All Your Little Quirks • h.ravenclaw ✓

⚪one

The transparent window is his only consolation as he stares out through it longingly into the green forest just a few yards beyond the gate bounding their house. The sun is only a few centimeters above the tops of the trees, spreading its ethereal glow over the dense foliage, though, beneath it, it is pitch black, forming a stark contrast with the light of the sun.

A small sigh escapes his lips and he brings down his head to rest his chin over his hand, which is supported over the window ledge. Beautiful though the scene is, he can't wait for the sun to be swallowed up by the horizon, for nighttime is the time he feels the most alive, with no one to stare at him or judge him, and with no one to insert their very own personal opinions about him. Arven feels safe with the absence of light, which almost always seems to make him feel naked, exposed, urging him to be just like everyone else, which, he knows very well, he is not.

For who else knows not how speak? Who else is unable to produce a single decibel of sound through their mouth? No one else in the village is burdened with a son who doesn't know how to speak, who must have at least one person tagging along behind him to help him speak his mind; a son who is a disgrace, who cannot go to school and learn, who cannot do anything a normal child can. A son who loves spending his time looking out through the small, circular window in his room, gazing at the trees just beyond.

Arven is homeschooled. His father had taught him anything he needed to know before deciding that his son is good for nothing, that he is going to live the rest of his life being a burden to them, and to everyone else he comes across. Thus, he stopped teaching him when he was seven, and made him help out in his farm, where his job used to be to look after the chickens. Now, at seventeen, Arven does most of the work – planting seeds, harvesting them, ploughing the land, feeding the cows and taking the day's produce to the market where his father sits lazily, legs atop the table, chewing on a cigar, and gazing at his son with a look that one usually reserves for a pest.

He returns home then. He walks several miles through the stretch of the cobblestoned streets, keeping his head low to avoid the passersby, and occasionally reaching out a hand to pass it through the leaves that hang over the road from the trees shading the stone. The sun burns his skin, his hair, his eyes, and when he reaches home, he washes himself, scrubs his body until his skin is rubbed raw, and sits in front of the circular window in his room, enjoying the view of the forest it offers.

Now, Arven is sitting by the window with a sort of melancholy mood surrounding him. The sun is taking too long to set, and the forest looks unusually lifeless today. The usual incessant chirping of insects and the chatter of birds, the humming of the wind as it brushes past the leaves, are absent; the air is silent, the sky is dull, and it looks as though time itself has stopped, dragging along the course country road, refusing to let him enjoy the nighttime that he loves so much.

But the sun does set, and with a fluttering heart and a smile, he stands up from the chair, puts it away and pulls on a cloak over himself. Then he leaves his room and walks over to the front door, where he meets his mother. She looks at him intently for a moment, but doesn't say anything and lets him pass.

His mother isn't very eager to let him leave the house, worried that he would face bullying. He himself likes to stay inside, and in the fields he works in, he is accompanied by his father's friends who are intimidated enough by his father to leave Arven alone. But that's the furthest he goes, save for the market where his father has a stall for himself.

But it is after the setting of the sun that his mother doesn't mind him leaving the house. He feels that she is relieved even, that he is able to inhale the fresh air of the country and see the stars shining bright above him, without having to worry about neighbours giving strange looks. She doesn't tell him anything, and he is able slip out of the house, barefoot and with an oil lamp dangling by his elbow, and silhouetted against the light cast by the lamp, which allows him to walk the distance and disappear amidst the trees without attracting attention.

The canopies above his head greet him like a guardian angel, envelope him in the cosy warmth and darkness intercepted by the flickering fire in his hand, and he trudges down the pathway, his feet crunching the dry leaves in some places, and sinking into the soft ground in others. The chirping increases tenfold, but he is used to it, and with no particular destination in mind, he wanders deeper into the woods, not scared at all of the darkness. He has been visiting here since he was a child, and he knows every nook and cranny like the back of his hand.

The place begins to clear. The trees are now less crowded, and more ordered, giving the impression of an actual forest rather than a jungle. He slows his pace down and allows his eyes to wander. An occasional bird hoots in the distance, the leaves rustle above his head, and after looking around for a few minutes, he finds a clear spot on the ground where he sits down, placing the lamp beside him, where it flickers gently in the breeze.

As his eyes get adjusted to the semi darkness, an odd sight catches his eyes. He squints into the distance, and sees a light quite a few yards away from him, glowing bright in the distance, like a small ball of sun having found its residence on earth. A frown places itself on his eyes and curls his lips, as a sense of defensiveness takes over him. Even though he is aware that the forest doesn't exactly belong to him, he has been visiting it long enough to think of it as his home. Standing up again, he picks up the lamp and makes his way over to the fire, allowing the light to guide him there.