The door flew open as a raven swooped into the room and perched familiarly on my father's shoulder. In an odd -- and slightly unsettling manner -- this was as common to me as a lapdog curled up on a couch. The raven whispered something into my father's ear (or, at least, that's how it appeared to me). The entire time, my father never lifted his head from his diligent focus on repairing one of many shoes that crowded our small and humble workshop.
You see, my father was a simple cobbler in our village of Lavendre. He was the only cobbler (and an outsider within our community), as most people publicly wielded magic in their daily roles as healer, cook, baker, and other professions. But for shoemaking and repairing, you need skill to do that, not something that came from... The Divine One.
This day progressed like all days in Lavendre. It was a dull blend of predictability and productivity. You see, the people of our community measured their worth in how busy they were (and the magical power of that family). My family was less than respected, we were widely viewed as the least magical family -- my parents were outspoken about their fears of magic. It was their belief that magic has the capacity to consume and corrupt.
On this day (like every Tuesday morning), my mother sat at the public fountain washing the week's linen. My father was filling out his orders for the week (and month... but we don't talk about that). I was doing nothing but staring out the window into the garden, the only place that others couldn't see.
Our garden was only slightly larger than three dining tables stacked side by side. But when my mother put her mind to a task, she could create worlds in the palm of her hand (let alone, a small garden). In a simple space -- equal to about ten paces in each direction -- the plantings were so numerous and so varied and so labyrinthine that one could easily become lost (and, dare I say, bewildered).
SLAP! was that sound that echoed throughout the village, and yet no one bothered to turn a head. My mother was beating the linen against the edge of the village fountain to drain all excess water. SLAP! Again, the sound bounced off the small homes and craft shops. Ironically, it was a subtle whimper that first captured my attention. It was like the distant thumping of a deerskin drum: whimper, whimper, whimper... And then, a wailing CRY! "Someone has kidnapped my Joshua!" Mrs. Gardenia cried, rushing from her house that was much too small for six people.
As odd as this may sound, her cries were met with little more interest than an empathic exhale and an intermittent raising of an eyebrow. Joshua was just another in a long list of kidnapped victims over a month-long nightmare for our unsuspecting village. So maybe I'm exaggerating. Only six, now seven, kids had gone missing. But still, our village was small and the only village of the seven tribes or clans still standing.
My mother held Mrs. Gardenia tightly, as her wailing echoed through the village. She looked over Mrs. Gardenia's shoulders with a strikingly cautionary gaze... Her eyes locked onto mine with a warning that said, "YOU could be next!"
This was written with my dad and was going to be an avengers fanfic
