Season of the Winter, Day 40, 498 AV
They clung to the rock like leeches. Her father had snaked his arm around Candira's shoulders, holding her close. His large presence comforted the small girl, and she convinced herself that she wasn't afraid, that this was fun, that the empty ocean behind her did not exist, that breathing was not difficult. Her thoughts turned to her black obsidian rock, settled comfortably in her messenger bag. Candira chased her daydreams with grateful happiness, as she realized thoughts distracted her from the bells of waiting.
Why was the boiling taking so long? The young girl felt like she was cooking, inside and out. But this is different!
Imagine what her friends will say when she held up the rock treasure, or when she regaled them with her volcanic adventure. Will they be jealous? She hoped so.
But what she really wanted was a conch shell: majestic and pink, sitting proudly on her designated shelf. Her father once said, if you blew into the shell above the water, it created a deep sound. 'Like a whale, calming and powerful,' he said. But the man refused to let anyone but himself - and occasionally his wife - touch the treasure, and Candira was left to stare in greed at the piece.
She would do the same. She will do the same, with her rock, and let no one touch it. Perhaps she should fashion it into a necklace. Her sister had one: a faceted rock consumed by fingers of coral, hanging heavily from her thin neck. Candira was never one for jewelery, but if she could wear her find ... Everyone could see it!
Maybe she should fashion a crown for her seahorse. When she got a seahorse, that is. Candira wanted that, too, so she could decorate the beast in pearls and coral. It was a good thing they would learn intricate coral manipulation, she reasoned. The young girl's imagination held so many beautiful ideas, and her mind wandered into the far reaches of invention and design with the fervor of a child.
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Her fingers slipped from the rock, and her father whipped his leg and arm around, catching the limp girl. "Candira?" he hissed, clutching his daughter. "Candira!" The Charoda did not move, save for the fluttering gills and twitching eyes. Her small body had given up under the pressure and the heat, and her mind had escaped from the discomfort of the depths.
He was wrong to bring her here. The man should have thought about his daughter's safety, instead of letting excitement at teaching her a new skill. Candira was his favorite, by far, and he pampered her more than the other children. To look at her, in such a state, at his own doing, was torture.
What was he thinking?
The man twisted, using his head limbs to hold the girl to his back. He scaled the wall, more quickly than was safe. Hand, foot, reach! He moved quickly, jumping and swimming when he could not find decent hand holds. The water buffeted him, and more than once he slammed painfully against the sharp rock. But the father had a mission, a goal, and he would not be deterred. His daughter would not suffer, not at his hand! He had to get out of the hot water, back to the shallows. Forget the food, forget the teaching; ignore the danger; just swim, swim, swim until his legs and arms ached and his gills flared with the effort of breathing.
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