Ronninflea: Chapter IV

An Eternal Guardians Continued Story by Mire, Guilbeau, Angelle, & Boudreaux

                      IV.

"Flea!  Flea, wake up!" A hissing whisper pierced the darkness of the room and the weighted blanket of sleep.  Flea jumped, but not from being awoken.  He had not slept very well last night; he had not the past two nights, either.  Since he learned of his departure from his family and friends--well, family, at least--Flea had been a nervous wreck.  He would often hide in small spaces and sneak off into the woods for long periods of time.  However, no matter how far he went or how long he stayed, it did not help.  His leaving was unavoidable. And so, therefore, was his fear.  He could not run away, could not escape, and could not rectify matters...and now the day was here.  He jumped in one last ditch effort to escape reality.

"Flea!" the whisper came again.

"Coming, Father," Ronninflea responded.  He rolled out of bed and peaked out the window.  The sun had not even risen yet.  Getting dressed in the new clothes that his mother had sewn especially for the occasion, Ronninflea took a deep breath and walked out into the hall.  Not only was Lasikor standing there with his arms folded and his face as flat as ever, but nearly every member of Flea's family stood behind him--excepting the littlest, still snug in bed.  

Cavillon had set out a luxurious breakfast platter, a real feast for the poor family, yet Ronninflea could do nothing but watch the others eat it.  He stared at Oreollivan, who stared back at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears; she was trying to be brave for her brother.  Mikelvic hid his emotions as well, though he did so better than Oreollivan.  Flea had always been more of a pest than a companion.  Still, he was going to miss him.  Though Mikelvic would never admit it, wished he could take back all the bad things he had said to and about his younger brother.

Flea ate slowly, partly because it was a struggle to eat at all, and partly because he wanted to drag out these last few moments with his family.  Oreollivan, Madarat, and Milloranan picked up on the plot and did their best to assist.  However, Lasikor's impatience eventually won out.

"There is no use in pretending you're going to eat it," Lasikor said, bringing the stressed breakfast to an abrupt end.  "Leave it for the little ones; let's go."

Everyone rose from the table, presenting Ronninflea with a string of emotional faces.  The family was never one for tearful goodbyes, but this was an exception.  The youngest siblings hugged Ronninflea's legs and kissed him farewell, some crying so that they could not speak.  Milloranan, especially, was in a pathetic state.  Next to Oreollivan, she had been closest to Flea in both age and affection.  Oreollivan gave him a long, crushing hug.  With her face hidden from him, she lost control of her tears; they slid silently down her face like a stream, and she held her breath to smother her sobs.  Flea wished it was she going with him instead of Lasikor.  

********

Ronninflea watched with new eyes the little sea-side town he had lived in all his life.  It would probably be the last time he ever saw it, and he wanted to remember every detail.  He took a long look at On the Rocks, Madame Rock's voice spilling out of the open front door, easily rising above the shouts and laughter that also issued from the bar.  If only he could turn back time...

Lasikor pushed Flea forward, past the bar, past the net mender's hut, where Old Skilp was, as usual, busy at her delicate work.  She waved to them as they passed by.  The colorful cloths on display in front of the general store swayed in the salty wind.  The smell of fresh bread and old fish filled the air.  People were everywhere, doing numerous different types of people-things.  He closed his eyes tight, to make sure the picture was firm in his mind and would stay clear there always; he tried so hard to remember that he forgot to be afraid, and he and Lasikor made it all the way to the docks without any incident.  

The ship upon which Ronninflea was to sail to Vinturion was called The Water Lily.  It was painted an extravagant blue and—to Flea—looked very inviting.  Its owner, however, did not.  Joss was tall, broad in the shoulders and even more so in girth.  He did not look the part of an active captain of a well-employed passenger vessel.  Ronninflea could not quite reconcile this discrepancy in appearances and, after a moment, ceased trying.  Joss stopped to stand merely two feet from him, and looked him over from head to toe, a pleased expression on his scrunched face.  Then he came closer, until Flea could smell the smoke on his breath, and stared into Flea's eyes, studying his face.  Apparently, he found something there dissatisfying.  Turning to Lasikor, he said indignantly.

"This is yer lad?"

Lasikor merely inclined his head.

