The air was tumultuous, yearning for freedom from the domain of her parents, eager to explore beyond the reach of the expansive primordial oceans and the tranquil, silent night. Distressed by this, Water and Darkness endeavored to craft both a haven and guardian for their wayward daughter, aiming to shield her from the emptiness that lay beyond. This they called the Earth.
- The Birth of the Gesthe, by an unknown author.
Cordelia delivered Zariyah's tale to a half-believing Naira in a tone that was polite, if not a little clipped and curt.
With Cordelia to help speed things along, I had hoped for a brief rendition before we negotiated for lodging. Unfortunately, the mute woman decided to inflict us with her story, her ‘truth’, as it were. She decided to start right at the beginning of the whole thing, without abbreviation but with all of the drama.
The woman haltingly told her tale with her hands. Her fingers were jittery, a stark relief and juxtaposition to Cordelia’s lilting melodious voice. A voice that, although pleasant, nonetheless held undertones like she was constantly judging the Hazagadami
Her father had been a dreamer. He had wanted to be more than a man who had married an innkeeper’s daughter to inherit the establishment. A path that, in part, had been chosen for him.
Once Naira’s parents had crossed the Shallow River, he turned to painting and art, focusing his efforts there with wild abandon. But there had been no buyers or patrons for his decidedly average works, his skill unable to portray the images within his imagination. He tried music next, thinking that something resonated within his soul that he had simply had to share with the rest of the world. Unfortunately, the rest of the world did not agree. More often than not, the regulars of the inn avoided the establishment when he was performing. It was also around this time that her father had started drinking, ostensibly to take the nervous edge off his performances.
His next line of attack was perhaps more logical. He tried to brute force his way through to fame and recognition. He tried his hand at local politics, trying to ingratiate himself with the people that mattered, plying them with gifts to garner their favor. He was able to make a few fair-weather friends and acquaintances, young sons of rich merchants who appreciated what he brought them. However, all this just served to strain the inn’s struggling finances for no good results.
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Throughout all of this, her mother had supported him. Believed in him. She loved him with the kind of love that could only be found in the most insipid of romance stories or love poems. They had grown up together, and he had been the only boy of her age who had been with her, who had seen past the stigma of her red eyes. He believed that beauty was a thing that should be protected and cherished, and she was the most beautiful thing of all.
I had to force myself from rolling my eyes as that might have been construed as rude. In my world, her love would be seen as nothing more than enabling.
The apple did not fall too far from the tree, and through the lens of her own mother’s love, Zariyah, too, loved her father. Perhaps, joined in this way, the three of them could have continued to be a family.
It was the friends that he made in the higher circles of Al-Lazarian society, rich sons of merchants that introduced him to the pleasures of the Dust. Like all of the common folk of the city, he had been warned of its dangerous allure, and until now he had neither the resources nor courage enough to partake of it.
Just one fantasy-filled dream that was more real than the world he lived in was enough to set him down a new path. The next day, inspired, he painted new pictures, lifelike and exquisite in detail.
He needed more of the stuff to let loose his burgeoning talents.
Behind closed doors, her father grew into a monster when he was denied. He vented his frustration and cruelty upon her mother, the woman who had once been the love of his life. The sharp sting of his fists and the venomous words he spat were as regular as the rising sun. Her mother's eyes, once bright with hope, were now dulled with empty and loveless marriage.
As Zariyah grew, she found solace in the quiet outside the city. She found more comfort under the open endless skies than in the company of children her own age. The winds whispered secrets of resilience and survival, if only she would venture further out into the desolation. Among the shifting sands and endless horizons, she found escape, for a time, from her situation at home.
But the darkness of her reality was inescapable. Her father's debts mounted, and his desperation knew no bounds. He was willing to do anything to fuel his destructive craving for Dust. It was then that he made the ultimate betrayal, a heart-wrenching decision that would forever haunt Zariyah.
One fateful night, in a haze of addiction-fueled madness, her father sold his only daughter to a contract broker. As a child, Zariyah had no choice but to obey him as he cruelly made her sign away the greater portion of her life. “To save our livelihoods”, he told her, the lie as bitter now as it was then.
She continued with the rest of her little tale, and I gradually grew bored. It was, for the most part, an account of places that I did not know, of names that had no meaning, and of a time before my coming to this world.