Samara stared after Adelia as she strode directly up to the group of boys from earlier, confused and a bit worried at what the young girl was planning. She turned to look at Cyril and was surprised to see that he did not share in her worry but instead watched after his sister with admiration. Wordlessly, he grabbed Samara's hand and pulled her toward Adelia.
Adelia held her head high and stood tall before the gathered boys. Her petite frame seemingly grew in stature as she shouted at a boy who looked to be her exact age. The words were lost to Samara, yet the message was as clear as daylight — she was defending her brother with every ounce of her being.
A surge of pride rose within Samara, blooming in her chest like a flower in spring. You tell him, girl! she thought, her mind’s voice strong and clear, as she watched the young warrior in action. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated girl power, a testament to the strength that lay within Adelia.
But the scene swiftly shifted, the air turning heavy as the boy retaliated, pushing Adelia with a force that belied his size. Samara’s protective instincts flared to life, her body tensing, ready to leap into action. Yet, she found herself rooted to the spot as the townsfolk around them remained eerily still, their eyes observing the drama unfold but their bodies frozen, as if this was a scene they had witnessed one too many times.
Samara's heart was in her throat as undeterred, Adelia marched back up to the boy, her fist connecting with his face in a swift, unyielding motion. The boy’s hands flew to his face, tears pooling in his eyes, as the adults around them merely shook their heads, their expressions laced with an expectation of certainty.
As Adelia’s hand rose again, a storm brewing in her fierce eyes, Samara knew she had to intervene. She reached out, her hand resting gently on Adelia’s shoulder. The young girl turned, her eyes meeting Samara's in a silent exchange of understanding and strength. Samara shook her head slightly, her eyes conveying a message clear as day — one punch was enough.
Adelia's hand lowered slowly, her energy shifting as she feinted at the boy, sending him stumbling back in fear and earning laughter from the crowd of children. The boy glared at Adelia before turning heel and fleeing the scene. Adelia, waving her fist high in the air, shouted after him, her voice strong and victorious.
Ada emerged from the crowd of onlooking adults, her face etched with disappointment and concern. She strode over to Adelia, her hand reaching out to tug at her ear, leading her back towards the house with a stream of words that Samara could only assume were reprimands. Despite her ear reddening under Ada’s firm grip, Adelia bore the pain without a tear, her spirit unbroken.
And in that moment, as Samara watched the young girl walk away, head held high, she felt an overwhelming admiration. In her fierce defense and unwavering strength, Adelia had shown a resilience that left Samara utterly impressed and inspired.
Upon their return to the abode, Ada gracefully untied the intricate baby sling, cradling the sleeping Finn, and delicately placed him into Samara's hesitant embrace. The small boy roused gently from his slumber and opened his eyes, revealing irises of a brilliant amethyst hue. Samara's heart paused in her chest as she gazed into the mesmerizing pools of purple, a color so unique and vibrant that it seemed to transcend reality. She couldn’t recall ever encountering someone with eyes of such a shade, at least not without the aid of cosmetic contacts.
As Samara remained entranced by Finn, the other three walked into the children's bedroom, shutting the door behind them. Ada's stern voice echoed through the walls; her tone was sharp and reprimanding, resonating through the house and causing Samara to flinch involuntarily. Even though the words were unfamiliar, the tone spoke a universal language. Memories flooded back to Samara, echoes of her childhood transgressions and the resulting stern lectures from her mother or grandmother, their disappointment palpable in every word.
The house soon fell into a hushed silence, only to be broken by the creaking of the bedroom door as Ada reemerged. She took Finn from Samara’s arms, offering a warm, albeit fleeting, smile to Samara before departing the house. Samara was left standing alone, a solitary figure amidst the quiet aftermath. She waited by the kitchen, but the children remained hidden within the confines of the bedroom.
Driven by concern and curiosity, Samara tiptoed toward the slightly ajar bedroom door. As she peeked inside, she found Adelia and Cyril on the bed. Adelia was lying with her face down, and her dress was carelessly bunched up to reveal two angry, red welts on her small calves. Her body trembled with silent sobs, her face buried in the sanctuary of the sheets. Cyril sat beside her, his hand gently caressing her back in a futile attempt to soothe her pain. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, a testament to their shared sorrow.