"'E doesn't look like 'e's worked a day in 'is life."

"I am sure he will prove fit for your purposes, and if you find him unsatisfactory, you may do with him as you will, as previously stated."

Flea turned to look at his father with wide, frightened eyes.  Surely he had misunderstood the exchange.  He shivered and backed away a pace as Joss looked him over once again, one colorless blue eye squinted shut, one open.  

"A'right," he said finally.  "'E can't do any damage ere, anyway, and 'e may throw a profit in Raling."

Lasikor would not look at his son.

"Dad?" Flea said confusedly.

Lasikor began to walk away.

"Dad." --pleadingly.

"Dad!" Panicking now.

Lasikor disappeared behind a wagonload of barrels, and had turned a corner out of sight by the time it rolled past.  Joss grabbed Ronninflea by the tail of his tattered shirt before Flea could make an honest run.  

"C'mere, boy, you got work to do.  Ay, lad!" A slender, young elven youth who had been stacking crates feet away during the entire exchange stepped forward.

"Yessir?"

"Take this slug down ta the kitchens and give 'im to Skatt.  Won't be gud for much else 'n cook work," he added, muttering.  

The cabin boy grasped Ronninflea firmly, yet gently, by the arm and pulled him to the ship.

Ronninflea: Chapter III

An Eternal Guardians Continued Story by Mire, Guilbeau, Angelle, & Boudreaux


                        III.

"You can't do this!"

It was dark, inside and outside.  Only the faintest starlight penetrated a small hole in the roof of the cave, spotlighting the four elves gathered in the dingy cavern.  They were gathered in a circle, the hard boulders which normally served as stools forgotten.  The tension in the air was palpable; all stood as if poised to run.

"Keep your voice down, Oreollivan."

Oreollivan glared at her father, tears gathering in her eyes.  "You can't send him away!"

"Orrie, it would be a better life for him.  There are learned persons of medicine there who could help him.  It would be a quiet, undisturbed life.  It is just what he has always needed." Cavillon's clear blue eyes were also filled with tears, but her voice was as firm as her husband's.  She was truly convinced that the present circumstances were impossible to maintain, and that this option was not only the most viable option, but the best one for her second son.

"It's an asylum!" The indignant protest was a screech as fear drenched Oreollivan.  She would have never thought that their mother would support this. Father, perhaps, but not Mother.  How could they even be considering this?  "He's your son!  You cannot just send him away!"

"It is--" Mikelvic began, but their father cut him off.

"What would you suggest we do?" Lasikor's burning violet eyes penetrated his daughter's anger and fear.  He was a hard man; poverty, suffering, and the deaths of several of his children had made him so.  His hair, once as black as the cloak of a vampire, was now as grey as steel.  Fittingly, both similes also described his personality.  Oreollivan felt her father's resolve; it was infectious, but not in the way he would have liked.  Her emotion drained, leaving only her will, cold and hard as her father's eyes.  

"I do not know," her voice was rock, emotionless, steady, firm.  Mikelvic's eyes narrowed.  She was lying.  She knew exactly what she thought should happen.  What was she planning?  He scrutinized her unrevealing features as the silence swelled.

"When...when does he leave?" Oreollivan finally spoke.

"In three days.  A ship leaves for Vinturion then."

A new jolt rippled through Oreollivan.  Vinturion!  The roughest, furthest, most impoverished of the sister-islands.  It was racked with civil war, inhabited by some of the odder races on Yendys, far worse than Tabar.  What sort of asylum could exist there?  What sort of place, really, did her father intend to send her little brother?  Her parents were the ones who were insane, not Ronninflea.

"Could...could I go with him?"

"You?  Enter the asylum?" Three disbelieving elves gaped at her.

"No," Oreollivan sighed.  "Could I bring him there?  Just to drop him off.  Just to say goodbye."  Despite her plan and her resolve, a lump grew in her throat.  She swallowed, aching and finding it difficult to breathe, refusing to look at her family.  

"No." Lasikor turned away.  "That task is mine."

Mikelvic went in the opposite direction of his father, his feet leading him to the door and out into the moonless night.  Oreollivan was left alone with her mother.

