Flashback A Pain so Utter

[Philomena]

497AV, Fall 32nd
The Catrabuch Home, Zeltiva
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//Deep breaths, Minnie. Deep breaths. Calm. Its just the market.//

In the best of times, Minnie Lefting did not like to go to market. Even as a child, isolation, quiet, had been the great luxuries for her and Lanie, and even their escapades took place in the quiet corners of the busy seething city. When one snitched one's dinner from the interstices, after all, one at least had the sumptuous pleasure of choosing one's interstices.

As an adult, this was all quite different. When one had work, and money, one's bread was... well, bread. Not crumbs snitched from ashheaps. The only comforts one could take in such straits were to at least make a rhythm of the trip, a ritual. Minnie's shopping trips were methodical and familiar, and she did not vary her meals. The days had not even yet come when she took meals at taverns and inns if she had too much work to cook and gather food. This was thrice-day: every third day, despite her discomfort, she forced herself to take a basket, and go to market for bread - she would have eschewed bread altogether, btu the bread seemed to help the pain in her weak teeth.

She could, then, have gone to a fine bakery in a better part of the city. But the keepers in those sorts of shops spent so much time patting and flattering, and wheedling and talking, it nearly drove Minnie mad. The people in the lower districts, these were people she understood.

So it was that, as chance would have it, Minnie, every thrice-day, found herself headed to the very bakery where she had once headed in the evenings to crawl beneath the oven surreptitiously and scrape the ash and crumb-scraps into a shard of broken crockery to gobble up with Lanie when she was a girl on the streets of the city. It was not the lowest sort of place, and not the highest: a good clean bakery serving strong, dark bread at a reasonable cost to those well enough off to have food to eat. The baker of her youth - a fine fellow, though an ogre in her mind for chasing them out of his lot one night with a long switch - was gone. It was run by a kind woman now: Goody Catrabuch. She was a fine lass - not far from Minnie's own age, and a good, quiet woman who knew how to say 'thank you' without making a damned speech out of it. Minnie almost knew her now, she had come here so long, though they exchanged few enoughu words. The woman knew just how to fill her order with the least words possible. She knew just how to squeeze the woman's hand commiseratively when old man Catrabuch - a lousy drunkard - left her with a brusie she couldn't quite hide behind pin sleeves and a high collar.

But, the bakery, today was closed.

Minnie took a sharp intake of breath.

Several of the town women stood nearby, and chattered animatedly. This was common enough, Minnie avoided these groups generally. Gossip had its uses, but in general, it left her feeling exhausted. But the bakery was closed.

The bakery was closed.

Minnie's eyes wavered behind her spectacles. Closed, how could it be? No, no, not today. She turned with a sort of bark-whimper to the women who stood there.

"Goody Catrabuch - where is she at? Where is she?"

The women turned with raised brows - this nervous woman, this could mean more gossip to share later. One of them, a pretty busy younger girl named Ardale spoke up.

"Mussy Lefting? Y' had nae heard? There was some sor' o' trouble wi' 'er girl!"

Minnie frowned. The 'girl' usually meant Catrabuch's youngest, a sickly thing she had never met. Natalie? No...

"Aye, tha's what I saw! Tha' lil' one o' theirs, she 'ad a middie in their all night, setting a bone, is what I'm told!"

"Setting a bone?" Minnie sput out. The girl was sickly, had always been from what she knew. But one didn't break bones when sick.

"Aye, a beating, I reckon, fromt he sound of it. 'ad some knucky-bruised eyes, too."

//No. no, no."

"How long will she be out?"

"Permanently, I reckon. Girly is gunny need a few months o' stitchery, and by then? I imagine old Man Catrabuch'll have drunk up any savings they 'ad"

Minnie took a gulping breath. And left without a word more.

//No, no, no. No. That damned drunken petchy-faced shyter isn't going to take my baker from me. None of that.//

A quick walk led her then to the door of the place. It was going on late afternoon - Minnie did not like to shop in the busy part of the day - and the house smelled of kelp and grit-meal, of cheap food. They were hunkering in. Minnie shuddered. this was stupid, she knew it. The Catrabuchs did not know her. They would be pissed to have some petching Uni shipper banging on their stoop. This would end badly.

But nonetheless, she closed her eyes, lifted her hand and banged hard on the door.

