The six year old girl sat in the field, concealed by the tall grass. Above, the sky was a rich blue, devoid of clouds. The bright summer sun beat down mercilessly causing even the birds to seek the shade, but she didn't care about that. Tears sparkled like diamonds against her swarthy cheeks, ignored utterly by the one shedding them. Crying would get her nowhere. It never had. She leaned to the side, pulling her cupped hand away from her nose. The blood that pooled in her palm was quickly wiped away on the ground but a heartbeat before her fingers wrapped around some stems and pulled. The handful of thin green stalks were then bundled up and pressed into place; a desperate way to soak up the thick liquid, but effective enough for her needs. It wouldn't do to stain her clothes, after all. The beating she had received at the hands of her siblings would be as nothing to the punishment meted out by her father's wife should she return home with stained clothing.
Why did they hate her so, she wondered for the umpteenth time. She saw how they were with each other; playful, happy and loving. But not a single shred of kindness had been spared for her insofar as she could remember. What had she done so wrong that all their scorn and derision should be reserved for her?
So lost was she in her pain, both physical and emotional, that she didn't hear the footsteps nearby. She didn't notice as they stopped, their owner turning to regard her curiously. When he moved closer, seating himself a little distance from her side, she leaned back, startled.
"Hello,' his voice was gentle, soft, like a man seeking to soothe a scared animal. "And who might you be?"
The girl just stared, wide-eyed and afraid. The adults she had encountered had been no better than the children. Although the villagers outside of her family had never raised a hand to her, they sometimes threw things and often called her names. What would this one do?
"I'm Antoth," he continued when no reply was forthcoming. "You must be the half-breed girl I've been hearing about. Sirna, is it?"
Again, no response.
"Well then," he spoke again after a short while. "What happened to you, missy? That looks like it hurts. Let me see..."
He reached forth. She leaned back. He paused, offering a kind smile and soft words of reassurance before trying again. Large, rough hands took hold of her tiny wrists in a grip both gentle and firm, pulling her hands away from her face. He frowned, clicking his tongue in displeasure.
"Come on," he commanded, though not harshly so. "My hut is nearby. Let's get you cleaned up."
He let go, rising to walk away. At first she remained in place, hesitant and afraid. He stopped a few paces away when he realised that she wasn't following and, turning, offered a reassuring smile. Lacking any better ideas, the girl stood, careful to keep her dress clean and, with head hanging low, followed the man across the meadow.
His hut, when they reached it, was small but clean and well-kept. There was a little patch of dirt to one side for the growing of vegetables and a smaller hut a little further away which he explained to her was for smoking meat. He had her sit on a rough bench, hewn from a single log, whilst he drew water from a well. Placing the bucket at her feet, he took a handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it into the water and, after coaxing her into removing her hand from her nose again, daubed the blood, both wet and dry, away from her stricken skin. Large thumbs wiped the residual moisture from her cheeks, followed by a clean part of the damp hanky to clean away any last signs of her earlier tears. She watched him as he worked, eyes wide with trepidation and perhaps a little awe.
He was so old! He must have been at least thirty! Sporting light brown hair, closely cropped with silvery wings above either temple but possessed of a straight back and tall bearing, his wide shoulders still solid with muscle. He neither sounded or quite looked like a local man with his thin features and lack of beard although his clothes were of a local style.
"Chin up, Sirna," he spoke distractedly, pale green eyes half-hidden beneath frowning brows as he looked upon the bruises, both soon to form and fading away. "You're safe here."
"Sairona," she quietly corrected him.
"Well, Sairona," he smiled again, no less reassuringly but somehow more genuinely. "Life can be hard for those of us who don't quite fit in. We all need somewhere quiet to feel safe. You're welcome here anytime."
They whiled away the afternoon outside. He showed her the smoking shed, explaining how and why it worked, then she helped him with the vegetable patch. The light was fading when she made her way back home but her heart was less heavy than it had been for as long as she could recall. She almost didn't mind when her father's wife, blue eyes ablaze with anger and hatred, took the wooden spoon to her for having gotten some soil on her dress.
