The House Kouronne grew up in was small, nearly every Miqo’te in Bahz Bahn lived in a small house, mansions were reserved for the Garlean governors and those who had embraced the empire when it had arrived, a full ten years before Kouronne’s birth.
He didn’t mind the small size of the worn out home perched like a heron above the swampy marsh on sturdy wooden stilts, didn’t notice the luxuries it lacked; he was a child and a child’s home—and the people in it—are the whole world.
The sun had set and Kouronne was carefully peeling the skin off camas roots so he could add them to the pot of fish stew that boiled day and night. Every family had their own secret blend of herbs and spices that went into the stew, foraged vegetables and illegally hunted meat added nutrition and texture that changed the stew constantly. Kouronne’s mother, Brass, had disappeared like she often did after dark and he had been left behind to care for his sister, who sat a few feet away playing with painted rocks in the middle of the floor.
The knife Kouronne was peeling with glinted in the flickering lamplight and then it disappeared, slipping from his chubby fingers. He moved to catch it instinctively and he did, grabbing the glittering blade tightly.
He yelped and dropped it again, narrowly missing his dirty bare toes. The whole world seemed to stop on its axis as he examined the gash, three inches long where palm met fingers, then dark red blood welled up and the pain hit him.
With a loud cry he doubled over, cradling his injured hand to his chest. Hot tears filled his eyes and blocked his throat, choking his voice off. Snow white ears flattened against his curly hair and his tail, normally energetic and animated, was lowered and stiff as a board.
There was the clattering of rocks as Konoe leapt up and ran to him, her blood red ears alert and swiveling for any signs of danger, though what a six year old could do in such a situation was a mystery. When she saw Kouronne curled up in a ball she crouched down and crawled toward him.
“There ain’t no point in crying over a little scratch like that.” She pulled his hand toward her and forced his fingers apart with surprising strength. The act caused his cut to widen and blood oozed sluggishly onto his palm. Despite her harsh words, there were tears in Konoe’s eyes. She held Kouronne’s hand tightly between both of hers and squeezed gently; as she did so, white light glowed from between her fingers and the pain subsided.
She pulled her hands away to reveal a fresh pink scar where the wound had been.
“Well I’ll be the son of a Garlean.” Kouronne breathed out a shaky sigh of relief, a grin spreading across his face.
“Watch your profanity!” Konoe scolded, but she couldn’t restrain her own joyous giggle.