Flashback A Day Remembered

[Keene Ward]

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The seventeenth day of spring, 500 AV

"And when a reimancer produces too much res?"

Keene stood in the middle of the floor, one foot extended slightly out to support a stone the size of his hand, the other planted firmly on a wooden stool. Both hands were extended to keep his balance, and each hand held a stone of about the same size as the one on his foot. Sweat dribbled down the sides of his face as his arms and legs shook from the strain of having to support the extra weight. His eyes focused on an irregularity in the wall that looked similar to a particularly nasty bruise he'd sustained from falling off of the roof - though the fall had been a bit more of a push. Teeth clenched, Keene hissed in a breath, wobbling on the stool. "O-Overgiving?" There was a stretch of silence, during which his doubt was allowed to fester. Not wanting to be wrong and receiving little hint from Mella's frustrated breathing, Keene ventured another guess. "...Under...taking?" Immediately after he said it, a pebbled shot across the room slapping him directly the forehead. For a brief moment, in spite of the flap of his arms, Keene believed he would remain upright. That moment passed when he slammed into the floor, the air rushing from his lungs in a surprised squeak.

"Wrong, petcher."

From his vantage point on the ground, Keene could only see the ceiling and the little flashes of light that had popped up when he'd hit his head. Blinking in a daze, he lolled his head towards the condescending voice, his grey eyes searching out its source. The landed on the red headed frown of a woman who sat with crossed arms and fiery eyes. With a soft groan, he pushed himself up, propping himself up with the stool he'd upset when he'd fallen. "It's not overgiving or undertaking? What is it?" The natural reaction that most might have chosen over curiosity was decidedly lacking in his voice.

The woman rolled her eyes, a frustrated sigh dropping from her lips. "It was petching overgiving." Keene squinted, his lack of understanding evident. Mella raised a brow at him, a flash of malicious pleasure glinting in her gaze. "Did I ever say you were wrong, you little petching vagik?"

"...oh." Keene pulled himself onto the stool, rubbing his forehead with a frown.

"Stop rubbing it." Mella's command was quickly responded to with the hand being shoved into his pocket, the throbbing pulling a few beads of moisture from his eyes as he obeyed. "Gods. I pecthing swear the god's cursed you to grow at half the pace of all the other petching vagiks." Mella rubbed her eyes, a weary sigh wracking her powerful frame before she slumped back into her chair.

"They did?" A tinge of concern colored Keene's voice, his eyes wide wide worry.

Mella rolled her eyes. "Petch if I know." Keene's frown deepened. "How old are you again?"

Keene blinked. "I don't know."

"The petch can you not know how old you are?" Mella's irritation was reaching critical levels once more, but Keene had no access to the salve to calm her.

"I... don't know?" There weren't many words available to him to express his lack of understanding in any other way.

A moment passed during which the large vein that tended to pulse just before emotional outbursts swelled to a point where Keene thought it might explode. A half tick later, she immediately lost all steam to stare at him with an incredulous loosening of her jaw. "Oh shyke. I never explained petching birthdays." Keene raised a brow, but by the time his face moved to make the expression, Mella had already burst into a fit of acidic laughter. "I didn't think there'd be a point, but-" She continued on for about a chime, the uncomprehending stare of the young boy eying her with concern. She was an emotional woman, but mirth was not her usually modus operandi when it came to displaying them. He waited patiently until she'd finished, the fast forming bruise on his head complimenting the tinge at his cheeks and ears. Pulling in a few breaths, Mella finally addressed him. "Alright. Let's try again. What year were you born?" The mirth still bounced in her voice, but the question was serious.

"...I don't know." Keene's eyes were wide and easily reflected the confusion in Mella's own.

"You-" She stopped, pressing her lips together in thought. "You don't know when you were born?" Keene shook his head. "Well petch." Keene wasn't sure why Mella was so concerned with the year he was born, but he figured it was something important. "Alright, let's..." Mella rose up from her chair, plodding over to one of the desks filled with documents. Rifling through them, she began muttering to herself, tossing the documents aside. Keene hopped from his stool, padding over to the discarded papers and collecting them, tucking them into the crook of his arm. He found it enjoyable, chasing after the papers and adding them to his growing stack until a loud shout of triumph followed by the slamming of hands upon wood startled him, sending the papers back down to the ground in a flurry. Whipping her head around to face him, Mella was quick to hiss a, "Pick that shyke up." before grinning back down at the specific document she'd been searching for. "Four. Ninety. Three." She stabbed the papers with her finger on each word before grinning back at Keene, who had scrambled to gather up all the papers he'd dropped. "That's when you were born! You're seven petching years old."
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[Keene Ward]

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Keene blinked. "Is that old?"