[Ana Sol Starris]

Behind the door of which Philomena was pounding on, was, to say the least, in a disarrayed mess of chaos. Voices started up that sounded like shouting, they dwithered down into unintelligble words as a stomping force of nature passed the door but did not open it- didn't even pause to look out the shoddy window. After a few moments of silence, a voice would ring out behind the wooden entryway, the door being pulled back to reveal a small girl that looked very much like her mother (otherwise known as Goody Catrabuch; strikingly blonde hair, and clear ocean blue eyes that sparkled when the light hit them.) She stared up at the old woman with questioning eyes before drawing away as another would come up behind her, the frustration evident in her voice. "Oreia, for Laviku's sake.." She breathed out, opening the door wider and then realizing who the woman was that had been banging at the door. "Mussy Lefting!" Nephile said in surprise, and then quite grimly "I'm sorry... The bakeries closed for a bit, had a bit o' trouble with the oven..." there was a shout behind her, another girls voice much rougher than her mothers but it was indeed feminine. Nephile looked behind herself, and then to Philomena "'scuse me," she turned her head back again "Liddy, don' go near that bedroom!" There was a crash, and then a squeel, a small blonde girl known as Neilles scurried frantically to hide in her mothers skirts despite having a broken arm and bruises covering her body. Would it have been easily noticiable that she was in pain, because of all the moving about she was doing? Her eyes were red with tears from the night before, when the terror had struck out. Another girl entered the chaos that was ensuing, seething with hatred, she had a black eye herself; one that stuck out cleanly against her pale skin, and matched the black hair she possesed next to hetrochromic gold and blue eyes. Her face was a nasty glare, making the freckles scrunch. "Mom, Neilles' was trying to climb the tree again! Honest." She sputtered as the girl would peek out from the skirts of a rather distressed older lady. If Nephile hadn't known better, she probably would have blown up at the tall, gangly girl that was her daughter "don' give me that Liddy, now go to your room- and stay there." She ordered the girl, quite obviously displeased with how this was going. Liddy gave her mother a nasty look before stomping off, back up the stairs the other way and Oreia, the other sister had dissapeared off somewheres, unaware to her mother. Neilles, now, she was small for her age because of the illness she was constantly put under pressure with, but she still looked like her mother by all rights, but not so much in regards to her eyes; honey in color for eyes and the brown freckles from her drunkard father. Her right arm was put in a sling, and bruises covered her face, and bruises were wrapped around her neck nastily as if someone had decided to put her in a chokehold. Would one would have been able to guess that Neilles' bruises and broken bones had been caused by the older sister and not her father? Despite his reputation. The small girl looked up to the strange older lady that was at the door, from the skirts- of course, before hiding under them again quite obviously frightened by something. Her mother stepped backwards, and opened the door a tad wider before scolding Neilles "you, young lady, need to git' back in bed- now, go, shoo! We don' want you sick again" She waved at the small girl, trying to usher her away from the door. Neilles looked up from where she had sat, eyes tearing up, she didn't want to go back to her room "No." She sharply stated, shaking her head childishly. Neilles tried to hide under her mothers skirts again, her mother looking back to Philomena as she side stepped and held her skirts to herself in an attempt to stop Neilles from hiding again "...I'm sorry, but there will be no bread today." "Mommy, dun' leave me, Liddys gunna eat me!" Neilles fretted to her mother in front of Philomena- fearing that perhaps she would be abandoned with her older siblings again. She seeked access to hide in the skirts, before giving up and pouting horribly with a look that could break the hardest of hearts. oocWoah..Don't mind the NPC's, did it more so for your interaction Philomena.

[Philomena]

Minnie's background has left her at something of a shortage of experience in the realm of inter family relations, so seeing the sudden sight of tumbling children and harried mother leaves her nervous. She Backs up a step on the stoop of the house, and her hand goes to the neckline of her dress, tugging and fussing at it. Her lips closed and opened, trying to find a center of equilibrium from which to address the woman at the door.

//Minnie Lefting! Wake up you petching gutterslut!the woman has more important business than you.//

"The girl! Natalie. Your youngest..."

These word flew off Minnie's lips with the awkward surprise of spittle after being punched in the gut. The surprise at her own speech showed very plainly in her narrow, weedy students face. She gaped twice, seeking words.

"Sorry... I... I... She can't stay here, while... She should naw stay here, Goody, if she is stitching up and there's trouble bout."

