Larke does not often venture out from Tephra.
She does not have her brother’s courageous nature—does not have his thirst for adventure—and she is more than content to wile away the hours watching over their newest siblings and watching her mother hard at work regrowing bits and pieces of Tephran land. She is a serious child who is content to keep mostly to herself—content to focus on honing her gifts and spending time with family and thinking.
But today she wanders.
She is coming up on two years of age in a few months and she is no longer the fuzzy, youthful girl with the mohawk mane and too long legs. She has her mother’s build in so many ways and is lovely in her movement, fluid and soft like the calm banks of a river, flowing around the crowds and ducking her horned head to avoid eye contact, sticking to shadows and watching quietly—observing by herself.
Once or twice, Larke tries out her gift of healing when she thinks no one is watching. She feels the golden light of it and closes her eyes like her mother had instructed. She lets it pool in her chest and then guides it forward, feeling it unwind from her with a soft exhale. It is getting easier to direct it and she lets it settle into passersby, feeling it root through their body to find aches and pains and wounds.
It is exhausting work, tiring work, but she finds that she feels more like herself when it is done.
There is something about it that feels important—that feels right.
When she sees the boy land and stumble into the mud and the water, she bites her lip and steps back behind one of the large tree trunks nearby. She arches her head slightly and watches him with her light green eyes. He doesn’t appear injured, but he appears tired and her heart twinges in response. It’s already been an exhausting day, and she knows she has little left to give, but she acts without thinking.
Quietly, she sends her healing out toward him to find whatever she may soothe. When she is done, she feels a sheen of sweat on her neck and leans heavily against the tree, smiling to herself.
as the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet
@[Malone]