Subtleties

Subtleties

The differences are subtle, to say the least.  Especially at this age, when it is hard enough to differentiate between boys and girls, let alone between elf and half-elf.  Most children have something decidedly elfin about them, anyway, so it seems absurd that such a pittance of differences should matter as much as they do, but there you have it.

Perhaps it is something in the ears, which extend to a point at the top, but are not as long and animated as they should be.  Perhaps it is something in the eyes, which are slanted and a vibrant green and shaped like almonds, but not, perhaps, as large as they should be.  Perhaps it is something in the freckles, which wiggle their way over the pale skin, keeping it just short of the golden perfection that it should be.

Riku, himself, is quite sure it is the hair, which is bright and coloured like a carrot, and cropped short so that he cannot even hide his woe begotten ears from sight, instead of a lovely, pale shade of brown or blonde, like it should be.

Yes, the differences are subtle (except, perhaps, for that last), but they are differences just the same, and there are times when it seems to Riku that the differences are all that matter.

Take, for example, the following:

“My mother says you’re half-human,” says a little boy with beautiful long hair so blonde it’s almost white, and ears that are quite long and animated, and large eyes and perfect skin, free of embarrassing freckles.  He says “human” as though this is something to be ashamed of, and because Riku has never heard the word with any other inflection, he assumes it must be so.  He wants to deny it, of course, but his face is flaming in embarrassment, highlighting the freckles strewn carelessly across his nose, and his not-pointy-enough ears are almost as red as his hair and even at his age, which is somewhere near six in human years, and somewhere near sixty in Elven years, and is exactly at ten-and-a-half in half-elf years, he understands that to deny this particular jab is pointless and would be lying.  So instead he settles for shrinking behind his ball and trying to pretend that the other little boys aren’t there.

“My mother says you’re a bastard,” adds another little boy, who is once against perfect in every way.  His ears quirk with eagerness and satisfaction, as though he has been waiting a long time to use this word.  It is, Riku reflects, an ugly word, and he wonders briefly what it means.  It has an aura of cursing around it, however, and he’s pretty sure he’s not allowed to say it.

“Leave me alone,” he manages, his voice muffled behind the ball he’s hugging.  He turns around to attempt to continue his game, but yet another boy has moved behind him when he was focused on the others and now grins cruelly at him.

“My father says you’re a filthy half-breed and you probably have rabies,” he says.  He shoves Riku roughly.  “Do you have rabies, half-breed?”  Riku drops the ball and clenches his fists, the sudden, physical contact frightening him.

“I don’t have rabies,” he snaps.  He wants to add the boy’s name, and he wants to say it the same way the first boy said “human,” but as with most proper elven names it is nearly impossible to say unless you’ve had at least sixty years of speaking the language, and Riku, unfortunately, has only had ten-and-a-half.  He does not want to provide the boys with further weapons to use against him, so he forces himself to settle for insisting he does not have rabies.

“Yes you do,” says the first boy, perfect elven mouth twisting into a cruel smirk he has to have learned from a parent – it is not a natural expression for what is essentially an eight year old.  Riku turns to face him, but in doing so makes the mistake of turning his back on the third little boy, who shoves him again, harder this time.  Riku – perhaps not as dextrous as he should be – stumbles beneath the force of the push and trips, landing hard on his hands and knees, scraping them both.  All three boys laugh and Riku doesn’t dare look up or move for fear he will say or do something very human indeed.

“If you don’t have rabies,” says the second boy, “then where did all those spots come from?”  Still laughing, they leave Riku where he is, taking his ball with them.

Riku remains on his hands and knees, head bowed and shaking.  The part of him that is elven wants to shrug off this assault and carry on with his games as this is the best way of defeating something like this.  The part of him that is not-elven-enough wants to chase down those boys, even though they’re bigger than him, and do something very not-elven to them.  The part of him that is six-years-old in human years wants to crawl into his mother’s lap and cry.

Eventually, Riku opts for the latter.

