context: jasveer jordayne mir has found employment with a pottery merchant based in the baazars of sunspear, who joined a caravan of travelling merchants far behind the courtiers and royals of dorne to highgarden.
setting: a large courtyard outside of highgarden's main castle gates, a free man is helping his new employer set up shop.
what: open starter.
(2/2)
mir crouched at the back of the stall, carefully stacking the pottery into neat pyramids, his fingers brushing over the smooth clay as if each piece had a heartbeat of its own, inherently careful not to cause something he could not afford to fix. the courtyard outside highgarden’s gates stretched wide, filled with merchants’ carts and tents, the cobbled stones warm under the midday sun. he could hear the murmur of nobles and merchants mingling, the clip of horse hooves on stone, the soft laughter of children darting between stalls. he liked the way the air here smelled—fresh bread from a nearby bakery, the tang of herbs, and the faint saltiness of water carried on the breeze from the honeywine river.
it reminded him vaguely of some distant fog, perhaps in another world it would have been home, though home was a word he no longer knew he had. home was a distant whisper he could not name, and so he was mir, the helper, the careful one, the man who could balance anything.
he adjusted a slightly wobbly jug at the top of one stack and felt a thrill of satisfaction as it settled, perfectly aligned, letting out a low whistle of relief. he liked the quiet concentration of arranging the pottery so that nothing would topple if a breeze caught the courtyard. his mind wandered briefly to the names of the different types of pots—he had learned to give them names in his head to try and separate between them, tiny items differentiated by their obvious physical feature. he did not know the exact name for them, but it was not like he was the one doing the talking. no, he did the carrying as he hummed softly, an improvised tune, letting the rhythm of his work carry him through the bright chaos of the market.
he noticed the man he was helping—a tall, wiry merchant with a hawkish nose and sharp eyes—interacting with a young noblewoman inspecting a set of painted cups. she turned each one carefully, admiring the glazes, and mir could see the merchant’s pride in her approval. his attention shifted suddenly as a flicker of motion caught the corner of his eye. a small boy, nimble and quick, was slipping a coin purse from the merchant’s belt. mir’s stomach knotted with recognition of danger, an instinctive flare that had saved him and kheerat so many months ago.
without thinking, he leapt from his crouch, abandoning the careful stacking of pots to pursue the thief. his feet were light on the cobbles, trained from years of balancing and hauling, and he found himself running, heart hammering, weaving between carts and onlookers - if he did not get to the boy first, the guards eventually would. he kept one eye on the boy, who darted like a shadow, unaware that the man chasing him was no ordinary market-goer.
the boy was fast, but mir was faster. he caught him near the fountain, a small, breathless thing with dirt-streaked cheeks and eyes that were more defiant than afraid. mir gripped the edge of his tunic, careful not to hurt him, feeling the slight tremor under his fingers. “you don’t want to do that,” he said quietly, breathing hard. “you’ll lose more than you gain.” the boy tried to twist away, but mir’s grip held. there was a flash of something — pity, perhaps, or memory.
he glanced back toward the merchant, who was busy attending the noblewoman, unaware of the near-theft behind him. mir’s hands were still on the boy’s shoulders, steadying him, and he realised that even in freedom, the instinct to protect and to intervene remained. he wondered briefly why he knew it would be wrong to let this go unchecked, why the reflex was so deeply rooted, as if born of something far older than himself. he was mir, yes, but a flicker in the mind whispered of other faces, of those he had left behind. the boy had stole. but the boy was poor. there was much worse in the world, was there not? he knew there was. the boy muttered something in the tongue of the city, sharp and scared, but mir shook his head.
“go,” he said finally, his voice hoarse as he got up from crouching. “just don’t take what isn’t yours.” he released him. the boy didn’t wait — he bolted through the crowd, vanishing like smoke, and mir watched until he was gone. his heart was still quick, but the steadiness was returning, the world settling back into its proper rhythm as he watched to ensure reach guards had not seen it happen. when he returned to the stall, the merchant was still arguing over coin. the lady with the painted bowls turned, curious, but mir only nodded to her politely and bent again to his work. one of the towers of pottery had wobbled slightly — he could see it from a distance. with quiet focus, he crouched and readjusted each piece until the balance returned, until everything sat as it should. his hands moved without hesitation, the same way they always did when the world tilted off its axis.
the merchant gave him a sharp look when he wandered back, and the man threw his hands up. "was just stretching my legs, muzamil." he replied, clearing his throat as he finally turned towards the customer - who, perhaps, had not yet realised they were more empty pocketed than they thought. they did not appear as though they had been stolen from. "...what can i get for you from the back?" he asked, his arms folded over his torso he stepped aside into the further rows of pottery, as though offering to play guide. he did not know whether he was any good at sales; he did not think so - but there were more days to this concord in this flowery land.
