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The Art of Living
Curled under the hollow of the well-worn desk, five-year old Artalen watched as little bits of wood fell from the top and dusted Mother's feet. There was already a little pile growing on top, as she had been working a long time, and she never did anything about it, not even wiggling her toes.
He uncurled slightly and wiggled his own toes, then looked at Mother's own. He reached out to wipe some of the wood dust from her toes, but she didn't wiggle them. Mother never did much of anything, except make lots of wooden dolls. Artalen was still too small to peek over the top of the desk, but he knew that sometimes Mother would sit down with a block of wood, and lots of wood would fall off the top, and some time later she would stand up again, a wooden doll in her hand, and she would put it on a shelf along with many others. Sometimes Father or Brother would take a few dolls, and Artalen knew because Mother would either scream or lock the door and not unlock it until Father came up and talked through the closed door.
The rain of wood bits stopped and didn't start again. Artalen perked up, and watched from the hollow of the desk as Mother slowly got up, a wooden doll in her hand. It looked like a bird's head, but it was too far to get a good look, and Mother was already walking off to put it on an empty place on the shelf. Artalen knew a doll was there once, before Father took it to sell and make money.
Mother stood there for a moment, one hand on the doll, before turning back to shuffle towards the desk. Instead of sitting back down on the chair, she knelt down and held out her hands to hold Artalen.
Nothing in the world could have held his delighted giggles. While Mother paying attention to him at all was reward enough, Artalen tried not to make too much noise, feeling that it was a game between the both of them. Mother was testing him; if he laughed too loudly she would put him down and walk away, and not look at him for the rest of the day.
Mother and son held each other, and within the giddiness of simply being together, little Artalen nursed the wish that he could preserve this moment forever.
---
"You sure about this, kid?"
Artalen blinks and looks from the little window of the wagon towards the driver. "Sir?"
"You sure? Going to Sundren." The man turns back to click at the horses, who corrected their course. "Nothing but misery and death, there. Common folk starving or being killed by the loads, the high class posturing over each other on their sinking ship, vampires, werewolves, and the Black Hand running around...you're still young, kid. You've got a whole life ahead of you. It's not too late to ask me to go back."
Artalen hesitated. It would be easy, wouldn't it? To take his brother up on his offer and live in relative ease, its own problems aside. To be with the last of his family, and forget he ever made the fateful trip to the cursed valley. To leave it all behind.
He tugs off the glove of his left hand to look at the scar on his finger, and he rubs it briefly. For a moment, he wondered where that bird's head carving was, now, and if Fiona had ever gotten the blood off.
"It's okay, sir," he finally replies. "I'm still going to Sundren."
There's a snort towards the driver's direction, though it doesn't seem to be from the horses. "It's your life, kid. Though, if you don't mind me asking...why? You don't look the type to be a mercenary."
"I'm not, sir." He looks back out the window. "I'm looking for something, I guess."
"Any idea what? An artifact? Some lost family? Fame?"
"...I don't know."
He uncurled slightly and wiggled his own toes, then looked at Mother's own. He reached out to wipe some of the wood dust from her toes, but she didn't wiggle them. Mother never did much of anything, except make lots of wooden dolls. Artalen was still too small to peek over the top of the desk, but he knew that sometimes Mother would sit down with a block of wood, and lots of wood would fall off the top, and some time later she would stand up again, a wooden doll in her hand, and she would put it on a shelf along with many others. Sometimes Father or Brother would take a few dolls, and Artalen knew because Mother would either scream or lock the door and not unlock it until Father came up and talked through the closed door.
The rain of wood bits stopped and didn't start again. Artalen perked up, and watched from the hollow of the desk as Mother slowly got up, a wooden doll in her hand. It looked like a bird's head, but it was too far to get a good look, and Mother was already walking off to put it on an empty place on the shelf. Artalen knew a doll was there once, before Father took it to sell and make money.
Mother stood there for a moment, one hand on the doll, before turning back to shuffle towards the desk. Instead of sitting back down on the chair, she knelt down and held out her hands to hold Artalen.
Nothing in the world could have held his delighted giggles. While Mother paying attention to him at all was reward enough, Artalen tried not to make too much noise, feeling that it was a game between the both of them. Mother was testing him; if he laughed too loudly she would put him down and walk away, and not look at him for the rest of the day.
Mother and son held each other, and within the giddiness of simply being together, little Artalen nursed the wish that he could preserve this moment forever.
---
"You sure about this, kid?"
Artalen blinks and looks from the little window of the wagon towards the driver. "Sir?"
"You sure? Going to Sundren." The man turns back to click at the horses, who corrected their course. "Nothing but misery and death, there. Common folk starving or being killed by the loads, the high class posturing over each other on their sinking ship, vampires, werewolves, and the Black Hand running around...you're still young, kid. You've got a whole life ahead of you. It's not too late to ask me to go back."
Artalen hesitated. It would be easy, wouldn't it? To take his brother up on his offer and live in relative ease, its own problems aside. To be with the last of his family, and forget he ever made the fateful trip to the cursed valley. To leave it all behind.
He tugs off the glove of his left hand to look at the scar on his finger, and he rubs it briefly. For a moment, he wondered where that bird's head carving was, now, and if Fiona had ever gotten the blood off.
"It's okay, sir," he finally replies. "I'm still going to Sundren."
There's a snort towards the driver's direction, though it doesn't seem to be from the horses. "It's your life, kid. Though, if you don't mind me asking...why? You don't look the type to be a mercenary."
"I'm not, sir." He looks back out the window. "I'm looking for something, I guess."
"Any idea what? An artifact? Some lost family? Fame?"
"...I don't know."