***

The differences are subtle, to say the least.  Especially when the boy is smiling and laughing and looking so very much like his mother.  But it is rare when Caeranthil’fel’daerwin ever sees the boy smiling and laughing, because, as happens now, the instant the boy realizes he’s come into the room the smile fades, and the laughter dies, and he shrinks back against his mother as though he means to hide there.

Perhaps it is something in his face, which is elegant and defined like his mother’s, with pronounced bones, and attractive angles, but also with a cut of jaw that does not come from House Daerwin.  Perhaps it is in his movements, which were steady and simple, like those of his mother’s, but carry a heaviness, a lack of subtlety that was neither learned nor inherited from either Caeranthil or his wife, but especially not from Caeranthil.  Perhaps it is in his speech, which is quiet and hesitant, except around his mother, but thick with an accent the boy could never hope to live long enough to erase.

Riku, himself, is quite sure it is the hair, which is quite unlike any hair to have ever graced (or cursed) the head of a Daerwin.

“Why are your clothes ripped?”  Caeranthil demands, frowning darkly at the torn knees in Riku’s pants.  He does not wait for Riku’s explanation.  He never does.  “I have told you a thousand times, Riku, but you just don’t listen, do you?  I do my best to keep you fed and clothed and this is how you repay me?  By destroying the things I buy for you?”  Riku wants to argue.  He wants to defend himself.  He wants to say that the other boys pushed him down, and he didn’t mean to rip his pants, and he’s not the one who keeps him fed and clothed anyway, it’s his mother, and if it weren’t for her, even ten-and-a-half-year-old Riku understands that Caeranthil wouldn’t bother to keep him fed and clothed for long, but he doesn’t.  He’s long since learned the hard way that defending yourself is the same as talking back, and that’s liable to get him in more trouble.  So instead he sits quietly in his mother’s arms, and stares back at Caeranthil’s angry, accusatory gaze, and wishes he knew what he’d done to make Caeranthil hate him so much, and wishes that maybe just this once his mother would say something to defend him.  But he doesn’t know, and she remains silent.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, almost afraid to speak.  Speaking never helps, but if he stays quiet too long, that doesn’t help either.

“You are not sorry,” Caeranthil snaps, frowning.  “You never are.  That’s the problem with you.  You are a selfish, misbehaved boy, who doesn’t deserve half of what he has.  I want you to give me your ball.  You can have it back in a week if you behave yourself.”  Riku, remembering briefly that the boys who had caused him to rip his pants had also walked off with his ball, shrinks further back into his mother’s arms.  “Well?”  Demands Caeranthil.  “Go and fetch it.”  Riku suddenly wants to cry.

“I can’t,” he says, looking afraid.  Caeranthil’s expression is ice.

“Why not?”  He demands, and Riku fights back tears.  He knows where it goes from here.

“There were some boys,” he tries to explain.  “They took—”  But Caeranthil slams his hand down on the table.

“Dammit, Riku,” he snarls, “I’ve had it up to here with your lies.  Elven boys would not steal from you.  Stealing is a human thing.  Lying is a human thing.  Tell me the truth.  What happened to your ball?”  Riku struggles to speak around the burning in his eyes and throat.  He doesn’t want to cry.  Crying will be seen as an admission of guilt, and he is not guilty.  He knows that.  He tries again.

“They stole—”

“Go to your room,” interrupts Caeranthil flatly, wearily.  The ice has not left his expression.  It never does.  “I’m tired of looking at you.”  Lower-lip trembling, Riku climbs off of his mother’s lap without argument and heads toward the stairs, pausing at the bottom to strain his not-pointy-enough ears.  Behind him his mother speaks at last.

“Caeranthil, he’s just a boy—”

“He’s not my boy,” Caeranthil snaps back, and Riku can take it no longer.  He flees up the stairs.

***

The differences are subtle, to say the least.  Especially when the story is exciting enough to draw him out from behind the tree he likes to hide behind and a little closer to the back of the group of children gathered around and staring up at Zojikoe with wide eyes.  Zoe has been testing him for the last few days, attempting to find the exact recipe for a story that would draw him as close as possible, intrigued by this little red-headed creature.

