Siru’s Journey | elMyumier'tir | The Law of Myumier

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Vihai’sae Valleian

Whispering Waters

Caras Siol, Caurost

Date

11th of the Deep Cold

Year 285 of the Second Age

 

Publisher

Isilmelire ‘Aduiladyr’ Acal’Turrii

 

Spoiler

 

Siru’s Journey

The girl ran through the streets of Caras Siol without a worry in her mind, bounding over stone and moss with a toy in hand. Its little wings jolted about in the air; detailed scales carved into ivory wood. Bound by a thread that had been woven through its inner bits. 

 

A name was called by a voice, welcoming and warm in the light of the sun, “Siru!” 

 

Siru came to a stumbling halt, her gaze of gold turning back along the path she’d crossed in haste. At the forefront of her attention stood a woman of pride, her shoulders square and posture strong. Her hair gleamed in the sunlight, the heated hues of a fire, orange hair bound in a loose braid. 

 

Barely any time had passed before the girl began her trek back, bobbing along, her ginger waves drooping about her dome like a mushroom grown upon a tree. Eagerly approaching the warm embrace of her rather tall mother. Though perhaps it was her size that tricked her, a thing of three feet and eleven inches in height. Anything else seemed comparably bigger. But this was not a deterrent; rather, it felt safe and welcoming. 

 

Her hair was combed with a gentle hand as she made to acquaint herself with her mother's knees, “You wished to visit the training grounds, ti?”  Came the cozy voice, the girl’s gaze lifted to find their gaze amidst the glinting light of the sun above. A smile ever gleaming upon that chubby face. 

 

“Ti, haelun,” She chirped, separating from her mother's legs only to acquaint herself within the hold of their callused palm. Her own, dwarfed by theirs, but this was a comparison she found comforting as if she was within the taloned grasp of a gryphon, its warm wings encompassing her. It drew her back to a memory of a not-so-distant past, of when she was nestled within her blankets, her mother sitting near. So close, as she’d always been.

 

Her hands resting ‘pon a book with many pictures adorning the cover and interior. It was her favorite story. Her hands thrummed with a golden energy, pulsing and twitching as an image rose from the page.

 

At first it was small, and then it grew. A taloned beast of epic proportions, gleaming and gold, felt like a hearth on the cold night as it nestled by her side. Leaving no impression upon the fabric, nor shadow or gleam. A figment of something that was not really there. 

 

“And so the gryphon drew close,” Her mother said, narrating the written words, “Nestling tight with the knight after the victory had been won, and at last his eyes shut, the strain of war dimming to dull relief.”

 

Their wander continued forth as her thoughts returned from the depths of her mind. Feet tapping along the peacefully quiet streets of Caras Siol, a city of immeasurable warmth.

Training Grounds

Wood scraping against wood could be heard from, the clamour growing louder as both mother and daughter walked hand in hand to the sparring grounds. The girl buzzed with excitement, her toy dragon clutched firmly in her chubby clutch—a symbol of dominion, a gift from her father.  

 

As they reached the entry, her mother turned to the girl, kneeling at her side with a proffered hand. “Give me Barnabus, Siru,” She cooed softly, smile as affectionate as could be. Her golden eyes were a welcome respite, as they’d always been for the child. 

 

She nodded, once and then twice, in the eager way a child would, the small creature extended to her mother, dangling loose now from her grip. “Van’ayla,” The child chirped to the toy as it transferred hands. Nestled within her mother's grasp.

 

At that, Siru was ushered forth from her mother’s guard, “Find your maln!” The woman called her daughter, stumbling forth into the training grounds. Her shoulders hunched briefly as she shuffled forth. 

 

The girl’s pulse continued to rise, eyeing the children about her in dismay. She was reminded now of her size amidst the others on the sparring grounds. Beads of sweat dripped down from her forehead as the welcoming rays became a harsh glare. Her excitement had faded into a dull anxiety.

 

After a few heartbeats had passed, the girl wandered forth. Heart panging in her throat, feeling similar to the sound of a war drum. Her footfall was quiet and filled with trepidation; she wandered now without the shelter of her mother’s frame. Shrunken to the size of an ant in the view of those she did not know. 

 

A heavy hand found her shoulder, the loud chatter dulling. Siru’s eyes lifted to find a wrought iron chestplate, the green surcoat familiar. It was her father, or so she thought.

 

An unfamiliar voice came from the enormous figure, “Andria, your oem’ii is here, Siru,” He called, pitching forward to look upon her. White hair bound in a braid slipped over his shoulder. Gleaming eyes of silver shone in the moon’s light. He smiled a crooked smile, his features warm with an affectionate regard for the child.

 

Her eyes widened as the unfamiliar became recognisable. It was her uncle, whom she’d only known with his helmet on. “Ibar!” She squealed, smacking a hand against his chestplate in a joyous glee. “I want to spar, haelun told me I could!” 