"Petch no." Mella raised a brow at him, her anger clouded by her sheer disbelief in her little clone's lack of intelligence. "You're seven. Petching. Years. Old."

"Am I growing at half the rate?" The concern in Keene's voice was evident.

"No you-" Mella threw up her hands. "I wanted a petching assistant and they give me baby shyke for brains. Gods."

Keene set the papers on the desk, before giving Mella a confused frown. It seemed to be the expression of choice. "Do I really have shyke for brains?"

Mella was quick to slap him across the face. "Don't say shyke." Stumbling back, Keene pressed his hand against the sting of the strike, holding back his tears with a few sniffles as Mella continued. "And no, you don't really have shyke for brains. You just petching act like it." Blinking to keep the water in his eyes, Keene nodded. It was relieving to know that fecal matter was not the primary source of his thoughts. "Alright," Mella turned to face him, pressing her weight down on the hand placed firmly on the desk, contrapposto. "So we're just gonna say today is your petching birthday. Yay. You're seven." She waved a hand in the air as if she'd cast some sort of spell.

"...I thought I was already seven?"

"Right. Well, you weren't, but you are now because it's your petching birthday."

"What's a birthday?" Keene's curiosity had numbed the pain on his forehead and cheek for the time being.

"It's the day you were petching born, what do you think it is?" Mella's irritation was quickly rising back to critical levels. She had a fair point, however. Basic etymology dictated a "birthday" was exactly what it sounded like, though Keene was also a recently denoted seven-year-old who had yet to experience the episodic prerequisite to fully understand the meaning of it. "Alright. What's today?"

"The seventeenth."

Mella gave him a roll of her eyes. "You know the petching day, but you don't know when you were born?" Huffing an agitated rush of air, she shook her head. "Shyke." Snatching the papers from the desk and stuffing them back into where she'd pulled them out from, Mella continued. "So... What. Eight more years?"

"Eight more years until what?"

"Until I can petching initiate you." Mella gave him a look similar to that which she saved for the most brainless of questions. "Gods, it's also petching questions, questions, questions with you." In the process of her complaints, she noticed the mess of rocks around the stool Keene had previously occupied. "Go pick that shyke up!" Quick to comply, Keene hurried over to the debris, collecting up the rocks and pebbles in his shirt before pulling open the door to toss them out. "And get back on the stool, we're not done!" Pushing the door shut with a small clunk Keene nodded, though there was little excitement in his face. Climbing back on the stool, he placed both feet squarely on the seat, giving Mella an expectant gaze, eyes bright beneath the purplish bruise on his forehead and reddened cheek. "When's your birthday?"

The question was presented casually, but Keene knew better than to think any question she asked any less important than any other. "The seventeenth." A pause passed between them, Mella's expectant stare turning harsher by the tick. Quickly running through what had been said only a few chimes before, Keene blurted out a, "Four ninety three?"

"Foot." Keene lifted his foot from the stool, sticking it out to the side with a confused frown. Mella's frown was much more stormy. "It's not your petching birthday every seventeenth. It's in the petching spring." Keene found the explanation for his wrong answer understandable. If it was the day he was born, he figured it was pretty unreasonable for him to have been four times in a year, though he wasn't really sure what "being born" meant. From the sound of things, he assumed it was a one time sort of thing. "How old are you?"

"...Seven?" Mella drew a heavy breath in through her nose. Keene, having had to have been corrected on a myriad of occasions to answer with conviction if he knew the answer quickly reiterated, "Seven."

His response was taken with a nod. "The Nader Canoch for 'idiot'."

Keene blinked. "I don't know." Immediately after, he instinctively flinched, but no rock came. Giving Mella a confused tilt of the head, he was giving the customary eye roll.

"If I haven't petching taught you, how are you supposed to petching know?" The question was a little confusing considering there was plenty she expected him to know without ever telling him. Unsure whether it was a question or not, Keene opened his mouth, but a hand quickly raised in irritation kept him quiet. "Rhetorical. Petch."

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[Keene Ward]

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Seven larger stones, twenty-eight pebbles, and five tumbles later, the sixth fall from the stool and subsequent whoosh of air leaving his lungs marked the end of the day's training. On top of his sharp gasps for air as little stars danced about his vision, Keene sniffled in between breaths, his nose running, the little trail of mucus complimenting his wet, rosy cheeks. Crying had started about halfway through once they had resumed. It wasn't that he was sad so much as that the pebbles really hurt. Crying was the body's natural reaction to pain. There was a weakness to it, sure enough, but Mella had told him - shouted rather - that with time his body would adapt to it and the tears would cease to fall. In the three years that had passed, there had been minor improvement. Getting hit with rocks, especially where he had bruises, still hurt. And even at the age of seven, Keene was fairly certain it would continue to hurt, forever. He still held firm to the idea that his tears would eventually cease, however, as he rarely, if ever, doubted Mella's words.