She turned alternative shades of red and pale in sequence, examining the word shed just spit out, realizing absently it was probably the longest sentence she'd spoken to anyone in three weeks, with how holed up shed been over her thesis. Speech felt almost foreign on her tongue. She frowns, but nods, still pulling nervously at her own neckline. Then offers up, " I am needing a baker, Goody, and you are needing a haven for the little uh, eh?"

This last was half a grunt, sodden with something between fear and humiliation.

[Ana Sol Starris]

Nephile seemed to stare at Philomena for a period of time, a look of gears turning and grinding about in her head, and Neilles- oh the silly girl, despite her injuries she was still fluttering about, unable to stand still. All it took was a stern look on her mothers part, and a hand to guide the child to her side in an awkward hug in front of the older lady, just to calm the girl down. Neilles looked up to her mother, as the older woman bit her lip as she weighed out the outcomes and possibly the consequences that could come with either letting Philomena baby sit her youngest- or not. The other two girls would be fine, Oreia with her miniscule art supplies, and Liddy out beating upon some poor sailor boy that got in her way (of course, the violent girl had been sentenced to a life in prison within her room for what she had done the night before.) But the matter was Neilles, the pivotal point of her problems currently. There was the matter of Gerron who was at the university now, working, or down at the bar, drinking, the mother eyed the university teacher warily as she spoke "aye, I do Mussy Lefting, been hard to get someone to watch her.." It was a simple enough response, with an eqaully simple question- to the mother it seemed to be a god send answering her prayers "I'm not one to turn down ones kindness, but the girls a handful, would you be able? I promise she's not the sort to go about breaking things" That all depended on Philomena, and Neilles with a rather short attention span for long term things (bar reading books, if she was able to get her hands on them.) Already, Neilles attention began to disperse itself looking between the two and exactly understanding what was going on, or what was about to happen- but still confused. She clutched to her mothers skirts as the woman began to move about, the mother disentangled herself from the girl and stepped out to the stoop, Neilles of course followed like a little sheep. "Girls, I'll be at the bakery if theres trouble," she called into the house before shutting the door promptly, leaving it unlocked. The small girl was so flustered at this, she hid behind her mother from the awfully strange lady that spoke in a random language; the one whos words seemed to be babbled, and messed up. Her mother tutted at her and reached to hold her hand, gripping it firmly, but not hurtfully as another could have made it seem to be "I'll fire up some o' your bread Mussy Lefting, may take a bit, but if you give me a bell or two it'll be ready." She gestured to the woman, and then began walking with a hobbling Neilles at her side. Neilles, what was she suppose to think about all this? Here was this crackpot old lady talking to her mother, and now she was being dragged to a place (despite loving it for the wonderful aromas fresh bread had) that was utterly boring to her because no one her age would come there and play with her. She was tired, cranky, and in pain because of her arm, and the bruises that stung every time she moved; she wanted nothing more than to sleep, but to sleep peacefully knowing her mother wasn't missing. Liddy, a shudder seemed to crawl through her body, oh how the younger girl loathed the idea of being alone with her now, but she still couldn't understand what had thrown the older one over the edge. Apparently it had been all Neilles' fault. Even though Neilles had little to do with her older sisters negative attention from their father, and the idea of money, oh, that was a terrible concept to place upon a five year old. The walk took little to no time at all, they passed people who shot them dirty looks because the girl appeared to have been violently beaten. When they would pass gaggles of girls, Neilles' mother would redirect the small child in a way that would hide her from the prying eyes, and the whispering gossip makers. Nevermind the gossip! Neilles was being allowed to walk outside, she was allowed a freedom, or rather a very constrained freedom that consisted of walking by her mothers side. Most times her mother would have been too worried to let her go out, for obvious reasons that the small girl could quickly fall ill, so this was quite a treat- and Neilles, despite being pulled into the bakery to sit on a stool anxiously while the other old lady waited for her bread to be done baking. She was put in a corner, in case of other customers catching sight of her. The silence was uncomfortable to say the least, and the waiting time unbearable for Neilles, if it hadn't been for her arm- she probably would have dozed off in that corner waiting to leave the bakery. Finally the torture ceased, and the three travelled off to where Philomena lived, once arriving- it was difficult to pry Neilles off her mothers skirts until finally trickery was used. Her mother dissapeared when Neilles wasn't looking, saying a brief goodbye to the older woman and heading back to the bakery. This of course, left a distraught Neilles in Philomena's care; indeed, Nephile was true to her word that Neilles wouldn't break anything, but on the other hand, she had not mentioned Neilles wouldn't sit still long enough, and was constantly looking around corners... and getting into papers, and books, and other things she could put her fingers into. Much like a child, yes. "Wheres mommy?" Neilles would ask Philomena, eyes wide, and a crack to her voice as the feeling of abandonment was clear "did you eat her?"