Perhaps it is something in his size, being, as he is, a good deal smaller than the other children his own age.  Perhaps it is something in his stance, which suggests a kind of constant, anticipatory guilt, as though afraid at any moment he will make a misstep and find himself in trouble.  Perhaps it is something in the distance he is careful to keep between himself and the other children, as though approaching near them would be one such misstep.

Riku, himself, is quite sure it is the hair which has caught Zojikoe’s attention and held it, and is gripped by a sudden, violent terror whenever the tall elf glances in his direction, convinced that he is somehow offensive to Zoe’s sight.  He does not want to be sent away.  He likes Zojikoe’s stories.  He does not want Zojikoe to think he is a half-breed, lying, bastard, and is terrified that his hair will give him away.

Zojikoe thinks this is cute.

So today, Zojikoe comes at the square by a new route, instead of the usual one.  A route that winds behind the tree the little red-headed creature is so fond of.  As per usual the little boy is there early, buried in the tree’s shadow and watching the road ahead of him for some sign of Zojikoe – who is, of course, behind him.

“Hello,” says Zoe, soft-spoken and pleasant as always.  The boy gasps and whirls around, startled and frightened.  For a half-second, Zoe is convinced he is going to run, but he seems frozen in place, brilliant-green eyes wide, freckles standing out starkly against his pale skin.  “My name is Zojikoe,” Zoe says kindly, bending over to look at the boy better, bracing his hands against his knees.  “You can call me Zoe.  What’s your name?”  The boy winces.

“I’m … Riku,” he says quietly enough that even Zoe, with longer than average ears, as to lean in to hear him.  “Riku Sephiroth.”  It is an ugly name, and Riku knows it.  Sephiroth is not an Elven house – Caerantil agreed to adopt him, but refused to give him his last name – and the word “Riku”, in Elven, means Outcast.  This is why he hates introducing himself.  Because people never react well to his name.

But Zojikoe, with the usual grace and ease, does not react beyond a twitch of the ears and a pleasant jangling of earrings.  The smile does not fade from his face.

“Well, Riku, do you know that I’ve been watching you?”  Zoe asks, with a friendly smile.  “I know you like my stories because every time I come to tell them you’re here, but I’m wondering why you stay so far back.  It must be hard to hear me sometimes, all the way back here.”

“N-No, ma’am,” Seraph all but gasps.  “I can h-hear.”  He winces and shifts nervously from foot to foot.  “I’m sorry, ma’am.”  Zojikoe looks amused.

“Oh,” he says with a slight chuckle, “I’m not a—”

“Zoe!”  The name is drawn out, and high-pitched.  It is, most assuredly, a whine.  Zojikoe looks up.  A little Elven girl waits impatiently with a growing crowd of other children.  She peers at him pleadingly.  “It’s story time!”

“Yeah!”  Says a little boy eagerly.  “Tell us the one about the dragon!  Please?”  His eyes fall on Riku who is once again trying to hide behind the tree.  He leans over to on of his friends and whispers something which causes the other to laugh.  Zoe’s ears flick again, though his pleasant expression doesn’t change.  He turns back to Riku.

“Why don’t you come up and sit beside me?”  He asks.  “You’ll have a much better time.”  Riku, for a brief moment, looks shocked at the offer, and then desperately hopeful.

“Really?”  He asks quietly, shifting his weight again.  “You think….”  But his eyes fall on the little boys who are laughing outright now, and shooting him un-furtive glances over their shoulders.  He shrinks into himself.  “No, I better not.”

“Well why not?”  Zoe demands suddenly.  “Because of those boys?”  He sniffs.  “They’re just jealous, Riku.  Don’t mind them at all.”  Riku looks startled.

“J-Jealous?”  He says.

“Of your hair, of course,” Zojikoe says with a bright smile, and, Riku is shocked to realize, he means it.  “None of them have anything quite so lovely as this.”  He stokes Riku’s hair in an affectionate manner, then taps Riku’s nose with a long, tapered finger.  “Now come on.  I have a story to tell.”  He holds out his hand and hesitantly, Riku takes it, allowing Zoe to lead him back towards the gathered group of children, helpless to do anything but stare.

The differences are subtle, to say the least.