OmaRosa ~ chapter 7

by Bambi Hawkins in 1886 steampunk Venice

A/N: again, sorry that it's still SO boring! I'm just trying to get it started off, so bear with me and keep reading. There will be more action soon!

“Look,” the boy said. “I already told you that I’m sorry. I didn’t really have a choice.” I stared ahead stonily, my blue eyes never flickering in his direction. He went silent yet again, and the only disturbance in the hushed air was the birds chirping merrily and the crunch of the leaves and twigs beneath our feet.

            We had been walking for only about a half of an hour, and all the while I had looked about the serene forest, marveling at the beauty before me, while the boy would apologize between roughly five minute intervals.  

            It hadn’t even been a minute before the boy groaned and nearly shouted, “Please, just talk to me. That’s all that I’m asking. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that I’m sorry for you to get over it and move along!”

             I whipped around to face him, now fuming. “You took me away from them!” I shouted, all of my past worries and questions dissolving in my anger. “You took me away from them, and now they have no one! They don’t have anybody to go and get them food, no one’s old enough to watch over the children except for Franny, and she’s dying!” Tears spilled down my face yet again.

            And that boy! He and his stupid unreadable face might as well leave me here to die. What did he want with me anyways? I was just a lowly different person. But then again, he was too. So what business could he have with me?

            “What if I told you this?” the boy said softly. “My getting you will be saving their lives. And maybe I can get my master, Penn, to send someone over there to help them out. We’re all Levana. I thought that you would be fine when I told you about what would happen if I failed. But when you still didn’t talk, I thought that you were holding a grudge. Do you know what a Levana is?”

            I wiped the tears harshly from my eyes and looked into his obscured face. If only I could see it. If I could just see his honest emotions, if I could only see his eyes, maybe I would trust him more. But his voice would just have to do. I shook my head.

            “C’mon,” he beckoned to me as he resumed walking. I caught up to him quickly, but averted my eyes to my feet. “You, me, your family, and everyone like us are known as Levana.” He paused, and I could imagine a ponderous expression on his face. “What did they call you back in the city?”

            “Just different people,” I replied softly, my mind involuntarily returning to the day when the queen’s men had come to collect me, announcing of my “difference”. And of how my mother had attempted to defend me, to attest to them that their accusation was false, that I couldn’t be different. But despite her desperate efforts, the soldiers couldn’t be swayed. They gave her two last days to be with me, to discover my difference. It hadn’t been a day later when the “different” scent had arrived, enveloping me in its awful distinction. With tearful features, my mother pushed me from the building, telling me to go, to go far away. Far away from her, my siblings, my absent father.

            “Where do you all live?” he inquired further.

            “On the streets,” I spat remorsefully. “Sick and starving.”

            “So they don’t like you in that city, do they?” he said.

            “Not at all.”

            “How strange,” he went on. “Levana are treated with the utmost respect from where I come from. I haven’t heard of such a place like yours. And you say a queen rules the city?” I nodded. “I believe that she must have something against you. What’s the city called?”

            “Jayhart,” I replied.

            “Jayhart,” the boy repeated lethargically. “Sounds familiar. I’ll have to ask Penn when we get back. Do you still have the bell?”

            I reached in my pocket, my fingers groping it’s depths for the silver sphere. When they found it, I wrapped my hand around it, securing it tightly in my fist. “Yeah, I got it.” I glanced over at him, suddenly stricken by something that I hadn’t bothered to think of. I had just called him “the boy” this entire time. If he expected to take me along with him, I would have to know his name.  “Um…”

            He turned and faced me, and as if he had read my mind said, “You can call me Seymour.” He held out his right hand, only home to three fingers.

            I looked down at it, seeing much more than just a true introduction in his demented hand. I saw trust, dedication, and friendship.

            M eyes searched his hood, scouting for eyes, scavenging for any emotion. And still all that I could see were his nose and a few strands of hair. And then that rare glitter of an eye. I smiled.