A Lack of Color [Finished!]

[Bee]

There wasn't much to do as a seven-year-old in the Lowlands, especially if one were a particularly astute seven-year-old. He'd played with the other kids, but all of them hated each other, and most of them resented Mirek for one reason or another, calling him stuck-up and high-and-mighty just because he could read.

He'd also read everything in his house and in the surrounding area. Some of it several times. He usually stuck to nonfiction; he got tired of seeing villain Lowlanders in most of the stories he'd come across. In children's books, they were even more outlandishly evil than normal novels, and he could only seethe in outrage for so long before he got tired or distracted by something shiny.

Which was the point at which he usually took a walk. His neighborhood (and entire region, really), was not really known for its lush scenery, but one little homestead had what could be called a garden. The woman there had managed, though surely superhuman effort, to cultivate a modest patch of land. No mean feat in soil known for being pretty much death on anything stuck into it.

But there was no woman there, today. Mirek heard a rumor that she had died. And when he passed, he didn't see her, but rather the girl who looked to be a younger version of her. Maybe the rumor was true, then.

He eyed the garden and the girl a little sadly. Too many people died here.

[Dark]

Iskra sat in the sunshine and tried very hard to forget the angry things her father had shouted that morning when she’d asked about the garden--the neighbors didn’t even bother to come out anymore to see what was amiss, and Iskra hated them all the more for it--mother’s garden, which was already beginning to wither from neglect. It was dieing. Soon it would be dead, just like mother.

Iskra curled in on herself; if she’d had the patience to learn weed from flower when she’d had the chance, and how to coax green things from rocky, unforgiving soil, than maybe the garden could have lived where her mother had not. Flowers were simple, mother had often said, if you knew how to look after them. There had been nothing simple about her mother’s illness.

She wouldn’t cry--father would know--so instead she took out her grief on what she knew to be weeds, ripping them up viciously. The weeds were spiny and hurt her paws--mother’s gloves were in the shed--but it seemed a small price to pay. Maybe, if she worked very hard, she could save the garden, at least.

[Bee]

He stared at the garden a little longer when he noticed the girl beginning to tear furiously at the ground. The woman must have been dead, then. The girl looked viciously unhappy.

He walked over curiously, half-hoping she would notice him approaching so he wouldn't have to introduce himself. She was also, he noticed suddenly, remarkably free of rot. He grimaced, feeling very conscious of his side, and the organs that were already exposed, filmed over by a layer of sticky mucus. He had never felt bad about it before. Some people had worse rot, after all. He could almost view it as some kind of badge of pride.

But now all he could think about was the fact that the girl was probably going to think he smelled and was gross.

Still. He had already gotten this far, and he was used to other kids finding him off-putting. Screw her dead mommy and her milkman if she thought he was icky--he stopped the train of thought. He was getting needlessly defensive.

"Hi," he said. "Need any help?"

[Dark]

Iskra didn’t liked people to sneak up on her, and she especially didn’t like it when she didn’t notice them doing it; she whirled around with something sharp hovering on the tip of her tongue, and at the last moment thought better of it. He didn’t seem like he meant any harm--he was rather pathetic and miserable looking, actually--and she was angrier for him catching her almost-not crying than anything else, and that wasn’t exactly his fault. And, the truth was, she could use the help.

Father wouldn’t approve of her talking to strangers, but he would approve of her working in the garden, either, and that was particularly stopping her. Especially after the things he had said. He wouldn’t be home until late, besides. What was the harm?

Slowly, she nodded, “There‘s a trowel over there ya can use.” Remembering her manners--mother had insisted on them--she attempted a smile, “’m Iskra.”

[Bee]

"Mirek," he said, offering a smile of his own. "Pleased to meet you thanks."

She seemed nice. So he grabbed the trowel awkwardly in his paws and set about unearthing some of the more stubborn weeds. He was a little depressed by how quickly the effort wore him out. Underfed Lowlanders working in the hot sun: apparently not advisable. Noted!

One day...he would have all the food he wanted, and more. He could taste the slow-roasted rat...

He realized he was drifting off a bit--and drooling a little bit, ew; it was bad enough that he was oozing in front of her--and tried to concentrate on ripping weeds from the ground. Great bushy tumbleweeds, it was hot out. "You should come over," he said suddenly. "When we're done here. We've got iced tea. We even..." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "...have plums."

[Dark]

Iskra loved and thrived in the sun--one of the advantages of being a reptile, she supposed--but she could see that Mirek was slowing down, despite his best intentions, and she didn’t want to work him so hard that he dropped dead, which she was beginning to worry might be a distinct possibility with that rot of his. She didn’t think she could take another death so shortly after--

“’m not really suppose’ ta leave the house…” but ice tea sounded lovely--mother had always set it out to steep in a big jar on warm days like today--and, “Never had a plum, before.” Father would be angry if he came home to find her missing, and Nereus would worry, but--he had left her at home alone to begin with, hadn’t he? and father would just find something else to be angry about, regardless.

Feeling daring, and wanting to get Mirek out of the sun as soon as possible, she scrambled to her feet, “Let’s go.”