I have not been answered...

Will you save my home...? 

For those who remember me, I am back. Here is the thread I am originally from. The second Castle, in the Tavern:

http://www.cricketmagkids.com/chatterbox/inkwell/node/443232

You can try to guess who I am, by the way. 

~~

I walk down the street. The sun is rising, casting a golden glow around everything, including me. 

I've left my village, because if there's one thing my time at the tavern taught me, it's that you can't wait around for the world to take pity on you.

I'm on a quest.

The shops are opening, and the other street kids are coming out. My hand moves to my collar, to make sure my treasure is there. It is, and I wrap my hand around it protectively.

I've never told anyone why it's so important to me.

The baker's shop is opening, and wonderful smells are drifting out the open window. I walk in, and the baker hands me a stale bun from last night. 

It's surprisingly delicious. I walk out of the shop, bun in hand, and find a spot on the fountain wall to eat. A couple people eye me suspiciously, but it's none of their business how I got here or why I'm not with an adult.

A familiar looking man walks by and I stand up suddenly, crumbs falling from my skirt.

But I sit down again. The boy I'm looking for wouldn't be a man yet. Yet.

The word echoes in my head. What if I don't recognize him? What if he doesn't remember me? I shake off the thoughts and watch the sun rise, finishing my bun.

I might find another kindred spirit today. I've learned to look for them in the most unlikely places.

~~

To those who wish to know:

I am a child, around twelve years old, now. I'm still wearing a dirty dress, but yellow instead of red, now. My feet are no longer bare, and I'm wearing scuffed boots, one size too big. I still have my silver necklace, and I still have it tucked in my dress. My dark brown hair is still brushed back neatly. I'm taller than before.

From the very beginning, way back in that dungeon, I have passed through hundreds of years and yet not found my answer. I fall off the lips of weeping babes, begging women, and dying soldiers. It's quite simple, really. As the lamplighter boys put flames to wicks in glass cages, I stare at the setting sun, whispering:

Will you save my home...? 

I walk along the cobbled road.  Keeping close to the edge as carts and wagons clatter past.  The basket on my arm is full of herbs and plants.  Products of my early morning gathering trip.  I glance upwards for a moment and realize I am passing the town tavern.  Memories assail me, and I pause. It is a different tavern than the one that matters to me, but it brings back memories.  Painless memories that come with a little ache of longing.  I was a so different then.

I met so many people since the time I visited that tavern.  Not one was a kindred spirit.  Ophelia, the one who mattered to me -- I lost her, though I think I will see her again.  Kindred spirits never really loose each other. 

Now I protect and save people from an invisible danger.  Not the danger of raiders and cruelty.  It is a danger, so much different from the danger I used to protect others from.  I am the town healer.

I still carry a dagger.  Not for defense purposes now -- though it is the same dagger -- but for cutting plants and cloth.  The quiver and bow hang in my small home, next to the door.  Unused unless I cannot buy food.  My dark blonde hair is pulled into a low bun.  My tunic is clean, longer, and dark red in color.  Pants still encase my legs, though they are mostly hidden by the length of my tunic.  My cloak is unpatched.  I look different and yet I am still much the same.

I have a home, regular food, and friendly neighbors.  But sometimes I feel trapped.  Like the buildings of the town are compressing me.  Those are the times when I escape and wander in the meadows and woods, gathering plants for my healing job.  I am starting to feel more restless though.  Perhaps it is time to move on.  I never stay in one place for long.

I turn a corner on to another street.  A clump of fallen children are at the end, legs kicking and arms waving.  I see a chicken dart behind a pile of rubbish and guess at what happened to the children.  I frown.  Chasing poultry for sport is something I dislike.  Do not torment others, animal or human.

I take a step down the street and freeze.  A girl in a yellow dress and scuffed shoes stands a ways in front of me.  At first I cannot place why she seems familiar.  But a moment later I know.  Ophelia. My kindred spirit. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I am also from The Tavern Castle.  I went as "An Unusual Maiden" then.  From now on I will go as "The Healer". 

The group of children rush past my hiding place.  Pursuing a chicken that squawks and runs.  I wish I could help it.

Once the children are past I dart from my hiding place and behind a shrub.  I see a child fall and watch with satisfaction as the rest of the children fall on top of the first.  I smile when the chicken runs behind rubbish.  The chicken hides, just like me.

Those children taunt me.  "Bad luck boy", they call me.  "Unwanted boy", "Mouse boy", "Spotty face", "Chicken head"  I often wish I could strike them down.  I cannot help being an orphan.  I can do nothing about my freckles, my ragged hair.  But what can I do against so many?  So I hide, mouse like, in trees and bushes.  In the gaps between houses, under tables in the tavern.  And while I hide I plan revenge. Revenge that I will get someday when I'm older, and bigger.

A girl in a yellow dress stands in the street.  About four years older than I.  She is a stranger here.  I would know her if she wasn't. I envy her clothes, her shoes, her neat hair.  My clothes are but rags, my shoes nonexistent.  My hair sticks up in all directions, no matter how much water I use to smooth it down.

