siver

It has not been a good day, the moogle decides, nudging the unsatisfactory basket with his foot. A couple wrinkly striped apples, and the one fish he managed to catch rest at the bottom.

He might have a word with old farmer Elmoah. Such poor quality doesn’t bear thinking about kupo. Fishing hasn’t been good either and a slew of muffled muttering around the handle of a half-empty basket sounds through the still evening as flies his slow way home.

It’s dark by the time he returns and he fumbles around sorting out the poor basket and lighting a lamp. Tired from such a bothersome day, he slumps into the rocking chair by the hearth, prepared to settle in for the rest of the evening.

Time passes before he shivers and slides off the chair with a muttered kupo. He wheezes through a cloud of dust as he prods at the hearth. It has grown more difficult which seems decidedly unfair for the want of simple heat. Perhaps that lilty lad could take another look soon.

With a sneeze and a startled kupheh a spark at last sets the wood alight and the room is filled with the warm crackle of the fire.

He peers around blearily. Yes, the young lad could certainly be furnished with some work. Despite the fire’s warmth a chill quivers through him. Quite abominable how messy it’s become, kupo. Busy is as busy does and as busy leaves, or aching feet as it were. How they ache. It seems only yesterday he danced at the festival while they celebrated another year and another drop of myrrh.

How many months now? Months? Yes… months… They’ll no doubt be back soon. He hopes his wings and feet will be up to the task of celebration.

Oh he does ache and grumblingly clambers back into his chair. The fire is good. Warmth and company is most welcome. The chair is soothing as it rocks him back and forth, back and forth…

The fire has died. It’s morning now, dust drifting, almost sparkling in the weak sunbeam through his window. He strolls out with a merrily hummed tune around the basket of flowers. It’s a day of gifts and no one will be left lacking. He flaps his wings and again and a third time before taking to the air. The paths are harder to traverse these days, and he flies to the village centre.

One flower given to each. Here she danced with light and airy steps. Here the couple showed their joy in a new life’s start to come. And here the children’s laughter rang loud and clear. There the elder hemmed and hawed through a story to a barely kept audience. And here, here the caravan gathered. One by one they are given, flowers for all, splashes of muted colour over dull stone.

Flowers for all, withered stems in the grey light.