“Ok ok, sorry.” Yantrika crosses his arms and presses down the bandage on his nose harder than necessary. For as long as I’ve known Yantrika, that bandage hasn’t left his freckled nose. I’m pretty sure it protects some exposed wires or something.
Basically, Lydia is a crazy-ass mix of light and dark, also known as an androme. Most of the time, her quiet, benevolent side shows itself, being nice to everyone she meets and always thinking of her effect on others. However, she’s a maniacal demon when angered. Nothing’s safe when she’s in overdrive. Andromes are also known for their sizable raven wings and blank eyes. No pupils, just white. Lydia’s pure snow hair is something that looks like it’s been bleached 5 times over. Unfortunately, though, her pale state leaves much to be desired. She’s prone to sickness and is locked away inside most of the time, relying on the two of us to help her out, hence why Yantrika’s here today. There aren’t really many andromes living among us elven folk here on Kopome. Most of them live on Tyrra which is all the way across the Kanpaka ocean. A small settlement had migrated here hundreds of years ago to escape some form of persecution at the time and that’s why their ancestors still remain, just like Lydia.
I ruffle Yantrika’s hair as Finbarr interrupts, “Here you go Nanami! Careful now, the melon’s on the bottom. See ya!” With a wink from him and a slight blush from me, we exchange money for the goods and leave the stand.
Yantrika follows me around while I finish up what I need to do, stopping here and there to drool over freshly baked sourdoughs and glazed muffins. I now realize what he reminds me of: a motherless goat clinging to its shepherd. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, but Yantrika has consistently adhered himself to my presence, probably due to his lack of communication with many others. Being the only cyborg in this part of Teredia, it’s not really surprising that he’d want to fit in with us elves. I mean, the only others of his kind live in Mayen’s castle, working day in and day out to serve her. He was originally meant for that, but they got this ‘great’ idea to implant more elven feelings into him and, well, that backfired on them. Mayen, being the bitch she is, decided to just get rid of him since he was more trouble than she could afford. So here he is, exiled to our small village, stuck with only two female friends. To be completely honest, he’s the closest thing to high tech that we have here. Mayen keeps all the advanced technology they keep coming up within her little kingdom for her and those select few to enjoy. I heard they even invented a machine to wash clothes there. Go figure, right?
“Say, Nanami…”, Yantrika’s voice pulls me back into the reality of the market.
“Hm?” I ask, the weight of five bags finally taking a toll on my arms.
“If you always-” He’s cut short as two very exasperated men jolt into his shoulder, nearly knocking him down.
“Hey, what’s the big idea?” Yantrika yells after them.
Though still sprinting, they shout in response, “A fire at Wellsworth’s!”
Yantrika narrows his eyes and switches his attention to me. “A fire? They can’t be serious, right?”
“They better not be. Let’s go.” The two of us follow in pursuit of the men, silently praying that it’s not what it seems. Nothing like this has ever happened at the market before, so I have to admit I’m a bit worried, especially due to the fact that it involves Mr. Wellsworth. As long as I’ve been coming here there’s been nothing but tranquility in the atmosphere. A fire destroys that feeling altogether.
A gradually growing crowd is forming near Mr. Wellworth’s stall as we push ourselves through the roused up people. Thick flames eat away at the modest stand as ash flakes fly up into the smoky air. Attempting to at least calm the flare, several men step out and fling buckets of water onto it, barely making a dent. Ten more people branch out and add onto the onslaught of water. With the flames thankfully dying down, people begin to cheer them on, Yantrika joining in with his high-pitched voice. I stay silent amongst the crowd; loud chants just aren’t my thing. When the blaze is finally put to rest, clapping fills my ears and I want to shrink away from the group. However, an older man’s voice stops me from doing so. “How’d it start?”
The mob shuts up, pondering this curiosity. Even I take an interest in it seeing as the weather is still too humid for a simple natural burning. Whispers flit from mouth to ear and soon it sounds like a swarm of insects. Mr. Wellsworth takes broad steps to the front of his now smoldering stall, twisting his face into a crimson beet color. He drags a boy by the collar of his shirt. “Here’s yer perpetrator. The brat knocked down me lantern, he did. Sent the whole blasted place ablaze.” I’ve never seen Mr. Wellsworth so enraged before and it shocks me to see him this way.
I peer at the boy in his hands, his sapphire eyes looking around frantically at the annoyed crowd. He seems to be about my age by the immaturity in the lines of his face and stature that has yet to assert itself. Though his ears, complemented by golden chain double piercings, are your everyday elven shape, his hair is something I’ve never seen. A silver stream of hair floods his head and ends in a ponytail jutting out the back. All the clothes on his body are baggy and worn down, seeming to drown both his hands and feet in an ocean of cloth. They seem quite warm to be wearing in these summer temperatures. He’s also extremely tall, over six feet by at least a couple inches, something made clear by his lanky legs. Ok, I know that was extensive for only seeing someone once, but I tend to observe a lot about people. Judging people is just something you get accustomed to doing here.
