Merciful

There seemed to be no end to the disaster that followed the humans Fawn encountered. It was as though they all had the same desire to hate her, or each other. Fawn was grateful this time that no one had heard the protests of the last to die in her company, as the drive to punish her for existing seemed to be something that pushed the villagers to extremes.

Sitting against the rock formation, Fawn held her bruised arm close against her body. So much of her wanted to cry again for the terrible experience that her life had turned into, but there was more to it than that.

As she held her arm to her, she could feel the dents in the flesh on the top of her forearm where the woman had struck it. They were beginning to ease back now, and she could tell there was no evidence of a broken bone. The pain was ferocious and it made her shake, but it was not unending and she soon felt it level off.

Looking at the older man who had been the first person to act on her behalf since her brothers were alive, she wondered why it was so important to the woman called Sheya, to beat her. In the end she killed her uncle––simply so she could hit a child for longer.

Fawn began to understand that people were dangerous by default.

The idea that she was attacked by hatred was frightening, but the fact that not everyone knew who she was, gave her a glimmer of hope. At this point, a savage beating was much better than being subjected to hanging, or the Heretic’s Death.

Stroking her arm gently, she could tell it was getting better quickly.

Encouraged, she flexed her hand back and forth. She could feel no sign of restricted movement. The violent woman’s efforts to break her arm had left no permanent damage.

There was a new calm sweeping over her: the tearful feeling set aside by the fascination with the welfare and capacity of her own bones.

Walking over to where the unfortunate man had fallen, she knelt down beside him and reached for his hand. For the first time she felt sadness for the loss of someone’s life, without it being something she was overwhelmed by. This man was nothing to her, but it still seemed unnecessary for him to die.

She placed his hand on his chest and closed his eyes.

“Thank you for calling me ‘a beauty’ and trying to help. Rest now.”

There was a peace to the moment. She felt the action of silence take the place of suffering and embraced it. She looked down at her treasured Veil’s claw.

She was beginning to understand the significance of what it was she had. An organic weapon that could rend people as though they were made of tree sap, and likely the only one held in the hands of a child, ever in history.

She cleaned the claw, wiping it on her clothes, with reverence for both its power and danger. The blood came off easily and she was able to wrap it again in some more fiber.

As she tucked it away at her side, she saw that it had a ring of bone-like substance at the base of the claw that was attached to the crystalline part, in a sequence. The intermittent nature of the connection had left a series of holes around the edge of the base of the claw.

Maybe I can tie this to me somehow. It would be good to know it was always attached.

Collecting her focus, she got up from the side of the dead man who was now accumulating dust and dirt about his edges.

She walked a few paces away from him and turned to look back. The dust was already enveloping him, there would soon be nothing to see.

As she walked toward the gruesome scene that was the woman on the ground, her eye was caught by the waterskin and bundle of Oil Brush.

She picked up the skin and threw its strap over her shoulder, then lifted the brush onto her back. Her version of heavy was different from that of other children, but it was nice to feel no extra burden.

With her water and plentiful fire-starters on board, she rose to observe where her latest attacker had fallen.

She stood, looking at the body. One arm appeared more like a broken, chopped-up bird’s wing than a person’s arm. She felt less than she thought she might about the woman, neither sadness nor anger.

“It really feels like people die wherever I am ... I’d like ... to just talk to someone.”

Giving up on the idea of anything useful coming from the company of another dead person, she carried on her way.

The body of Fawn’s latest threat was left gathering dust, forming a grave above ground.

Walking slowly with her head down, she pulled her basic hood up the back of her neck and over her head.

The idea was starting to sink in that there may not be anyone who was nice, or pleasant. Doing anything other than just getting by was fast becoming a distant memory. The thoughts took hold that she may be on her own for a long time, and it was made worse by the knowledge that she had the Veil with her previously, and yet now without him she felt even more alone than before. She glanced back up at the cliff.

I wish I’d never met him sometimes.

She had never imagined that she could find more in common with an animal like that than she would with people, but it was true.

Walking, thinking and waiting for the sun to go down further, were proving insufficiently absorbing to keep her mind from hurting her feelings.

She pulled up the claw from her side and looked at the spaces at its base. They were evenly spread out and had no sign of flexibility. Cutting one of the fiber sheets into strips as thin as she could manage, she started to weave a rope as best she could.

“Over, under, ... over ... something?”

The idea proved easier in concept than it was in practice. As she walked and wove, her thoughts started to drift from isolation and violence.

The shadows grew longer as she wandered, and the sun lost some of its anger. It was good to know that the night was coming. She really did do better in darkness. Somehow the dark felt like it had fewer fangs than the daylight. It made others nervous, but for Fawn it simply calmed the heat of the day.

As she grew up, Fawn had always found herself more comfortable in the dark than she ever was in the light. Being in full sight of people was not something that had led to a lot of good in her life.

As the shadows slid together, she felt better about her life, and quickened her pace toward the Village.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

I have to figure out what I need and where to get it.

She kept thinking about the places she had been before, and whether they had things she could use, or food she could eat. The problem though was the people, not the food. She was at a loss as to how to stay away from people while staying within reach of what she needed. After what she had seen she would not make the mistake of assuming people were going to be gentle with her anymore.

The nice, older man who helped her had ended up adding to the number of those who died simply by being close by. If there were good people that would help, they might just end up under a pile of those gathering dust.

Walking further over the course of the evening she found herself thinking of Eris and recalling how he taught her that Oil Brush lights a fire when you crush it hard enough between stones. This was a key piece of survival information for her as it turned out.

She remembered the conversations they used to have about life at the Village, and what it might have been like if they had never grown up there.

