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Zafi is eleven, and her parents don't love each other anymore.
She’d stopped crying about it some moons prior. When they argue, she sequesters herself in her room, pretending she can’t hear the shouting that floats up through the floorboards. The words are blurry and indistinct enough that she doesn’t need to worry about them. Usually, she’ll sit and chew the corner of her nail, balancing a book on her knee. Svana bought her a secondhand set of beautifully gilded storybooks for her last nameday, and though they’re battered and dog-eared, they quickly became her most treasured possession. She loves poring over grand tales of adventure and long-lost riches, and goes moon-eyed over gentle fairytales about love and forgiveness. When she’s finished, she cracks open the spine to her favourite pages- the ones boasting intricate woodcut illustrations of princesses and knights- and studies them until her head starts to ache.
“Momma,” she asked once, when she still bothered asking. “Can’t you and Poppa talk to a witch?”
Svana hadn’t looked up from the blouse she was scrubbing across the washboard. “Not now, sweetie.”
“But-” Zafi had pulled herself up to her full height, which wasn’t very much. “Then you could love each other again!”
Her mother sighed, and put a hand to her cheek, getting suds in her hair. “Darling, that’s not how it works.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” Svana said. “Why don’t you go play with your dollies?”
Zafi was far too old to play with dolls, and she’d almost said so, until she looked closer and saw the lines under her mother’s eyes, the limp droop of her hair. So instead, she’d quietly crept back up to her room and sewn her a sleeping mask, the kind that fancy ladies always wore in her stories.
She doesn’t understand why they can’t just stop being angry at each other. She rarely sees her Poppa nowadays, only in brief snatches of weak morning daylight when she’s supposed to be asleep. He’s usually at Naldiq & Vymelli's, and Zafi isn’t allowed to go there on her own anymore, even though she used to. It’s not fair. Grown-ups are meant to be smart. Yet no matter how often she pleads to Menphina to help them out, eyes screwed shut and hands clasped before her, things only get worse and worse.
It’s her fault, she thinks sometimes. Then she shakes that off because it’s a bad feeling, and princesses don’t have bad feelings. She stops wondering too hard about it, and goes back to her books.
Then, one night, there's a storm.
Zafi drags her blankets up from her mother’s workshop and makes a nest in the corner of her room, as far away from the window as she can. She stares at the back of her door, focuses on the peeling paint and splinters where she’d caught her claws. Her ears are pinned back as far as they’ll go, but it doesn’t drown out the sound. The crash and rumble of thunder alone isn’t enough to spook her- she’s brave, she’s so brave, she’s a hero in a fairytale- but the angry crash of waves against the whitewashed stone sets her teeth on edge. She nearly bites through her lip a couple times when she startles at the sound.
The wind howls and screams like a wounded animal. Underneath it all, the familiar timbre of her father’s raised voice. Beneath it, quieter, her mother. Zafi puts her hands over her ears.
“-do everything around here-”
“-our daughter-”
She tries humming a lullaby to herself. It’s one of the few Miqo’te-like things she knows, so she clings to it like a life raft. Forgemaster H’naanza told her it was an old Seeker song that her tribe used to soothe babies. Zafi’s definitely not a baby, but it makes her feel more centred.
The rain slams down like a broadside. Lightning cleaves the sky. She swears she hears the foundations creak.
“For the last time-”
“-not the problem here, it’s-”
Eventually, she can’t take it anymore. The idea that the world will collapse on top of her lodges in her brain and grows to a fever pitch. She clutches her favourite blanket- not because she’s scared, she’s not scared, it’s just for warmth- and gingerly trudges to the door.
Zafi pushes it open as quietly as she can. The hallway is dark and foreboding. As she takes a step forwards, further away from the comfort of her room, there’s a blast of lightning. She yelps, stumbling, as the world momentarily floods white.
“Momma?” she calls. Her voice wobbles. “Poppa?”
She can’t hear them. The indistinct warble of their voices has disappeared. She creeps towards the top of the stairs, grip tightening around her blanket. Below is an unknowable abyss, dark and cold. There’s no candlelight, no lit lanterns. Dread plucks at her heartstrings.
“Be brave,” Zafi mumbles to herself. “Be a hero.”
She shuffles down the stairs with stilted, deliberate movements, hoisting her blanket up to shoulder height to avoid tripping on it. As she descends, even the rattle of the storm seems to fade to nothing. She sees far better in the shadows than either of her parents, but she’s reluctant to look.
“Momma?” she calls out again.
The front door slams hard enough to rival a thunderclap. It seems to rattle the entire house. There’s the crash of something falling from the wall, the echoes of the impact spreading out into the night- then silence.
Zafi stills, shoulders going rigid. A sob she can no longer hold in slips past her lips. No. No. She has to be brave. Heroes wouldn’t hesitate at the first sign of danger. Heroes wouldn’t drag around soft blankets for comfort, or feel tears prickling at their eyes. Heroes wouldn’t cry out for their mothers.
She almost bolts back upstairs, but turning around feels even scarier, like she’ll come face to face with some kind of monster. So instead she forces herself to keep going, step by step, until she reaches the landing. The stone tile is cool beneath her woolly socks.
In the dark, she can make out familiar shapes. Her parents’ metallurgy projects on the wall, the rack where they leave their grimy boots, the squat storage cabinet stacked with half-expired potions and ratty bandages. There’s a silvery glint to it all from the scant moonlight. She squeezes her eyes shut as the thunder rolls again, like a reprimand from above.
“Zafi?” Svana’s voice. “What are you still doing awake?”
She rounds the corner with a lantern in hand. Her eyes are tired, and her nightclothes are ruffled. On closer inspection, Zafi sees her face is red and puffy, like she’s been crying.
The sight breaks a dam in her. She runs to her mother and throws her arms around her, sobbing.
“Momma,” she cries. “‘m scared.”
“Oh, darling.” Svana cards a hand through her hair. “Silly girl. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Zafi sniffs. She’s getting snot on Svana’s nightgown. She doesn’t feel brave or heroic, just very, very small.
“Where’s Poppa?” she asks, so quiet as to be a whisper.
Svana hesitates. She presses a soft kiss to the crown of Zafi’s head. “How about we get you back to bed, sweetheart?”
“But-”
“It’s just a storm, sweetie. You’re okay.”
“Momma,” Zafi protests, feeling her eyes well up again. She deflates as Svana exhales. “Okay.”
Svana scoops her up into her arms, and, cradling her close, carries her back up the stairs. She sets Zafi back in bed, and tucks her in. Zafi yawns, despite herself. The storm has passed. She draws her blanket up to her face and wraps her arms around it tight.
“Goodnight, love,” Svana whispers. The lanternlight fizzles out.
In the morning, Zafi’s father is gone.
He does not come back.