"It...It is for the best.  It is.  There's no other way." Cavillion sounded as though she were trying to convince herself; her voice broke on the last syllable and she turned swiftly, following her husband further into the cave.  Oreollivan stood by herself beneath the hole in the roof, her chin high, her arms crossed.  She stared at nothing as she beheld visions of the future she would create.  

Ronninflea: Chapter II

An Eternal Guardians Continued Story by Mire, Guilbeau, Angelle & Boudreaux


                              II.

"Flea!" the shrill voice of his youngest brother pierced the air as the lad walked through the entrance to the cave.  A small body came rushing from the dark interior of the cave, crashing into his legs with astonishing force.  

"Flea!" several squeaks followed, and soon a small mob had surrounded the elder boy, pinning his feet to the floor.  Ronninflea smiled and petted Madarot and Milloranan on the head.  "Where's mother, Millie?" he inquired of his sister, twisting her golden locks about his brown and calloused fingers.  She was the fourth child, second to Flea, but still too young to work.  She stared at him with pale, knowing eyes, searching his face.  Ronninflea knew that she was aware something was off.  Yet she did not press him.  She merely pointed past the sitting room and to the right.  Mother was in the kitchen.  Ronninflea nodded, swallowed quickly, and steeled himself to face his mother.  Little kids fell from him like molting feathers as he traversed the dark hole in the ground they had for years called home.

"Flea, is that you?" a voice came to him.  Flea swallowed, cold with dread.  His mother was neither harsh nor cruel nor aggressive, but Flea did not want to have to explain things to her.  He knew she would not understand any more than Mikelvic did, and he also did not want to face his own failure.

"Yes, Mother, I am here."

Cavillon came out of the kitchen.  She was a tall woman, broad in the shoulders and small in the waist.  Her hair was a pale yellow streaked with grey, though by elven standards she was young yet.  Hardship and loss had carved trenches in the skin about her mouth and eyes.  She looked at Ronninflea with a green gaze that was so very tired.

"What happened?" she inquired, her voice flat, dead.  She knew the story already.  It was the most recent in a never ending series of re-runs.  The smaller children noticed their mother's expression, her tone, the way she leaned against the wall with her arms folded, and they fled, leaving their older brother to stutter out his story with no audience but Mother and Millie.  

The story was soon told, and Ronninflea stood, fidgeting; he scratched one leg with his other foot, twisted his hands behind his back, and awaited his sentence.  However, his mother did not say a word.  She merely turned and went back to straightening up the remainders of the noonday meal.  Ronninflea blinked, only half surprised (his mother had not made any effort to chastise him in a long time) and finally left the room himself.  He left the house, in fact, and went down to the stream.

Ronninflea was well aware that he was not normal.  Oreollivan and Mikelvic were able to work without ever getting into any sort of trouble.  And while sometimes Ronninflea found himself frozen in place covered in a cold sweat and unable to breathe for no literally no reason at all, his younger siblings were quite lively and curious beings.  Oh, yes, Ronninflea knew that there was something wrong with him; no one else had the problems that he did.  The question was...what exactly WAS wrong with him?

To that, Ronninflea had no answer.  He could not remember a time when he had never been afraid of the dark or the creepy cats that lurked within it.  He had always feared nurses and knives and sudden noises.  Oreollivan had, a multitude of times, told him--gone to great lengths to SHOW him--that there was nothing to fear, that these things would not harm him.  Yet that did not help.  Mikelvic's less-than-encouraging shouting and shaking didn't, either.

Ronninflea swirled his toes in the warm, shallow water.  He wished that he could just "get over it" as Mik said.  He wished he could say he had tried.  But he couldn't.  When the fear gripped him, all he knew was that he couldn't breathe.  Nothing mattered except getting away from the danger.  He replayed the scene at the bar in his head as he watched the ripples.  A few salty tears rolled down his nose to join the freshwater at his feet.  The hardest part was not accepting that he was odd...useless…yes, even crippled.  He had known that for far too long to still be struggling with it.  No, the worst part was the look in his mother's eyes every time she saw him, the way Oreollivan had begun to give up defending him.  In a family where everyone had to be productive, Ronninflea was not only NOT helpful, but a pain.  He had brought nothing but suffering to those he loved.  They deserved better.