Sucking in air through his nose, Keene pushed himself up, wincing as he did so, a small hiccup from his most recent outburst wracking his diminutive frame. Mella sat in her chair, lacing up her boots and muttering to herself. Keene watched, reddened grey eyes blinking back his body's desire for more tears. The bruise on his forehead was the most generous contributor to his discomfort, but there were plenty of other dark marks spanning most of his exposed skin and some concealed. Mella glanced up, growling a terse, "Pick that shyke up." Keene obliged, wobbling to his feet to begin collecting the mess of rocks and dirt that littered the floor around the stool. "We're out of petching bread; I'll be back in a bell." She wasted little time in stomping to the door and slamming it behind her, the force sending a ripple through Keene's body as his wide eyes watched her go. Setting back to his last given task, Keene gathered as many rocks as he could, dropping them into a make-shift basket using his shirt, clutching the hem to keep the rocks contained, before waddling to the door to toss them outside. The area around the door was noticeably more gravelly than the building's cohorts, a testament to the years spent clearing the rocky debris from its interior.

The task took him a good while, as his shirt was small and his legs were already weary from the seemingly endless balancing act he'd been subjected to. Once the brunt of the mess was cleared, Keene padded over to a corner of their house, fetching a broom that had been chopped in half. He'd done it himself, a year back, using the axe they had for chopping kindling. The handle had been too long and unwieldy for his diminutive height to handle, so he had altered the tool to better suit him. Mella had gone into a rage over it, but the anger had faded with the realization of its usefulness. Of course, she also informed him that when the time came for a new broom, Keene would be the one purchasing it. The concept of money was still a bit shaky in his pocketed child philosophy, but he had accepted the burden with gravity upon Mella's information. Actions had consequences, this was something he had learned since before he could remember. If the consequence of chopping up a broom was buying another one at some point in the future, Keene was willing to pay it.

Using both hand placed firmly about the handle, Keene began to sweep up the dust and bits of rock, starting from one corner of the house and working his way towards the door. He was not the best broomsman, but the larger, more noticeable particles eventually found their way either out the door or into the crevices in the floor boards where they were to remain indefinitely. Breaks were common when it came to sweeping, the motion of the straw against the wooden floor quickly exhausting him, even more so in his state. Shortly after having done a satisfactory enough job, the sun began to set, the golden hues peeking through the window to illuminated the dust filled air. He stared at the rays, clearly defined as they filtered through the mottled glass of the window. His hands passed through the ephemeral light, unable to affect it in anyway. It was so delicate and beautiful, but it faded quickly to grey as the sun passed the horizon. As darkness began to creep in, Keene stayed where he was, staring at where the light had been only chimes before, wondering where it was the light went when the sun went down.

It wasn't long before the door was sung open and Mella stomped back into the room, an elongated loaf of bread in one hand and a linen wrapped package in the other. Tossing both onto their main table, she stormed over to the icebox, muttering expletives as she rummaged around. Keene remained quiet, padding over to the table to investigate the bread and the mysterious bundle. "Don't petching touch anything!" Though she had not turned round, Mella's awareness of Keene's desires were as sharp as ever. Backing slightly away from the table, Keene contented himself to stare at the linen, sniffling and gingerly rubbing a bruise on his chest. Mella, in the meantime, had withdrawn cheese, some pumpkin, and jerked fish, her heavy steps leading her back to the table where she dropped the food beside the bread. A particularly loud snuffle drew a fiery frown as she turned to face him. "Stop making that petching sound!" Keene blinked, furiously rubbing his nose to keep himself for further offending her. "Now sit down." She pulled a chair out into which he crawled obediently. She ripped a section of the bread off, setting it in front of him. A hunk of fish followed by some crumbles of cheese followed, finished with a chunk of pumpkin. "Eat."

Keene obeyed, popping the cheese into his mouth before taking a bite of bread, methodically chewing before nibbling on the fish and turning his attention to Mella, who had approached the meal in a similar fashion with more brutish portions. Making sure to swallow the fish in his mouth before speaking, Keene turned his gaze to the package, "What's-" Mella slammed her free hand on the table. The action quickly cast the two of them back into silence as they finished their meal, the crunch of the bread and snap of pumpkin the only sounds that passed between them. Keene kept his eyes focused forward avoiding the subject of the package until his food was gone. Slowly, he let his eyes slide back to it, examining the tightly wrapped bundle. He ventured a glance and Mella, who gave him a frown in return, though she made no move to keep him from asking. "What is it?"