[Philomena]

When the mother and child arrive, Minnie Lefting was buried to the metaphorical neck in a logbook from a voyage to the city of the Akvatari. She had originally entered into this particular tangent to try to understand the basis of Akvatari-Zeltivan relations that led to the utter willingness of the Akvatari to man Wright's ship. But, she had become side-tracked by Wright's personal relationship with Imtapptendosin, the Akvatari who first greeted and recognized her. How common was it for personal relationships to occur between the Zeltivans and the Akvatari? She had seen few of the people of Abura in Zeltiva itself, though she had seen more than none. An Akvatari poet had come to University a few years ago and given several powerful lectures on meter as reflective of emotional content in common-tongue, and dialectical variations in the associations thereof. The combination of welcome and strangeness of the city - that one was so welcome in the guesthouse, but that Kenabelle Wright would have never left the docks - intrigued her, and made her feel, perhaps, she was misunderstanding something. The Akvatari had no need of ships - but did they find them beautiful perhaps? That was, perhaps a researchable question - there was some writing on Akvatari artwork in the library.

And then her thoughts collapsed at the knock on the door. For a full several beats, she froze, thinking it was the tailor downstairs. She felt sure she had paid her rent, and stayed silent, hoping the woman would go away. Slowly, her mind returned from Abura to her own skull with slow gradations of thought, until enough of a germ of short term memory was formed for her to recollect - she was expecting a guest.

The advent of a small girl into the flat of Philomena Lefting, in spite of her asking for her to be so delivered, left the woman confused and unsure. She mumbled questions to the baker, the sort of things she remembered needing to know when she had watched Shearsy the first few times. Silly things. What foods did she eat? Would she use a chamberpot if she needed to? Did she take naps? The humdrum of keeping the appearance of regularity in the child's day. She heard the answers, but her mind only half-processed them, still wandering damply through her half-melted thoughts. She told the mother she would keep the child for the weeks, showed her where the girl could sleep in Gypa's hammock. But she made these movements in a dream. More, she found herself staring at the little girl with hollow, scholar's eyes, wondering what she would look like as an Akvatari, wondering if Akvatari children were born with their wings, or grew them in childhood, wondering if they had to learn to fly as humans learned to walk. Wondering what the little girl's belly would look like if she was bound in only the chest band of an Akvatari.

Her mind returned to the room, as the baker started to speak to the little girl in louder instructions, started to back towards the door. Minnie found that, one way or the other, she'd found herself pulling a tin of cold kelp-fritters down from her shelf and lying them on a wooden trencher for the girl on her own bed. She tore off a lump of the fresh-baked bread. It was still warm, which was maddeningly rich to Minnie who, in general, bought her bread as cheaply an quietly as possible, slipping in, asking for old loaves. The scent of the crackling crust filled Minnie's mind with strange memories, and made her queer and uncomfortable. She thought of the Murder Man tearing white loaves to try to draw her and Lanie forward, found herself wiping her hands on her ink-stained apron, to remove the memory of ash-soot from them, from the scrounging days of her childhood. She put the lump on the child's plate, a large lump, and her mother sat the girl down to start to eat it, then signaled quiet to Minnie, and slipped softly out the door.

And then Minnie realized, she and been helping to trick the girl. And she felt, suddenly, very ashamed, and a little bewildered.

The girl asked her question, then, and Minnie stared back, puzzled. What could she say? Minnie Lefting had lied in her life, and would, she was sure, lie again. But lying was a tool to use against the wicked, against those who would not listen to true stories. This? Was a child. What would she say, if she had to tell the whole truth? Your mother snuck out because she knew you would not want to stay with me.

//Yes, Minnie Lefting, congratulations. You've broken a child's heart in order to have bread for your supper. You petching snipe.//

//A story, Minnie-Wren. Tell her a story. Stories are not lies, if both sides know they are stories. Then, they are better than truth.//

Minnie frowned, and went down on her haunches, still staring at the girl on the edge of her bed. It was not a long trip down, and their two bodies were not so terribly different. The child was so thin, and fragile, Minnie looked at her with a sort of holy terror. She was so broken, and what was Minnie to do? Minnie had stitched up a girl's heart that was shaped like this, once, many, many years ago, a girl named Philomena, tiny, bruised, with two unevenbraids and with scars all across her back, stitched her into a University student, stitched her into a quiet, peckish woman with an affection for books. But she had done a poor job, the gaps bulging where her stitches were not true, the heart beating raggedly against its half-healed parts.

