotten on the table, but was easy enough to make so she could do it quickly herself.
Turning back briefly, he flashed her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Enjoy your gift, Cherub. Don’t let it die.”
The door shut with an audible thud, which echoed through the house like a gong. Almost as soon as his back hit the mattress, his body went lax, and sleep took him. Its embrace was gentle, filling him whole and holding him tightly. It caressed him and soothed his aches.
It wouldn’t last, but the thought was nice.
It didn’t last. Not by a long shot.
The sky was but a faded blue when he rose, clouds in the distance slowly approaching, anticipating rainfall. It may as well rain all the time with how much the droplets graced their streets.
With a groan, he turned back over to try and return to the peaceful abyss of sleep. It didn’t work. It never worked. Shamil mimicked the mountain range with how his quilt was piled on top of him to mitigate his cold body. A comical sight.
His feet hit the wood as it creaked beneath his weight, which only multiplied as he walked. His limbs protested with a cry, crashing into him like a tsunami.
Witches, he just wanted to sleep.
Balanced silence echoed through the place, the hall was barely lit, only the faint glow from the natural light gliding in through the clouds. Without even having to strain his ear, he could hear Suri’s snores from her door.
Shamil will mock her when she wakes.
The wind was brazen; harsh. It blew against their front door, which banged itself back and forth. Chilly air filled the house, making goosebumps form on his light skin. He could’ve sworn he had locked that door on the way in. Guess not.
His hair whipped around wildly, knots tugging at his skull as he approached the door, yearning for the quiet. Though he didn’t mind the usual thrum of the village, a little quiet was good now and then. Just not too much, until it gets uncomfortable.
Shamil’s thoughts came to a standstill when something on the doorstep invaded his sight.
They were bright, a sharp contrast to the dark pavement, humming with life. Tied together with a small, stringed bow, they burst with vibrancy, fresh and well-kept. It made his breath hitch with, not only the sight, but the thought that someone had put these out for rather him or Suri to see–
Him. They were for him.
The flower’s petals mingled together as he lifted them up, cradling them in his arms with uncertainty. They were of different kinds, mixed in a bundle of beauty. He’s never had flowers sent to him before, he didn’t know what to do with them. Nor how to think about it.
Brows furrowing, Shamil turns over the blossoms, identifying their breeds. Suri, who had been into botany for a while now, studied the names and species of every one. She would often point out and spiel about it randomly, followed by him smacking her upside the head.
Chrysanthemums, blending in a mix of a deep, blood-like ruby and lavender-hued purples. The petals huddled close, crowding the herb as if on the edge of a cliff.
Deep affection, love, and even meanings to get well soon.
Well, too bad. He won’t.
Next were moonflowers, his personal favorite, and the sign that these were for him. The surface was smooth, soft, almost like velvet. Their color reflected off the name, like they were plucked off the Moon itself.
Messages of both an unsettled sorrow and the fact that whoever sent these knew he liked them.
Creepy. His goosebumps weren’t from the wind anymore.
Finally, were the bright carnations. They stood out from the bunch, every one standing tall and every floral leaf danced with color. They were flimsy and thin to the touch, but left behind the sticky, cinnamon smell that stuck to your clothes for days.
Love. The petals reflected the sender’s heart, red and yearning.