She picked it up and unceremoniously dropped it in his lap. "On your birthday, you get a petching present." Keene raised a brow at the strange ritual. "Petch if I know why. I'd forgotten about it until today." She gave him a stern, burning frown. "This is the only petching thing you're getting from me though. Any more birthday presents you're getting yourself, got it?" Keene nodded his understanding. He doubted he'd be getting many gifts for himself; it wasn't very practical. Still, he felt a strange sort of warmth in his stomach as he fiddled with the twine keeping the sack shut. He'd never received a present before, and he had to admit it was exciting not knowing what was inside. He supposed that was one of the main reasons buying his own seemed a bit silly. If he got something for himself, he'd know what it was and the surprise would be ruined. Not wanting to dampen the one and only present he'd ever receive from Mella, Keene pushed the thoughts out of his head as, at last, the strings came free.

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[Keene Ward]

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There, nestled within the folds of the fabric, was a collection of nuts and dried fruit. Keene peered down at them, a curious squint as he appraised his gift. Mella grunted, a raised brow of her own. Keene turned to face her, his lips turned up in a happy grin. "Thank you!" Mella grunted, standing up from her chair in favor of the one at her desk. "Clean up that shyke and get ready to sleep." As she spoke, she sent little flicks of res to illuminate the now nearly dark interior of their home, the sparks catching fire to the wicks of candles around the house. Carefully replacing the tie, Keene gingerly tucked his present into his pocket before gathering up the food and putting it in the proper places.

Once that was done, he padded over to the chamber pot, relieving himself. Bladder emptied, he washed his hands and face in the water basin by the door before making his way to his mat on the floor at the foot of Mella's bed. Removing his shirt, he folded it neatly beside his straw stuffed mat. Withdrawing the linen sack from his pocket, he placed it carefully on top of his shirt before stretching out on the straw-stuffed canvas. In spite of his bruises, it felt good to lie down and stretch. He wiggled into a more comfortable position, drawing his quilt up over him to protect against the bit of nip in the air. He turned to pick up a book that sat off to the side, a half-melted candle beside it. Picking up the leather bound tome, Keene turned his attention to Mella, who was now busily scribbling down things in her notes. When she was working, she was not to be disturbed under any pretense.

Pushing the quilt off of himself, Keene quietly sat up, lifting the candle from the ground before tiptoeing toward the nearest source of flickering light. He was light enough that his movements made little noise as he passed over the sturdy floorboards, and once he lit the candle, he quietly made his way back to his bed. "Fifteen petching chimes." The warning was issued by the woman at her desk, but Keene was quite aware it was meant for him in spite of her lack of address. Setting the candle on the ground beside his bed, Keene once more bundled himself up in his blanket, turning on one side as he opened the book and settled into his nightly reading. It was a poetry book, one that was simple enough he could read the words, though the meanings of the lyrical verses were a bit beyond him. He liked the way it flowed off of the tongue, and while he had read it several times over, he still enjoyed revisiting old passages.

A songbird stood upon the sill,
Its bright red plumage ruffling soft.
It uttered out a single trill,
Before once more it drew aloft.

I sat and watched it fly away,
That brilliant feathered crimson beast,
Yet one red feather still did lay
The remnant pointing towards the east.

That was the way the bird had flown,
Its journey not yet at its end.
Yet I wondered, could it have known,
I thought of it a passing friend?

Keene closed the book, the image of a bright little bird flapping through his mind as he yawned, carefully setting the book by the candle. He reached for the sack, pulling over to him and peering inside. There were little red berries that had been dried that stuck out vibrant against the earthy hues of the nuts. He imagined them similar to the bird in the stories, wondering if they too were "passing friends". Retying the parcel, Keene blew out the candle, tucking the bag next to him as he turned onto his back, letting his eyes shut. He was weary, but he had found the day to be much more exciting than the average one. He had been given not only a birthday but a gift as well. Though he knew Mella had no more such things to give, he found that single day, the seventeenth day of spring, five hundred years after the Valterrian to be of particular import. As he drifted off into dreams of crimson birds and soaring skies peppered with clouds of almond and specks of dried cranberries, the small, warm feeling in his stomach spread out over him, carrying him gently into sleep.

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[Zandelia]

Keene :

Skills
Endurance – 2
Observation – 3
Interrogation – 2
Cleaning – 2
Reading – 1

Lores
My Birthday: Spring 17th 493 AV
Mella: Unconventionally Cruel
Mella: A One Birthday Present Woman
Poem: The Songbird

Notes :

Good thread, bittersweet history. Nostalgia! My present? Your birthday knowledge. Keep it up!

Any questions or concerns please PM me. As always, keep writing!