//You cannot fix a heart, my little Wren, your catgut is too coarse. Only a story can make stitches so fine.//

The child's broken arm. The hiding her away - like exile. Exile. Exile was a beautiful word, a word one could be proud of if one wished to be. The girl, so thin, with the pale-pale skin, and the hands like frightened birds, If you wrapped her skirt like a winding cloth, if you…

"An Akvatari, yes, that's what you'll be."

She stumbled the words out, blissfully unaware that the child was not party to her long train of scattered thought.

"That's a good story. You like stories? Your mother says y' like to read, and I cannae imagine a little Qalayan not liking stories, non? You are to be here for awhile, now, while you are a-stitching. While things settle. Let us tell a story about it? We need a name for you, a good sweet-sad Akvatari name, and you may be an exiled daughter of the Akvatari, lost and wandering, and I shall be a little harbor that you rest in, I'll be… I'll be an old sea-wtich who takes you in, and keeps you, to make potions of your tears. An Akvatari name - they like to play with words. I had your name wrong, you are Nielles?"

She thought hard - the game, the story, started to wrap Minnie up inside of it, she was telling the sort of tale she thought herself into, in the lonely in-betweens, when she had laid in her narrow twilit bed and felt the hollow terror of alone - No, I'm not a flotsam-soul, I am the wren bird flying, looking for the Maiden shoulder on which I perch. No, I'm not a best-forgotten rag of a heart, I am a ghost so long possessing a body, I've forgotten it is not mine. And no, I am not a clumsy old bitch, petching the head of a little girl I've hardly met. I am the Wrenwitch, daughter of the sea, who takes the Moth-Maid-Akvatari in, and distills magic from her tears.

"Enslieln, the Moth Maid of the Akvatari. Do you like that name? You may be it, here, maybe. Perhaps, you and I, Ensli, shall write a book."

[Ana Sol Starris]

Neilles stared up at the hag that had taken her in, her mother having of abandoned her, drew her in to a cage with delicious food. As if she were nothing more than a dog trying to snap at the scraps handed to it, but the little girl was no dog, and nor did she snap when she became frightened. Instead she began looking for a way out with her eyes, as sometimes movement had been limited, or she was threatened when she began to move, because thats what clever Neilles always did. It hadn't been so much as mere slandering to her person that she would climb out a window and use the lone tree in the yard as a way of escape. She knew her home, all the nooks and crannies she could hide in when father became loud, drunken, and violent, or when her sister sought to harm her, usually she could anticipate her families meanderings about. Yet this... This was foreign territory. One child of five, soon to be six, a small girl that had to use her wit to see the sun outside, to smell the fresh air and to converse with children her age, younger or older, it didn't matter to her- all she wanted was adventure, and someone to share that adventure with. This place she had been dumped in smelled of old paper, musty, dusty, and wonderful, but the interior was not something she was familliar with, nor did she know this old hags patterns. Let alone if there were other people skulking about, if they were nice, or mean, smelly, and strict... She had no idea what to anticipate, and that scared her worse than being stuck alone with an old woman. Neilles' eyes watered up as the older woman would bring herself down to eye level, she wanted to cry to go home, and make sure mother was safe, and good. "An Akvatari, yes, that's what you'll be." The woman said, randomly to Neilles and taking her somewhat by surprise, questioning the older lady, as curiousity would never be marred by mere fear of ones surroundings "Akvahwahteri?" Nodding ever so slowly to the woman at the mentioning of storys, and indeed she loved to read, it wasn't often that she got to so it was a precious gift when her brother dropped off bookes for her at random. Sometimes she had trouble understanding them, and sometimes they made perfect sense, at other times he had mentioned he wrote some of the books himself just for her to read. Her brother had been the reason why she was able to read in the first place, and she treasured the skill, as well as being able to write, as scritchy scratchy as her writing was. Not even Oreia could write or read, nor Liddy, mainly because mother and father had little time to teach them, it had been just Neilles that learned. It was special to her. "Kwailer?" There was another word Neilles didn't understand but it was... Intriguing. To say the least of her inability to replicate the word verbally. "Aye, I'm Neilles.." Neilles said as the old lady asked her name. No- not the old lady, she was an ugly sea-witch but to Neilles the sea-witch didn't seem so terrible if she were to help the little girl with potions. There was a pause, and the small girl could feel the situation begin rolling up hill, an anticipation and excitement crawling into her childish body, and small bones, did the old sea-witch have something in plan for her? Something for her teary, bleary red eyes, that spoke of a stubborn sorrow mixed with a determined fire; a book. Writing her very own book? The look on Neilles face must have been ecstatic, from sad to glad in an instant, the 'Moth Maid' named 'Enslieln' could have broke out into a smile, skippishly giggling. Yes. She liked that name, it was funny, but not something she would realize to be an anagram. Ensli looked at the old sea witch with curious eyes, wide, and questioning- she still didn't know what a Akvahwahtari was "whats a Akva..wah..teri..?"