A memory flashed in Samara's mind, a reminder of a bygone era and the corporal punishments that were once deemed necessary in her youth. Her heart ached at the sight of the two children, finding solace only in each other's presence.
Moved by a newfound determination, Samara ventured into the kitchen, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar territory in search of anything that might alleviate Adelia’s pain. Ultimately, she settled on a simple cloth and cool water drawn from a large jug in the corner of the room.
With her makeshift remedy in hand, Samara returned to the bedroom, her approach soft and unintrusive. She knelt beside the bed, dampening the cloth in the water before gently placing it on Adelia’s inflamed skin. The young girl, startled at the unexpected contact, lifted her tear-streaked face to meet Samara's eyes. Samara gave her a comforting smile, a silent promise of safety and empathy.
Adelia wiped away her tears and exchanged hushed words with Cyril, who promptly hopped off the bed and hurried into the adjacent room. The sounds of his tiny feet and rustling drawers filled the air before he finally returned, clutching a small black tin jar in his little hands. He attempted to open it, his tiny fingers struggling against the lid's resistance. Finally, admitting defeat, he handed it over to Samara, who quickly pried it open, revealing its contents.
Inside was a gelatinous white substance, its aroma a delicate blend of roses and something distinctly herby and medicinal. With gentle and practiced ease, Cyril dipped his fingers into the balm, scooping up a generous amount before tenderly applying it to Adelia's right calf. Samara followed suit, her fingers delicately skimming the surface of the remedy before spreading it across the young girl's left leg.
The gel absorbed quickly into Adelia’s skin, leaving a faint sheen in its wake. No sooner had the balm done its work than Adelia sprang from the bed, her tiny arms wrapping around Samara in a tight embrace of gratitude. Samara was caught slightly off guard and returned the hug warmly, her heart swelling with affection and relief. Cyril, not to be left out, quickly joined in, transforming the moment into a group embrace.
During their shared moment, the front door swung open, its creaking hinges slicing through the air. Turning in unison, they found Tomlin standing at the threshold, his face flushed from labor in the fields, though Samara suspected the deep hue was also tinged with anger. Her suspicions were confirmed as Tomlin fixed Adelia with a pointed look, unleashing a torrent of loud, foreign words in a tone that brooked no argument. Adelia, her head bowed under the weight of her father's reprimand, stood still, absorbing the scolding.
As Tomlin’s anger simmered, he knelt before Adelia, his gaze softening as he spoke to her at eye level. The little girl nodded in understanding, her demeanor submissive. Tomlin then gently lifted the hem of her dress, inspecting the red welts on her calves. A deep sigh escaped him, and he muttered a single word, “Ada,” before enveloping Adelia in a tender hug and kissing her forehead.
He ushered the children out of the house, leaving Samara with little choice but to follow, unsure of her place if left alone. They navigated through the fields, the children deftly weaving through the townsfolk and tools, while Samara tried to follow quickly but kept tripping over tools and bumping into the working folk.
Finally catching up with the trio, Samara arrives at a grove of lush green trees, each branch heavy with the bright red fruit Samara had tasted the day before. Baskets filled to the brim with the harvest sat ready. The children, each taking an end of a basket, made their way to a nearby table laden with tools of the trade. Together, they began the meticulous task of inspecting and cleaning the fruit.
Samara, observing their actions, thought the task appeared straightforward enough. She picked up her basket, set it on the table, and set to work. Yet, as the minutes ticked by, she realized that while the task was not inherently difficult, it was tediously monotonous, made all the more unbearable by the sun's relentless heat. She cast a sidelong glance at the children, who seemed untroubled by the sweltering conditions, their tiny hands moving with a swift efficiency that belied their years. How are they not dying in this heat? She wondered silently as her garments clung uncomfortably to her sweat-soaked skin.
Lifting her gaze in search of any hint of cloud cover, Samara's eyes met only an expanse of unending blue. Then, she noticed a tiny black speck against the sky, its form becoming more apparent as it drew closer. "A raven?" she questioned silently, her attention fully captured by the solitary bird in flight.
The sudden intrusion of a voice, a whisper from the past, pulled her focus away. Will you keep this always? The world around her seemed to blur, her stability wavering. Promise you’ll always wear it? The voice implored again, the vertigo intensifying.
"Mara?" Adelia's voice, laced with concern, reached her ears just as the ground rushed up to meet her, and Samara's world faded to black.
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