wordfart: me crying for 400 years abt micaiah and little sothe
sad raspberry noises, i am in tellius hellius
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"You're going to be mad with me," Sothe accuses, round little face set in a pout. Still, he makes no attempt to hide the knife, only a dull old blade with a rag for a hilt. By all rights, Micaiah should be mad with him. Instead, she smooths down his hair, making sure he can see her hand the entire time--a year in, and he is still skittish as a cat about being touched, though she can feel his satisfaction, no longer so grudging as it once was.
"Perhaps not. You might at least tell me why you feel you need a knife."
"To keep safe," he says with all the worldliness of a boy of seven. He insists that he is nine; Micaiah is not quite yet old enough that she can no longer keep track of beorc years. If anything, she feels them more keenly.
"These are not the back alleys you knew, Sothe," she tells him patiently. "Do you still feel unsafe with me?" It hurts to ask, but she needs to know--he is such a little scrap of humanity, and she knows for certain that if she does not care for him, no one will.
"I never said that," mullishly. "It's just for someday, is all." Someday, as if he expects to be alone again. There is a sour taste in the back of Micaiah's throat. Someday, he will use that knife, and someday, she will leave him. Today, she tells him to put the knife aside and teaches him to pick a lock, watching his eyes grow round as she works.
"I thought you were supposed to be good," Sothe accuses, wonderstruck. A smile tugs at the corner of Micaiah's lips.