IdleChatter
Member
When Paytah is four, his birth parents abandon him in the center of a busy market place belonging to a different town than his own. He remembers the colorful clothes hanging artistically around the stalls and how badly his small fingers itches to grab hold of them. He remembers the ocean of noise, remembers being able to hear it from what felt like miles away. The cacophony of the merchants voices blending together as they call out their wares and the prices in hopes of drawing in more customers. He remembers the heat and the blue, blue sky above where the tiny black shapes of birds soared. His mother's long, calloused fingers had been wrapped securely around his soft hand, keeping him just far enough away from the makeshift stalls so that only the barest tips of his outstretched hand could brush them. He can remember his father, who seemed as tall as the leaning buildings around them and with shoulders broad enough to block the sun, holding onto his mother's other hand as they walked. He remembers the trash littering along the edges of buildings, the dirt and dust that had been kicked up just enough to make his small stature cough occasionally, and the way sweat dripped into his eyes. He can remember the elderly lady leaning way out of a window to shake dirt out of a cloth, and the raised voices of the unfortunate people below her.
He remembers all of this, but he cannot remember his parents' faces that day.
When he struggles and spends hours trying to recall anything, he can bring up brief visions of a gentle smile half hidden by a sandy beard and worry lines wrinkled across a forehead like sand dunes. Sometimes, he can get a quick glimpse of delicate cheekbones with shadows carved underneath of them and black hair being pushed back by a hand with broken, blunt nails and bracelets jangling musically with the movement.
Later in life, once he has grown himself and been through hardship of his own, he will come to understand why they left him. He will come to the knowledge, through stories told to him by someone claiming to be an old friend of his father's, that his father had been a traitor. His father had been found guilty of helping assassins find safe passage into the kingdom, of sending out noble secrets to neighboring enemies. He is told that his mother had been beautiful and brilliant, and that she used to work as serving girl for a noble family for many, many years. He is told, despite never asking and generally not wanting to know, that the young heir of the noble family had been found dead one morning with his window left wide open, curtains curling in the gentle breeze. The man who says he is a friend tells him that his parents disappeared that morning. He is told they loved him very much, and then he is told they were captured and killed only seven months later.
He hears the words spilling from this man's mouth like a dam has broken and lets them wash over him like a tidal wave full of broken memories and jagged emotions. He hears and he understands, but at age four, he is still left crying in front of a vegetable stand. When the sky has turned black and he is shivering instead of sweating, he has grown too tired to run away from the strangers that approach; a pretty lady, with creases pressed into the skin around her eyes and mouth, crouches down in front of him with a gentle smile.
He remembers all of this, but he cannot remember his parents' faces that day.
When he struggles and spends hours trying to recall anything, he can bring up brief visions of a gentle smile half hidden by a sandy beard and worry lines wrinkled across a forehead like sand dunes. Sometimes, he can get a quick glimpse of delicate cheekbones with shadows carved underneath of them and black hair being pushed back by a hand with broken, blunt nails and bracelets jangling musically with the movement.
Later in life, once he has grown himself and been through hardship of his own, he will come to understand why they left him. He will come to the knowledge, through stories told to him by someone claiming to be an old friend of his father's, that his father had been a traitor. His father had been found guilty of helping assassins find safe passage into the kingdom, of sending out noble secrets to neighboring enemies. He is told that his mother had been beautiful and brilliant, and that she used to work as serving girl for a noble family for many, many years. He is told, despite never asking and generally not wanting to know, that the young heir of the noble family had been found dead one morning with his window left wide open, curtains curling in the gentle breeze. The man who says he is a friend tells him that his parents disappeared that morning. He is told they loved him very much, and then he is told they were captured and killed only seven months later.
He hears the words spilling from this man's mouth like a dam has broken and lets them wash over him like a tidal wave full of broken memories and jagged emotions. He hears and he understands, but at age four, he is still left crying in front of a vegetable stand. When the sky has turned black and he is shivering instead of sweating, he has grown too tired to run away from the strangers that approach; a pretty lady, with creases pressed into the skin around her eyes and mouth, crouches down in front of him with a gentle smile.
