Kayse (prime)/Vignette: Hero

The candlelight flickered and danced about the tonal silk walls of the bungalow, the ivory color turning a brilliant orange hue.  The sound of a quill hastily scratching against a piece of vellum blended with the slow, soft breathing of someone deeply asleep.  Setting the quill down, an inked covered hand picked up the notebook, a pair of pear green eyes analyzing the notes that were just written.


The first thought was about the penmanship, she had been taught and practiced her script better than what was written.  It seemed jumbled and not neat, ink smudges decorated the page with haphazard notes sketched between.  Her brow furrowed in disappointment, her mood was reflected in her writing. 


From a dark corner of the room, there was a change in the breathing a moment and some movement of fabric.  Her eyes darted across the room as she made contact with the edge of a bed that was barely visible by the candlelight.  The movement ceased and the breathing began again followed by a gentle snore.  


Kayse’s lips instantly grinned and she caressed the locket around her neck, which resonated with her touch.  Turning her attention back towards the notebook’s page, she studied the actual words this time.  


She paused at the name Naimorai and her features molded into a frown.  Her mind raced back to this evening with Dennet.  She knew she was assuming that the Magister’s daughter was plotting something, but with the evidence Rowmi provided when touching Naimorai’s mind--how could she not be?  Kayse knew she had more work to do, but what if she was wrong?  Was piece of mind better than not knowing?  


A question weighed on her mind heavily.  What is right?  She told Goblyn on the porch that she didn’t care for Dennet, but did he deserve to die?  It seemed the right thing to do--preventing it and being prepared.  Maybe he wasn’t even the target.  


Her thought was interrupted by a sleepy voice from the darkness, “Amin, I want to be a turnip farmer.  Let us be farmers.”


Kayse blinked and flashed a grin to the darkness, “You want to be a turnip farmer.  Is that what you wish, Rowmi?”


There was a long pause before the response from the darkness said, “It is not the right time of year.”


Kayse stifled a laugh as she muttered, “I see.”  The soft snoring picked up again almost immediately.     


She sighed heavily, picked up the quill and wrote in smooth elegant flourishes then drew three sharp lines.  Tossing the quill on her desk, she stood up and blew out the candle, heading to the direction of the bed.


The darkness settled and the moonlight illuminated the page through the window.  Written at the bottom of the page in beautifully scripted common were the words, “You are not a hero” as three lines underlined the word, “not.”