"Hands"- Brea, Kira
Kira’s hands are impossibly small. They curl around her own, with only enough reach to grasp a single finger, searching for some comfort from the noises outside. Brea supposes that it was ridiculous that she had never held a baby before all this, but she had been the youngest, and spent far more time in the library than among the women of the city, giggling and cooing over each other’s childlings. Even thinking of such things had felt too far away to bother with- there were so many deeper things to dream of among the pages than marriage and children.
If she had ever asked, she might have known that dreamfasting between parents and small children is common. It bonds mother and childling, they would have told her, even though once they grow, such early memories will have slipped away. When it happens, it is accidental and disorienting- nothing like the shimmering clarity of the dreamfasts she is used to. The air is punched from her lungs when she hears her sister’s voice, warmer than she ever remembers it, though the words are indistinct within a mind too young to understand them. Even without the exact words, there is love in it- the love she had always wanted from her, untainted by envy or resentment- and for a moment she can almost make out the details of her face. It is frightening to realize that they are beginning to grow hazy even in Brea’s own mind, Seladon’s features mixing a little more with Tavra’s every time she recalls the family she lost.
A shriek echoes in her ears- a different day, one she needs no reminder of- and she drops Kira’s hand.
If she could, she would bottle that first memory, keep it safe for Kira until she is old enough to appreciate it and let the rest fade. But that is a fantasy, and whatever her mother used to say about her, she has never been one to believe in them. It doesn’t work that way. She can only hope that it will someday be replaced with something better.