» Be Our Guests

The little mountain child laughed in spite of the pain, the agony, the apprehension clawing its way through him – any listlessness, lull, or lethargy could be lifted by Iskra’s warm spirit and heart. His giggle was a wave of innocence and ignorance, blending and shifting against the blue and gold youth’s frame at his silly rhyme, at his attempts to make him feel better – and the love he had for his uncle, for his family increased in a monumental burst of essence and life, turning his lips into a tiny, cordial smile, looking up into the haze of rain and defiance with naught more than hope. He even attempted a little nip at Iskra’s shoulder, uttering another laugh all the while, as if naught else condemned them, as if the world was not shifting beneath an enemy’s claws, as if they had any other purpose other than survival. The boy didn’t see the crack in Iskra’s veneer, didn’t hear the shattering decibels, the discordant press of things that couldn’t come back, souls that couldn’t return, playing in the void, unaware of where dangers laid or when realities would come to snatch and drag fantasy away. He was allowed his delusions, his disbeliefs, his cluelessness; saved, perhaps, for another time, another moment, when he’d just as spurned and haunted as the rest of them. “Okay, Iskra fiska!” The babe agreed, intending to shuffle away, make his mark between the crowds and find her – like it was such a simple task, and she hadn’t gone up in a cloud of smoke and ash, fire and brimstone, chaos and corruption, felled because she’d been brave, because she’d yearned to save them all.   But then Iskra said something else that gave him pause, and the boy lifted his head towards his uncle, tilting it ever so gently, eyes rounded in wonder, in amazement, in a serene sense of curiosity that every child possessed before bedlam took over their lives. Your sister, Otem was a phrase ringing through the haze and fog of his mind, making him shift and turn beyond the older youth, glancing towards the femme nestled and garbed in leaves. He never thought of having a sister, a sibling, Iskra had always been close enough to warrant the title, despite the way lineage dictated him as his father’s brother, and the surprise shocked him into silence for the smallest of moments. Then his heart felt filled to the brim, wild in its incandescent crescendos, with its immediate acceptance, and his whole face lit as if she’d hung the moon and the stars and the sky, aligned with other mountains and ravens and lions, his grin growing wider and wider, movements hastening to the front of Iskra’s chest so he could see her fully. “Sister!” He cried, drawn to the way she seemed like his mother, pondering why he hadn’t picked her out of the crowd sooner, his silver frame growing closer and closer, daring to be bold and intrepid. “I’m Mauna!” There was a hope and a prayer nestled there, intertwined in his eyes, in his crimson gaze, that she would immediately like him, that she would yearn to play and be silly, that she would beckon him to her side so they can share in the delight of youths and bonds. Mauna CROWNS HAVE THEIR COMPASS-LENGTH OF DAYS THEIR DATE- TRIUMPHS THEIR TOMB-FELICITY, HER FATE- OF NOUGHT BUT EARTH CAN EARTH MAKE US PARTAKER, BUT KNOWLEDGE MAKES A KING MOST LIKE HIS MAKER.

image | coding
@Iskra  @Otem