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Valla is given a quest to find an orphan in a world where they shouldn't exist. |
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When the rain finally decided to fall, Valla was perched on the highest branch of her willow tree with a bucket. She’d brought the biggest one she owned with her, but even in the gray light of the storm she could see where the three smaller ones hung from their individual branches. The next storm wouldn’t roll in for weeks and her supply of rainwater was almost gone. “Valla! Valla? Where on Orphan are you, girl?” Balthier sounded more exasperated than worried, although she didn’t know why; it was a Storm Day, so she didn’t know where else he thought she would be. “Up here, Bal!” Valla answered. She didn’t bother moving. The sound of him grumbling to himself made her smile; they’d had this argument so many times that she didn’t know why he bothered being upset about it. Valla could respect Balthier’s fear of storms (and water), but nothing he could say would make her share it. Water gave life more often than it took it away. Time had no bearing on Valla’s world at the top of the tree. When the sheets of water stopped falling and the last of the clouds had moved away, there was no way of knowing how much had passed. The bucket was heavy and almost full when Valla picked it up. She wrapped both hands around the middle and opened her wings, shaking the water out of her feathers before gliding to the ground. Balthier was scowling when she pushed aside the mat that served as their front door. “One of these days you’re going to catch your death of a cold, and then where will you be? I’ll tell you – dead, that’s where!” Valla tried her best not to grin as she hauled the bucket to their storage room. One of her earliest memories was of the same tirade, except she’d been young enough back then to actually be afraid of what Balthier was saying. She suspected that her grandfather missed the days when she was little enough to be easily impressed upon. She managed to carry two of the three little buckets down in one trip. The last one was barely half-full, which was disappointing but expected; of the three, that one had been closest to the ground. Still, Valla was pleased with what she had. When the water was stored safely, she set to helping her grandfather sort through their pile of baskets. Most of them were perfect – Balthier was the best Weaver on Orphan – but the ones that were misshapen or imperfect were set aside. Valla and her grandfather kept those for their own personal uses. Sorting baskets was a mundane task, but she enjoyed doing it; most of the misshapen ones were the ones that she had made, and she liked holding one of hers up against one of her grandfather’s and trying to identify where she had made a mistake. Valla’s weaving was unremarkable but efficient, and she’d long since made peace with that; she enjoyed working with the strands of grass, watching them intertwine until it seemed impossible that they had ever been separate. “You’re getting better,” Balthier said, eyeing the four baskets that she’d deemed unsuitable for selling. “Another year and we can sell your baskets as well.” Valla didn’t have a chance to answer. A scream pierced the air outside their home, followed by another, and then there was a sound that could only be the flapping of wings; lots of wings. Confused, she glanced up at Balthier and felt her stomach flip at the sudden hardness in his face. Balthier had a reputation for being fickle in his moods, but Valla had never seen such a change in him before. The screaming stopped, replaced by a voice that Valla had never heard, and that was more terrifying to her than the screaming. There were no strangers on Orphan. “We are looking for Balthier, the All-Weaver.” Valla had heard many people call her grandfather a Weaver, and even The Weaver on rare occasions, but she’d never heard the name All-Weaver. The meaning of the words were lost on her, but they had an immediate effect on the old man: the lines of his body seemed to straighten and pull taut, until he looked almost a full foot taller. Valla wasn’t sure if she was afraid, or impressed; at almost nine feet, Balthier was already taller than half of their clan. Balthier looked at her where she still sat cross- legged on the floor, a basket in her lap. His expression was unreadable. “Stay here, girl.” She opened her mouth to protest. Her grandfather dropped into a crouch in front of her and grabbed her by the shoulders; his blue eyes glittering and white wings half open behind him. She’d never seen him look so fierce. “Valla, do as I ask just this once. Please.” He stood and was out the door before she had time to register the kiss he pressed against her forehead. |
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