The mob starts to show their discontent by yelling blurred words at him, causing the boy to loosen his collar and yell out, “It was an accident I said! My arm knocked into the lantern, that’s all!”
“Oh really?” “Shut up boy, who asked you?” “Take your ‘accidents’ somewhere else then” The crowd screams out these and more to him. The constant battering of words induces the boy to cover his ears and scrunch his face so tight that he grits his teeth. Not that I blame him. I think we’re both pretty uncomfortable right now. Yantrika is right along with the voices as he tells me, “Can you believe this kid? I’ve never even seen him ‘round here and he’s already pissing everyone off.” He shakes his head in disgust and returns to bashing the boy with more accusations. Ignoring his remarks, I continue to observe the boy’s actions. One of his eyes open and meet with mine, displaying a simple message in that fleeting glance: ‘Help me’. I proceed to avert my eyes and stare down at my boots. There’s nothing I’m inclined to do nor anything I want to do. He’s old enough to figure it out for himself.
Now, a woman shouts out to him, “How come we haven’t seen you around here then? Your story ain’t looking so good kid!”
The boy glares at her, uncovers his ears, and responds, “I don’t live around here ok? I only came to pick up some meat since-” He pauses. “Look, there was a wasp flying around the meat. I tried to kill it, but I ended up hitting the lantern instead. What more do you people want?”
Clearly, the crowd wants much more than he’s willing to give, seeing as they spit out things like “arsonist” and “outsider to the village”. He starts to sink away at every phrase, and soon turns a soft salmon color. As a chant about arson begins, the boy screams out, “I’m not an arsonist!” He rips Mr. Wellsworth’s fingers from his collar and sprints in the direction of the market gate. Relief fills the mob as their burden has now run deep into the woods.
As the group breaks up, Yantrika mutters to me, “Some nerve that kid had.” Ironic that Yantrika, who is easily three years younger than me, is calling him the ‘kid’. “Did he really think he could just come in here and try to fool us like that?” Yantrika smirks and holds back a chortle. “Tough for him I guess. Well, should we head back Nanami? I can help you out with your load there.” His hand finds one of the bags on my arm, but I gently inch it away.
“Thanks, but I think you have enough to carry as it is. Let’s just go.” We start along the trail back to my house as I recollect on the boy’s look of desperation, his widened eyes, the flush of his face, even the way he had tensed up his narrow shoulders. I tune out Yantrika’s redundant life tales and realize there’s no way that boy was from around here; nobody knew him. Nioleme’s a tiny enough village for everyone to at least have seen each other a few times in their life. It just strikes me as odd to see someone of unfamiliarity here, especially someone with hair as conspicuous as his.
By the time we arrive at my house, Yantrika seems to have only finished half his story. My arms are numb from the weight of bags, so I try to hurry him along. “And then I told her that there’s no way I could-”
“Yantrika, don’t you have to drop that off at Lydia’s?” I interrupt.
He stops. “Oh. Yeah. Well, it was good to see you Nanami. See you later!”
“Say hi to Lydia for me!” He disappears from sight, teetering with the enormous leather pack.
A gust of cool air hits me after unlocking the front door. Father must’ve gotten up to open some windows seeing as it is so pleasant outside. I find him on the couch, trying to rise as he sees me enter. Clutching his left leg, he greets me, “Ah, Nanami. How was it today? Anything worthwhile?” His homey smile brings instant comfort to the room.
“It was alright, a little crowded. Found a watermelon at Finbarr’s. How’s your leg feeling?” I start to unpack the groceries in the kitchen as he talks.
“Eh, still pretty useless, but I’m getting by.” I head over to where he is and kneel beside him. Underneath the bandage, the bullet wound is still pretty red and inflamed, but no infection can be seen. It’s a pretty good sign considering it nearly missed his artery. If it had hit that, my father would most likely not be sitting here.
Ok, I should probably explain what happened to my father. First of all, my father hasn’t been the same since my mother and brother died. My mother died only minutes after I was born. Father was still his strong-minded self at that point, working out his grief between raising my brother and me. It was after my brother, Everest, had his accident nine years ago that he changed altogether. He became depressed and not even I could bring the same genuine grin to his face. Maybe it’s because it was my birth that spurred both deaths in some way or another...Anyways, the way he deals with it all is alcohol and, sad to say, lots of it. Every week, he spends a night or two wasted away at some tavern, spilling his life story to some new stranger. I don’t bother to stop him; it’d only get worse if I were to intervene. Hell, I’m lucky to have as good of a relationship with my father as I do.
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