Beyond the girl I see the healer.  I look at her face and wonder at it.  Shock, then recognition flash across it.  The healer's face is usually a mask, empty of emotion.  How does the healer know this girl?  Why did the healer's emotions race across her face?  I must know the answers to these questions.  

So I dart again from behind the shrub and dash across the open street.  Making for a stooped wagon.  I run like the wind, hoping the children are distracted and won't notice me.  Luck is not with me, for I hear a scream of "Chicken head!" and the whole pack of children are racing after me, screaming. 

Kindred spirits do turn up in the most unusual places, don't they. My face breaks into a smile. It's her- a little older, a little different, but it's her. "Ophelia?" she says. "Yes!" It is her. Leah, the kindred spirit. "What brings you to this place?" she asks, walking over to me. "I'm looking for someone," I say. "What about you, Leah?" She smiles. "I'm a healer now."

I nod. We've all changed, since that night in the tavern. I sit, watching the chicken eating the leftover crumbs at my fountain seat.

Turning my attention to the other children, I wince. A freckled boy, eight years old, probably, is being chased. "I'll be right back," I say, standing up.

I walk over to the boy. He shies away, probably thinking I'm just here to tease him. "I'm not going to hurt you," I tell him. The children catch up.

I stand in front of the boy. "Stop," I tell them. "Go chase something else." Someone behind me screams. I jump, fists up, but no one's there. People are clustered around something on the floor, down the street. "Help!" someone shouts. I watch Leah grab her bag and run. She gives me a little wave, as if to say, "I'd love to talk but I'm needed elsewhere." 

It's alright. So am I. The freckled boy behind me shivers slightly. "Are you okay?" I ask him. "Yes. Thanks," he says quietly. I look at his feet, dirty and bare.

I can't give him my boots, though. My common sense won't let me. He's only eight years old, though. I had boots when I was eight years old. I might not have grown up priveleged, exactly, but I had boots.

"You can't," my common sense says firmly. I look into his eyes. They're the exact same color as the eyes of the boy I'm looking for. I take off my boots. "Here," I say. He slips them on. "Thank you," he says.

That boy will never know that the only reason I helped him was because he looked like someone I'm looking for. Someone I was awful to, but he still forgave me. 

"Are you hungry?" I ask him, deciding I'm going to do everything I can possibly do for this child. I don't know how he got here, but it's probably not a story I'm unfamiliar with.

So. This is how it feels to come home. I brush a strand of graying hair from my eyes, and look around. The basket on my arm feels heavier than ever before. My feet are weary, and I am tired. So tired. But I cannot stop looking.

I walk slowly down the streets of my hometown. It has changed in the years since I left it. No longer can I see young women in bright dresses dancing through the streets. There is no magic on these streets except, perhaps, for a peculiar chicken. A child is forced to give up her boots for a boy even younger than herself.

No. These are not the streets that I walked in my youth. I don’t know why I came back. My son cannot be here, not in this world of thieves and orphans.

And yet, somehow, I cannot bring myself to leave. There is still beauty in these streets. The wonder of the healer who has found her kindred spirit. The charity of the girl who gives up her boots and allows the chicken to eat her crumbs.

Yes, there are still beautiful things on these streets. They are just more carefully hidden than before.

For those to whom it concerns:

I am a small, battered-looking woman, with reddish brown hair, flecked with gray, that ought to be tied back but always manages to fly away. I am wearing a blue silk dress that hangs loosely around my frame, as if it was tailored for a larger woman. It is slightly torn and muddy around the hem, where it has dragged on the streets. My feet are encased in fine leather slippers, worn from many years of travel. I look, all in all, like a noble lady who has wandered far from the place where she has perfumed baths every day.

The early morning sun sneaks in through the windows, touching all that it can with bright, gentle fingers. I am already awake, but had I still been in the world of dreams, the sun would have opened my eyes.

As a tray slides into the oven, the door opens, letting in a child. Her dress is dirty and her boots are scuffed, and I do not recognize her. I know most of the children in the town, and I can say with near certainty that she is not one of them.

I can also say with near certainty that she is hungry. There is a basket of stale bread near the back door, destined for the chickens. Taking pity on the girl, I hand her a bun. With a nod of thanks, she leaves again.

I return to my work, quickly making another batch of dough for today's goods. I tip it out of the wooden bowl and begin to knead. Once it's incorporated, but not yet ready, I pause, wiping my hands on my apron. I cross the kitchen to my cabinet and open the doors.

Inside is an array of glass bottles, all different sizes, each neatly labeled in my precise handwriting. I purse my lips, then choose the round bottle labeled "contentment". I return to where I was working and uncork the bottle, allowing a small amount of the wispy substance inside to drift down and settle on the dough. Recorking it, I return the bottle to the cabinet, closing it safely inside. Only I can open my cabinet of gifts.

I finish kneading the dough, working the gift through every portion. Then I shape it into buns and into the oven it goes. These are my gifts to the people of the town. Small things, but things nonetheless. Contentment, trust, kindness, love; all things I give.

Given, and never taken.

@A question: Are you Starseeker?

@A baker: Are you Moondrop?