[Philomena]

The girl's growing interest and excitement had wonderful effects on Minnie, who took a deep inhalation and scrambled to her feet.

"I'll show you! I'll show you! Lie there, on the bed, yes, just a moment. I'll show you!"

She stumbled away, almost trips rushing across the room, pulling out a medium wooden box from beneath her clothes-rod. She trundled it open, digging through it quickly, snatching a few things out in flashes of color, then stood, pushing through the hanging clothes, yanking off a skirt, and throwing it over her arm. She turned then, and trundled back to the bed, a sea of blues and grays thrown over her arm.

She looked, then, and took the three steps to the bed, and looked into the girl's eyes with a sort of pale reverence, her eyes widening, just slightly. She set the clothes with a sudden delicate quiet, and just stared at the girl, "Alright… yes… yes. You look very pretty... Let's see… now, close your eyes. Nothing bad, nothing, I promise!"

Once the girl's eyes closed, Minnie knelt softly by the bed, and from the pile, she drew the skirt. It was heather-grey, herringboned wool with a soft worn nap. She lay it over her left forearm, and laid her hands on the girls calves so slowly and gently, it was almost creepy. Minnie voice rolled along meanwhile, and she was in full storytelling mode, now. Those words, though, perhaps give the wrong image. Most people who tell stories have learned a way of telling them that makes them entertaining to others, that consummates inside the listener's ear. Minnie, when she told a story she has begun to believe in, fell into a low alto, almost a contralto, then whirred and trilled that alto in a queer, electrically nasal way.

"Listen, listen, to the Wrenwitch, I will spin an Akvatari maiden out of you. The first, a Lady born of Akvatar, must have a tail, both soft and strong, and thick-furred-smooth…"

She slipped the wool skirt up the girl's calves, lifted up her slender thighs, slipped the skirt farther, lifted the girl's hips, and pulled the skirt full up to the child's waist, over top of her own child-skirt.

"The tail is like a seal, my child, and it draws you through the water. For you my girl are not a child of earth, no… no, not a child of earth. You, my child, are meant to be amongst the waves, foremost, your strong tail beating hard against the sea."

The skirt was long, but not too long, was wide, but not too wide, for Minnie was a smallish creature, of herself. Minnie took the excess waistline, tucked it underneath the child, then twirled the bottom of the skirt so that the cloth wrapped tight around her narrow legs, then took the hem and flared it outward, like the fins of a seal.

"And then your flesh, it is not fat, but warm and rich. You're meant to swim in waters thick with coming sea-salt ice, my child, and not feel frightened of your chilling blood."

She raised her hand then, touched the lower edge of the girl's blouse, and started lifting it, her ink stained thumb brushing ever-ever-ever so softly against the bare skin of her belly

[Ana Sol Starris]