Fawn would listen tirelessly as he spoke about what it meant to understand who you were, and ask questions about who others were. He was, when needed, a practical man, but preferred to wander the vast wasteland of philosophy given the time to do so.

Often, he would sit down to teach Fawn about something in particular, and then they would end up on a long, distant thought about something seemingly disconnected.

His lessons for her about an activity would often translate to information about people. One such time she had been struggling to shape a new spoon and its edges were coming out rough and coarse. The harder she tried, the worse it got.

Eris sat next to her and placed his hand on her knee.

“Slowly, little one, there is no usable spoon made of something so rough.”

She sat back against the wall of the house, looking down at the ugly wooden shape in her hands.

“I’m tired and this isn’t getting any easier, or any nicer.”

The frustration and disappointment had gotten the better of her.

“I keep cutting at it and all that happens is it keeps looking cut.”

She picked up one of Ikan’s handy work, turning the beautiful spoon in her fingers. She could feel the smooth, soft texture, and smell the light tone of wood and Oil Brush oil. Even the sound was different. His made a subtle rasping as she twisted it about, while hers sounded like a handful of stones rubbed against a table.

Eris worked to encourage her further.

“It’s not about what you do, it’s about what you think.”

She looked up at him trying to understand.

“What are you talking about?”

A look of confusion took over her whole face.

“Well ... the spoon will take shape based on how you feel, not what you want.”

“How can that be true? ... ”

She kept looking back at her spoon in disbelief.

“Well, how do you feel?”

“Frustrated.”

She leered at the rough, crude implement she was trying to fashion, made of more corners than anything.

“Ah I see, and does that look like the spoon of a frustrated person?”

He leaned forward and nudged his head against hers.

Fawn let out a long sigh.

“I suppose it does.”

Leaning into him, she sat the spoon-shaped disappointment on her tiny foot.

“So, how do I ... feel a better spoon? At this speed I will starve to death before I can make it.”

Eris laughed loudly.

“Oh ok, first we would never let you starve. Ikan would make you whatever you need.”

His younger brother came to join the conversation.

“And secondly, I mentioned it so I could help you. Your spoon is driven by what you think, because what you think, adds to what you feel. What you feel is what makes your spoon.”

He held her rough, wooden evidence in his hand.

“But ... how?”

She looked more confused than ever.

“Because you think you can’t do it, you feel sad and angry, which makes your hands frustrated. And so ... you make the spoon of a frustrated little girl.”

He placed the implement back in her hands.

“Feel better little one. I know you can do it, so you have to believe it’s true.”

He smiled at her.

“But I don’t think I can ... Why must I believe it’s true?”

She was pouting uncontrollably now.

Eris leaned forward and kissed her on the head.

“Because my little liquid-eyed miracle ... I know how brilliant you truly are.”

Fawn smiled a bit and glanced at him, without turning her head.

“Also, I’m older than you so you have to do what I say, including believing in yourself ... ”

Laughing, he stood and moved away.

She turned and threw her failed spoon at him, giggling all the same.

Ikan collected her spoon and moved in closer to sit across from her on the ground. Placing one leg either side of her, he held a Razor Rock in his right hand.

“Well ... everything Eris said is true, but ... you also need to know that ... you can’t shape the whole spoon with a knife.”

Ikan spoke with a lighter and faster pattern than his older brother, and was practical by nature, all the time. He carried on to show her how to shape her spoon with more subtlety, rasping at it with the edge of the Razor Rock he had used to shape his own. He finished his demonstration and turned to look at her.

“Why did you think I only used the knife to complete my spoon?”

“Well, it was what mother said ... she gave me the knife and—”

Eris came back over to her, crouched down and looked at his trusting sister.

“I’m sorry little one. Mother is ... well, it’s better that you ask us, ok?”

He dropped his eyes away from her. They fell along with his mood, as he rose again slowly.

“Why?”

Fawn stood up with him, a troubled look in her eyes.

“Eris is right, you know. You really are our little gilded miracle ... ”

Ikan smiled at her and stroked her soft hair.

She tucked her head into his arm.

“But why? What is it that mothe–?”

Eris looked down at her with great focus.

“The only reason we accepted her back after she left was you, my sweet. The beautiful baby with the eyes of shifting liquid.”

He ran his thumb down her face.

“Our mother is not here because she loves us. She is here because we ... love you.”

The memory was a nice reminder that Fawn had not always been so alone. Looking down at the rope she was trying to weave, she began to form clearer thoughts in her mind.

I can make this. I’m clever and brilliant. I must be, because a brilliant person said so.

The thought made her smile.

Covering the ground to the Village now felt like less of a chore, and more like time to complete her rope. Her lack of weaving skill would mean she needed all the walking time she had.

Dusk had settled in thoroughly now and the harsh burn was gone from the sun. There would likely be more people wandering around the pathways outside the Village, as it was a popular time for walking outside. Fawn would need to watch for prying eyes. Who she truly was remained hidden from most, but she knew now that being obviously young, would be reason enough for some to target her.

Whether everyone hated her for what she had done, or just for what she was, she did not know.

Having convinced herself that she didn’t want to make a ‘frustrated little girl’s’ rope, she was making her way through the threaded fiber rather well. She truly felt the benefit of creating something for herself.

Now certain that she would complete the rope without any trouble, Fawn committed to the task of attaching it to her precious claw. She took thin threads, one at a time, and passed them through the small spaces at the root of the claw in sequence. When eventually she could fit no more through the space, she wove them back into the main rope length.

Coiling the rope over her shoulder meant that she was able to keep the claw hidden at her side, while having it securely attached to her body.

–Garrick M Lynch–