Flashback Childhood: Part 1

[Timshel]

3rd of Spring, 498 OOCThis first post is just stolen from my CS, but it sets the stage so forgive me. “Should we be worried?” Rhana pulled a blanket over the boy, who gave a loud snort between his otherwise steady and oddly baritone snores. Next to him, another boy was curled up in the fetal position, blanket already wrapped around him. “I'm afraid so. Timshel's only seven and already wheezes worse than big old Rahksha two tents over.” “You know what I mean. We're going to have to tell the, soon.” Kryshen was laying on their bed, divided from his son's by a large, linen tapestry between the tent. He pulled it back to study his wife. It was late in the evening, and she had taken off her tunic to air the full set of her arms. His eyes scanned over the curve of her neck to her shoulders. It gave off a smooth, graceful glimmer in the candlelight. As his eyes moved down to follow her top-most arms, he smiled. In this light he could have sworn they were made of copper, fleckless and toned down to her hands-- which were deftly tucking in their son for the night. His eyes stopped abruptly at the other two arms hanging by her side. Those two were pale and lank. He looked away. “They probably already know by now. Haven't they ever asked why your eyes are brown?” “Timshel has, and I told him the truth. I'm not a Benshira. But that's not telling him, Krys.” “He's just a boy, Rhana” “Whatever he doesn't know conciously, he'll grow to feel from the other tents.” “Feel? They've accepted us, Rhana! It would be blasphemy to project ill-will toward us now.” “Yet they have before.” “That was different.” As Kryshen watched his wife, he noticed how deep the lines in her face had gotten. How leathery her cheeks had become. She never wore any makeup, obsessed over creams, or dyed her hair anymore. But then Kryshen noticed the bracelet around her left fore-arm. His gaze lingered there. “You know... I was arranged to be married once,” he said with a grin. Rhana threw up her hands. All of them. “But I knew she wasn't the one. In my gut, I knew. I was meant for something else, you know? Someone else. A different path.” Kryshen smirked at his wife. Rhana sighed and gave a small smile before blowing out the candle by her son's bedside. She passed through the tapestry and lay next to him on their bed, staring into his grey-blue eyes. She ran her hand through his shortly-cropped beard. “And just look at how easy our lives have been since,” she said.

[Timshel]

4th of Spring, 498 “Cmon Timshel, that's mine!” Simrat bounded down the trail, leading towards the flat of grass where the the desert cows were grazing. Every step kicked up plumes of dust as he ran. Tears mingled with grime and turned to soft streaks of mud running down Simrat's face. “Mom said I could have the mango center,” he said. “Mom's not here,” Timshel replied, stopping. High above his head, Timshel held the fruit. He could feel its juice drip and dripple down his arm, runny at first, but the syrup quickly turned sticky in the sun. “Besides, you had it. It's not my fault you couldn't defend it.” “You're the one who took it!” Simrat had caught up to him now, gasping for breath and hands on his knees. His face scrunched as he tried to stand tall. “I gave you a whole extra piece for the center-- you agreed,” he said, jumping up to reach the high-held fruit. He was a head shorter than Timshel, and his arm wouldn't reach. Instead, all that Simrat did was rub and bump his sweaty self against Timshel's chest. Timshel pushed him off. Simrat fell backward, his lower lip growing big, quivering but held in check by his tightly clenched jaw. Slowly, he pushed himself up onto one knee and placed a fist on the dirt for balance. He wiped one of his tears with his other hand, leaving a muddy streak across his cheek. Timshel brought the piece of fruit down to his chest, watching. He tilted his head before slowly bringing it up to his mouth-- and taking a bite. Simrat first screamed, then charged. He kneeled, then ran himself straight into Timshel's gut. Timshel gasped. The choice piece of fruit slipped out of mouth. Timshel tripped, landing hard on his back, his neck and head snapping to a sudden stop against the ground. Momentary darkness clouded his vision. On top of him, Simrat was trying to wrench the rest of the fruit free from his hand. His fingers laced around the exposed mango, scratching and clawing it from Timshel's grasp. Timshel's hand was slipping. Simrat's full body weighed down on his stomach; he could barely breath. Finally, Simrat pried the fruit from his grip and rolled of. He held the fruit high, laughing and clutching it to his chest. By then the fruit had been mangled, mauled from their fight. It stuck were Simrat held it, like a deformed slug, sticky and covered in sand, but Simrat didn't notice. He cupped what was left of the fruit carefully in his hands and began sucking on the top of it-- granules and gravel and all. Timshel sat up, rubbing his head. Simrat watched him, still sucking and grinning. Timshel glanced over at his little brother, giving him a small push on the shoulder. “Nice hit, Simmy,” he said. Simmy's smile grew wide. Juice covered his chin and his teath were meshed with mango pulp, gleaming bright orange between his canines in the sunlight. “Thanks,” he said.