 

The girl’s father emerged from behind the mali’fenn, holding loose in his grasp a new sword, made of wood and fitted to her height. Her eyes brightened with glee, as if the anxiety she had mere moments before was an affliction of a distant past. She outstretched her hands to grasp it. “You’ll be sparring Nyros,” He informed, his words firm and without room for question. 

 

A boy around her age, though taller and lithe. He donned a tunic of green, his raven hair bound by a ribbon much like her mother's, and pale eyes like a lemony cream. He was familiar to her in a despicable way. An arrogant brat born of a proud father. She bared her teeth at him in disgust. And in turn, he stuck out his tongue. A mocking gesture that enraged the girl.

 

Siru’s emotions were an odd thing, so young, they waxed like the phases of the moon in any given situation. This was no exception, especially not in the face of a miniature tyrant.

 

Her father’s hands grasped both shoulders, tugging them forth towards a spare area where they may spar. Nyros followed with glee, whereas the joy and excitement once shown by Siru had faded into a feral indignation. Her feet dragged along the soil, displacing it. 

 

Only when she’d been dropped on her hind did she rise and prepare herself—a grimace formed upon cherubic cheeks.

 

Standing as her father had taught her the night before. She grasped the wooden handle with her small hands, eyeing Nyros in his stance. She sought to adjust accordingly. The girl’s golden eyes were duller in spark, her nerves commandeering their earlier stillness.

 

Barely had the word “Commence” sounded before Nyros’ feet could be heard against the dirt. Within a second, her blade rose to defend against his encroaching strike, only to miss. His wooden blade struck her in the left side of her abdomen. 

 

“Agh,” cried the girl as she hit the ground with a thud. Tears like pin pricks rose from her eyes, only to slide down her cheeks and mingle with the tracks drawn by sweat and grime. She attempted to rise, only to be hit with a well-placed kick to the nose, sending her head back towards the soil. 

 

Hitting the dirt again, a cloud of brown speckled the air, settling on once pristine attire. Her eyes welled with tears, blurring her vision, mingling with the blood that wept from her nose. Absent was her mind from the murmurings of her father to her adolescent peer. 

 

Andria watched on with a glint of worry settling in a typically dull gaze. Though they bore a hue similar to the setting sun, rarely did emotions show so strongly on the thill’s visage. “This is how you treat your allies, tiny ser?” Came his lowered voice. At first, the boy's features spasmed in discomfort, a grimace forming before he nodded. Pale gaze shifting to the girl. Waiting.

 

Nyros’ attacks had ceased for the time. Her bruised skin strained with discomfort, eyes heavy from tears. With a groan and a gasp, she forced herself up into a seated position, ready to resign if not for the words spoken by her father. “Rise up, child, like the Knight.” And so she did, her pretend sword held within shaking hands. 

 

Nyros’ gaze, which had held the ire of an impetuous brat when first he swung his sword, was filled with a mixture of regret and embarrassment. Nonetheless, he drew forth. Sword arcing towards hers, a gentler swing. Allowing her to shunt the strike. 

The End

Many more strikes would land before the two grew weary, muscles strained, and sweat dampened their tunics. Of course, Nyros had won the spar, but not without a modicum of grace for his smaller peer. 

 

Siru sat on the ground with a thud; the dirt already displaced by the many scuttling feet bore one more mark from her rump. Her cheeks flushed from exertion. Hair flattened to her head and dirtier from grime and sweat. 

 

She sat for only a heartbeat before two hands brought her into the air, golden eyes meeting with a crown of white. Soft like feathers. Her head lulled to the side, resting on his shoulder plate. His throat vibrating as he hummed a hymn. 

 

The pattering feet of Nyros trailed close behind, accompanied by the heavier boots of her father. They engaged in small talk of little relevance to the girl. Her attention transfixed on the ache of her earned bruises that she did not realize they’d gone indoors. 

 

Only when she was placed upon a seat, did her gaze find her surroundings. Ibar had busied himself with a wall of herbs, each labeled by symbols she knew not of. Swinging her legs from the side of the table, she found her attention drawn to the brooding Nyros. He stood beside her father with arms crossed over his chest. Peering at her no longer with the disturbed look of hubris. 

 

“The two of you did very well,” Her father murmured, Ibar’s hands beginning to work their way across her bruised skin with a dry rag, to dab away at the dirt before cleaning it properly. Though she winced from pain, her mouth curled into a wide smile.

Author’s Note

The curious thing about children is how they act as sponges and spectators to the world. Every word, action, a lesson to teach. It is my daughter that taught me this when she was young. A warm little blessing, a spark to kindling that had long cooled. She was as Siru is, a joyous, spritely thing. At first, a sponge, a story to be written, and the very pride of my heart. 

 

From Nyros, she will learn mercy, from her mother, she will have stories and guardianship, Ibar will teach her compassion and tend her wounds, and her father will teach her to lead. 

 

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