The man who comes to greet you is big.

Bigger than Fath—

O O P S.

Your mouth creases shut as he approaches, your tongue bitter with the thought you almost allowed yourself to think. That he was larger than Father was. Greater, maybe.

Is that what you were thinking little Enyo? That he was greater than Papa?

Is it?

You huddle closer to Mother as the great beast approaches—for the truth of the matter is, the creature is huge no matter how you turn it around in your head. His shadow is a cool one, his bulk is threatening, and you wish you had your sister’s steel to look him in the eyes with the defiance that was seared into her marrow.

You look up, of course. But you’re studying his face, the massive horn, those huge eyes that are washing over your tiny bones carefully. You do not like how close he’s coming towards you.

He’s a gentle thing, but it’s sad, really, how wasted his generosity is upon your ungrateful little back. You don’t trust him—you’re mad at him for being so big and gentle with you. Mother speaks to him, explaining…thigns, a story she had taught you, a limerick you had memorized by heart. You’re good a memorizing, you realize.

And you’ve learned you’re amazing when it comes to big eyes, soft and full of tears; a little girl’s game. You shift uncomfortably as your Mother retells the story of the vultures, of a false thing that is supposed to terrify you, throwing you into mourning a mother who has died (who should have died). It’s amusing, really, how close the truth came to be falsehood. Father’s harpies could’ve dined well that night. He probably would’ve stomped real Mother to death, out of spite. Who knows.

Your eyes are too golden to be swathed in shadow—but that’s how it feels as your sister stands proud beneath his gaze, boldly declaring Ker’s existence, valiantly defending the scars upon her brow from the threat of healing. You’re watching the great Tembovu, sniveling as you are in a King’s presence, and you make careful note of his size, his careful demeanor, the grey thing that comes barreling with a detestable trumpet for the grand King’s legs. You’re not sure what it is, but it’s ugly and you don’t like it; you’re watching it as well, shocked by its size, wondering if it would be something for a harpy to eat.

Your brain works, and works, and works. It sees, takes note, remembers—keeping the details straight in your mind. A realization comes to mind—you should probably greet the large beast who may or may not allow you residence in this place. Despite your fear—despite your displeasure. You’re not sure if you want to call this place home, yet.

“Hello,” comes soft like a blossom falling from mousy lips, tucked into your Mother’s space as you are. Your eyes are too gold to be a shadow. That’s okay. You can be a glimmering shadow, for all you care.
 


[I am the worst of things]
"talk talk talk"