“What story would you like to hear tonight?” The old woman moved her worn ivory glasses from their resting position on her frazzled gray hair to the familiar indents on her nose. The black haired child was half under his covers, his upper body dangling off the bed. He excitedly pulled himself up and yanked the sheets over himself, his bright golden eyes still glittering with energy.
“Could you tell the story of The Ocean and Sky again? That one always gives me good dreams!”
The Sister chuckled, her hand halfway stretched towards a well worn and fraying storybook on the bedside table. Instead, she repurposed the hand to ruffle the messy mop on the boy’s head, noting to herself that he was in dire need of a trim soon. After dimming the lantern next to her, she pulled the requested fable from her memory.
“At the beginning of time, there were twins. Brother Sky was strong of mind, while Sister Ocean was strong of body.”
—
The twins woke to a dull and dim world, with only themselves to play and entertain. Even alone, they were together, and they were happy.
Sister Ocean shaped the land with dancing, raising the mountains with her leaps and carving the sea with her kicks. Brother Sky filled the air with thoughts, molding dust into dolls to act in his stories.
After a millenia, the twins were finally bored. The land was too rough for dancing, and the air was too stuffy for thoughts. After another millenia, the twins finally fought.
Sister Ocean’s tears filled the seas. Her rage boiled the soil until it flowed like blood, giving the world a heartbeat.
Brother Sky’s cries created curses. His tantrum soaked his dolls heavy with emotions, giving them more substance than simple dirt.
The world trembled under their thumping feet, the skies split above their screaming mouths.
For them, their feud was for a moment. For the universe, their feud created infinity.
The twins suddenly found their surroundings unrecognizable. The dolls had begun to move on their own, creating plays that Brother Sky could never imagine on his own. The land had become alive, becoming Sister Ocean’s dance partner and inspiration.
The twins were no longer bored. The world had become their new companion.
—
Sister Etesa looked fondly at the child as his chest began to softly rise and fall. She had known the child since he was abandoned outside the orphanage, and was still not certain why this specific tale put him to sleep so easily. The room’s peacefulness was disturbed only by the quiet rustling from bedsheets being adjusted, as the Sister snugly secured the boy in his bed. After admiring her handiwork, she looked up to the row of empty beds, reminiscing about the time when they also carried children to sleep. Time may have slipped past her notice, but the wrinkles that etched themselves into her forehead were undeniable evidence of its passage.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
She quietly tiptoed from the room, gently holding the lantern with her free hand to prevent the soft metallic squeaks that would betray her footsteps. Despite her best efforts to oil the hinges, the lantern had refused to remain silent.
“Sister Etesa, we must depart soon. Our travels must continue.”
An even older man was waiting for her at the kitchen table, his solemn expression contrasted by the deep wrinkles etched into the corners of his brown eyes. The lantern flared in indignation, which caused the Sister to click her tongue as she placed it down. The light remained intense for just a moment, before fading to fill the room with its usual gentle orange aura.
“SKEEEEEE!”
Before Sister Etesa could properly respond, the pot of tea that the man was preparing also chose to voice its opinion from the stovetop. The elderly pair sat patiently, letting the high pitched whine punctuate their impromptu staring contest. Eventually, the man sighed in defeat, rising from his seat to retrieve the tea.
“We can wait until the child has grown older. I agree, we can care for him a while longer.” The teapot’s shrill trill seemed to dip in pitch, content with the man's decision, before being completely silenced as it was lifted from the flames that gave it a voice. His deep brows were even deeper in flickering stovelight, as he continued to contemplate the future.
“Cardinal Crandall, we have already lived for so long. The time of the little one is more important than ours.” Sister Etesa finally took her seat at the table, brushing away a few biscuit crumbs that remained from the man’s nighttime snacking. The usual floral tea cups were already at their respective places. Her tea cup was adorned with an assortment of dandelions dancing on the ceramic, painted by the first child that their orphanage housed. The whimsical brushstrokes caused the stem and petals to blend, creating swirls of yellow and green that were never corrected. The cardinal’s tea cup was much more refined, a result of the child having much more experience. Sister Etesa mentally traced the singular white lily that lazily stretched itself around the existing patterns baked into the cup, its head tilted as if it were always listening into conversations. The cupboard was stuffed to the brim with these cups — that initial child had insisted on painting a cup for everyone, even long after he had left the orphanage.
The lull in dialogue was embroidered by the sound of poured then sipped tea. They both sighed in deep satisfaction as the familiar fragrant liquid warmed their core.
“My apologies. The sense of urgency was unlike me. It has been such a brief assignment compared to our lives. The child would greatly appreciate our complete patronage. We have neglected our responsibilities for so long. Another few short years to guarantee another fulfilling childhood, could be excused by the council.”
They both dryly chuckled at the last comment.
“I do not blame you for your haste. However, this last little one is the postscript of our assignment here. Could we consider it a job well done, if this final child were to depart our care in bitter tears?”
There was a clink as the man placed the lily back on the table.
“That is true. We must see our task through to its finality. It would be unacceptable for me to fail this little one.”