Sighing, he bent down and his small graceful fingers lifted the buckles and notches of her shoes, buckling them securely. Politely as if he did not want to violate her privacy, the boy straightened her dress and tights. He tried brushing some of the dirt off her legs, but only had limited success.
Then he took her hands and laid them across her stomach in a modest manner. She was pretty as a picture. After he started brushing her hair out with his fingers, being as gentle as he could. First, he removed her silk ribbons and allowed her hair to fall around her head. Then, he carefully and, oh-so-slowly, lifted her head, making sure not to disturb her, placing it in his lap. Smiling sweetly, the boy started to work his fingers through her mess of curls, tenderly separating the strands so that they were free from each other. The young boy could feel the sun warming his face and back as he worked, the birds singing in the trees that lined the great field. There was the occasional rustle of grass as small animals he couldn’t see dashed from their burrows and hiding places.
It was the most pleasant of afternoons as he combed the beautiful girl’s hair. So pleasant that he started to whistle very softly, an old counting song his mother used to sing. When he finished combing her hair, the young boy tied the ribbons back in. Lowering her head timidly, the boy bit his lip as he feared disturbing the work he had just completed. Yet the girl did not stir, not even a muscle twitched. Grinning, the boy whistled again as he strolled to her feet and looked over her. She was an angel sleeping in a field of spring grass, her hair, clothes, and shoes perfect now. How the boy adored her.
A loud ringing sound broke through the silence and the boy looked up, his eyes no longer alight with tender feelings. It was time to be moving on. He could spend no more time adoring his first love. Nodding, he continued to whistle as he searched the ground, his eyes unusually cold for a child so young.
The boy wandered far from the dreaming girl, gathering sticks of varying sizes in his arms. He took time to inspect each one as he worked. Cracking them in two, he analyzed their quality. Some, he could tell by an instant touch, were wet, so he left them where they were. Others were rotten from sitting on the ground too long or from bugs eating away at them. Those were not good enough. Only the most perfect sticks would work.
So he weaved through the grass, ignoring the sudden bursts of fur as small rabbits ran because he encroached on their homes. His path grew bit by bit, widening as he worked his way away from the girl. Every once and awhile he would rush back, arms full, and lay the sticks by the girl before going off to search again. In time there was a large stack lying in a pile near the angelic dreamer.
Having gathered enough sticks and twigs, the boy started arranging them on the ground, creating a large circular base around the girl. Once he had ensured that this base was perfect, the boy tediously stacked the sticks, slowly forming a wall around the girl. The craftsmanship of the wall, with only twigs and sticks, was remarkable for someone of any age, and the boy took his time with it. His breath slowly started to appear in front of him as his fingers fumbled ever so slightly, the sun sinking behind him. It took him another twenty minutes to finish and when it was done he had built a makeshift box around the girl, shading her from the sun and all elements except for the ground beneath her.
Assessing his work, the boy frowned as he fixed a few areas he deemed problematic. With that done, he stepped back and admired his work. His father would most definitely be proud. The ringing sound came again but much sharper this time. Sighing the boy peered down at the girl one last time.
“I’ll miss you, my Karina,” he whispered, blowing her a kiss.
Pulling from his pocket a small silver instrument, the boy looked at it solemnly for a moment before squatting down next to a bundle of dry grass. Flicking it open he quietly and seriously watched a flame jump into the grass where it quickly made itself at home. And as the fire became at home it reproduced and its children grew and spread until the grass wasn’t enough. The flame’s children spread to the sticks and twigs nearby and then their children appeared, spreading faster and faster along the wood hut the boy had painstakingly created.
Standing the boy brushed off his pants and watched the flame’s family grow and consume. He watched without any particular expression and after a moment turned and walked away. The ringing came again and he sighed in small annoyance. Starting to jog, he made his way through the fields and to the tree line, which the boy dashed through until he came to a clearing. A tall man with thick blonde hair and frigid blue eyes waited for him outside of an expensive-looking car.
“What took so long?” the man barked.
His voice cracked like a whip, although his demeanor was cool as the air.
“Sorry, da,” the boy murmured.
Averting his gaze, the boy looked at his feet. The man’s hand snaked out and grabbed his son’s chin lifting it up so that his son was forced to hold his gaze.
“What did I tell you?”
“Da!” the boy struggled a bit in his father’s iron grip.
“You never lower your eyes for anyone,” his father snapped.
To prove his point, the father locked eyes with his son for an intense moment.
“It’s a sign of submission. We submit to no one.”
“Yes, da.”
The boy stopped struggling and held his father’s gaze, the emptiness back in his eyes.
“Good boy.”
Pulling him in, the man hugged the boy tight and kissed the top of his head. The boy smiled in a small bit of pleasure, hugging his father back. He loved the way his father always smelled of cigars and leather. It was a rich smell.
“Alright, let’s get going,” the man finally snapped.
Releasing his son, the man walked to the driver’s side. Without a word, they both entered the car and drove off. The car ran quietly as if it didn’t even have a motor and they zipped along the long back highway roads. For a while, they didn’t speak as the boy kept his eyes trained on the woods and sky.
“Shoes buckled?” the man finally said.
“Yes, da.”
“Sticks?”
“Picked up and laid in a row.”
“So we can start over?”
“Yes, da.”
“Good boy. I’m proud of you. First loves are always hard to deal with.”
The boy looked at his father, who smiled and tasseled his son’s hair. Feeling his chest expand a bit, the boy grinned back. He was his father’s son.
“Mama will be waiting for us at home. She’ll have a nice big dinner to celebrate. I told her to make all your favorites.”
“Thank you, da!”
They laughed together and then sat back in silence thinking of the wonderful meal waiting for them at home. It didn’t take them long to reach their final destination. The smooth wheels of the well-kept car slid into a gravel drive of an extensive mansion. A gardener looked up and quickly bent his head back down. None of the working staff looked as the boy and his father exited the car and a gorgeous woman fluttered out of the house.
She was tall and lean, with long, thick onyx hair that flowed behind her as she raced to her family. Her eyes shimmered a charcoal black with flecks of gold as she approached her men. The full lips that lined her mouth were spread in a grin, displaying perfect teeth. Swooping down on the two men of her life, she hugged both of them before the man clutched her in his arms and dipped her into a long passionate kiss.
Giggling like a schoolgirl, she broke away from her husband and bent to hug her son again. Hugging his mother tight, the boy breathed in her earthy smell of flowers and dirt. She had been gardening again. He loved his mother’s hugs, so warm and inviting.
“What took so long?” she inquired.
She looked up from her beaming son’s face, posing the question to her husband.
“You know how difficult first love is, Valentina. He just needed to take his time.”
“But it is done, right?” she persisted.
Her eyes hardened slightly as she held her son’s gaze. The boy didn’t even falter, his eyes as cool and expressionless as hers.
“It’s done, mama.”
“Good boy.”
Kissing his forehead, Valentina Dúcái took her son’s hand and walked to the house where a hot meal was waiting for them. The gardener, who had done his best to not listen, glanced up briefly at the elegant family. They were a sight, the tall light-haired father with his dark-haired enticing wife and their already handsome young son. Just before they reached the door, the boy turned his gaze to the gardener, who gasped and froze. The boy’s hard gold eyes showed nothing as he held the gardener’s gaze. Sweat dripped down the gardener’s neck as the boy smiled coyly, his liquid gold eyes never blinking.
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