Innocence was bliss, without a second thought Neilles looked over at the bed her babysitter pointed at, promises of storys and learning what an Akvatari was pushed her along to sit on the bed. There was some trouble at first, with her small body, but she managed to crawl ontop of the bed and lay there, a growing excitement for what was to come steadily sending her body into a jittery, chaotic, and impatient mess. Round, honeyed eyes, big and innocent always watching the stumbling babysitter gathering items, bouncing in her seat once or twice with a marvelling patience that Neilles never knew she had in the first place. She wasn't one to whine impatiently. Holding her breath at the command to close her eyes, she started to regard her babysitter with suspicion, it must have shown because no sooner than had Neilles been asked to close her eyes, the older woman reassured her. So she shut them, letting them flutter shut to greet the darkness of her eyelids, toes wiggling, she heard movement around her. Soft, quiet, nothing to startle the small girl into fear, it was almost a perfect setting. The creep of a hand on her calf made her freeze, grimace a moment before quietly telling herself that everything would be okay. It was a story, maybe the babysitter needed to use touch to explain better, biting her lip in a nervous way she listened to the story. Images rolled in front of her eyes, ever aware of the hand on her calf, she saw a beautiful girl, she saw the face first, but the upper half of her body was shrouded in uncertainity, as well as her lower half until the Wrenwitch said there was a tail. Did the Akvatari have animal tails? Only when Philomena slid the skirt up her legs and snugly around her waist did the picture begin to slowly complete itself. Instead of land animal tails, the beautiful girl had a fish tail but not, it was covered in fur just as the Wrenwitch said. It was a sleek and pretty thing, attached to the upper body of a human girl, or Neilles had to guess it was a human girl. In the little girls mind she imagined the Akvatari Maiden to be swimming through the water, gracefully, elegantly, and free. Neilles smiled at the freedom, unknowingly wishing she could be free too. It was an inwardly want and need, something she didn't have that she couldn't comprehend in the first place at such a young age. There was a shift in posture next to her, a hand was lifting her shirt up. No! Neilles' opened her eyes, orbs which trickled with salty tears, a small shaky hand stopped Philomena's from continuing for fear of a secret being found out. Secrets that were meant to be kept, clothes were a must, they were never to be taken off in front of a stranger. Ever. Her demeanor crashed and she began to whimper. "N-no, mommy said not to take it off.. Daddy would get mad.." Eyes begged for the hand to be taken away, hopefully letting that smidge of information wouldn't proove to be too catastrophic. She never understood why she was never suppose to let people see the bruises dotting her body, only that it would result in more pain, and trouble for her family. Neilles loved her family, she didn't want to see them hurt because of her.

[Philomena]

Minnie's eyes were far away, intoxicated - the word is appropriate, not in the loose metaphorical way in which it is usually used, but in its literal sense - the story, rich and thick, and a listener who does not mind her clumsy telling of it, combine into something potent, loosening, numbing, something that feels like freedom and release, with only the pale whisper of how much it will hurt when it wears off. Minnie's breath grew faster, her cheeks flushed, her lips warmer and redder.

The girl's hand, though, stopped, her, with an inaudible, sharp intake of breath. Story was story. Story was holy. But there were levels of that holiness, there were degrees. And this...

She knew that sort of frightened hand, for she had had that hand. She had had that shirt, that skin beneath the shirt. She had had those plump and frightened eyes in that hollow face, in her own, once hollow face.

In the storybooks, a sympathetic heart approached by the sufferings of childhood reacts with an immediate, straightforward heroism. In the storybooks, the risk is, after all, all on the side of the needy child. In reality, there is risk and suffering for both. Children know this, can sense the ramifications in their actions instinctually, in a way that we, as adults who must believe that things are never grey, have learned to hide from. Minnie was half a child - and once almost wholly been this child. But alone, without the father whispering in her ear. And her throat was sick with the sense of what the girl was risking, even by being emotionally vulnerable, much less by telling her secrets. And Minnie felt that urge to scoop her up, to save her, to wander her into somewhere safe. But she also knew what that meant. Knew the impossibilities of it, the complications. Knew how strange the relationship is that is based on continual pain. And she was, to be honest, frightened. For there was risk for her, real and palpable pain, in dredging up what lay beneath the girl's blouse, and her own.

And so she looked, her hand trembled a moment inside the girl's. Her eyes wandered down to the floor, the brow furrowing. Then, with a blush, she squeezed the girl's hand back, and with a timidity and childishness to match the girl's, met her eyes.

"I'm... sorry... we... we..."

She blinked, three times, closed her eyes, "We will pretend, we can pretend, hmm? We will pretend your blouse is skin, hmm? The ... secrets...."

She chewed her lip softly, and murmured, "Other's secrets... other's secrets are for keeping, if you swear it. But... but your own flesh, it belongs to noone but you."

The answer is obtuse, but even that, clearly, is more than Minnie is used to saying, her lips shiver slightly, the blush draining from her cheeks. She takes a scarf, bright, bright red, if a little stained with ink and oil, and wraps it over the child's bust, and back behind her then, like the wrapping of the Akvatari.
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