They’ve gathered by the fire now, hours after the adrenaline has worn away. Few have slept, bar Coel, who nods off constantly.
The last of the children has been wrapped in oiled fabric and twine and placed temporarily by the barely-there throne. They’ll burn him in the morning. For now, the living must sit with it. Stew in it.
The pots have been scraped clean, and several mugs now sit stacked inside a dented cast-iron tray, ready to be cleaned. Around this time, Rivin usually doles out chores (even though they’re so clearly written on the walls), but tonight he is quiet, settled by the dancing flame, and tentative to speak now that the ceiling feels lower and the walls seem to be closing in.
Ricket examines the soup pot again—as if he’d only imagined licking it clean a few minutes ago, and a few minutes before that. He sighs, defeated, and places the crock at his feet, turned over as if to dissuade himself; he switches his attention to the ladle that’s just as perfectly picked clean, turning it over and over.
The air itself is still, only disturbed by the restless, the crackle of flame and the steady drip, drip of the faucet leaking in the distance.
Roach, a silhouette of unkempt hair, raps his fingers against her thigh. The children sit huddled beneath an old blanket, tattered and worn but well-loved. Slink is peeling something, a stick into a spear, a vine into a knife — it doesn’t matter so long as it’s sharp. Chip sits closest to Rivin, bent over with his head in his hands, fingers fisting the length of his hair.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A foot in the dust. Instinctual — a nervous habit.
Sen yawns, wiping the grot from his eyes.
Shoulders are sagging. Ricket tosses the spoon — it hits the pot.
Clack.
The sound brings them all to life. Several eyes look up, alerted. Roach herself stands, summoned. Her bruise has bloomed like a hurt sky, and a scabbed-over split in her lip bursts open as she curls a lazy, secretive smile, blood drooling down her chin.
“Ket, do that again.”
Clack.
Clear. Intentional.
She peers through the lapping flames at the rescued children, who are curled up with wide, windy eyes—still expecting the worst, still expecting the final carve of the blade that turned their flesh into verses.
Drip. Drip.
Clack.
Her hands rise outwards as she crosses a leg behind the other and curtsies low. When she rises, her arms cup the air, tuned to an instrument only she can see; her fingers motionless. She looks for Rivin, who's watching her closely, his jaw impossibly tight. He seems tired and old and desperate to be clean.
Crackle.
Clack.
Drip.
The girl inhales sharply before rapping her hands together hard and twice.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
ClapClap — the sound echoes, bouncing off the cavernous walls to throw back a scattered rhythm.
It startles Abì, who quickly turns her face into her brother’s shoulder; Monet too flinches. It’s Sen that reacts differently, sitting straighter, his knuckles white and stone hard with tension, like the tick in his jaw, like the heat in his eyes.
Clack.
ClapClap.
Roach bends forward to cross an arm over her stomach, her eyes like lit matches waiting to be shared, and the flame of the fire dances there too, hungry, hungry—
Crackle. POP.
She inhales deeply and whispers, low as an outgoing tide:
“Children of the eve,
In the dark beneath the seas,
Where the waves break bone,
Where the old ghosts breathe.”
The girl extends both hands towards those who watch on nervously, just above the bite of the flame, fire lapping at her bracelets.
Drip. Drip. Crackle.
“No mothers here to save you now,
No fathers here to pull you out…
Quiet child, hold your fear—
Taste the salt; the ruin's near.”
She shoots to the left, smoking now — no bones in her body, all tendon and joints, eyes fixed to the hushed.
Clack. Clack.
Her hands rapidly follow an intricate pattern — palms tutting with intention, streams of smoke curling around each motion.
ClapClap.
“No one comes.
No rescue sails,
It’s only you who tips the scales.”
Clack. Clack. Clap.
Clack. Clack. POP.
“Bind your moments, stitch your chest —
Hold your light within the wet.”
Her pockets sing; the treasures in her hair catch the light.
Roach the Performer skips around the hearth before stopping short and unfurling a royal hand towards Monet, panting now.
“Sisters, brothers, under skin—
Sing this promise; let it spin:
Never be quiet, never forgive.”
Crackle. Crackle.
She waits. Patient. Hand outstretched until small fingers flatten into her palm.
Her eyes sparkle, she grins, and slowly pulls Monet to her feet. Along with the other children, hands linked like a chain, they rise like a prayer sheet unfolding. Coel trips up, Sen hangs back — pulled forward. Roach slips around them like water, a jangling wind chime of crowded keychains. She twirls Abi in her arms and draws Coel into a twist of graceless, fast feet.
“What do we do now, broken kin?
We open our jaws,
We breathe it in—”
The first speck of joy blooms like a shy orchid, a bud of someone giggling as the dust kicks up beneath their feet. Roach guides and wide eyes follow her like moths — fingers reaching, crawling, jolting through the air before she stops short and sudden, and so do they.
Quietly and soft as the sediment settling at their feet, she reaches out her hand again. In her eyes is a riddle they all know the answer to—
“So whisper now, soft as sin:
Never bow down.
Never give in.”
They're not shaking anymore.
The closest nods, steps forward. Takes her palm.
The queen’s head tilts. Surprised. Pleased.
It’s Sen.
She springs up. A storm. A tornado. Runs on the spot. They copy, mimicking her madness — the sound of rushing feet throbbing as they spin like chaotic discs in the night. Laughter. Laughter flares and blooms and enfolds.
The blankets covering charred flesh fall completely to the dirt — runes glisten against hot, inflamed skin, but no one is looking at that. Not that. The lost children kick up their feet, clap their hands, and embody Roach's increasing pace.
ClackClackClackClack.
Ricket beats down hard and fast on the pot, sweating now, entranced.
Chip is standing, biting back a smile, eager to join — just a boy, as much of a child as the rest. Rivin nudges him forward, and he falls into dance, into chaos and colour. Roach spins, grabs his hands, and pulls him into her orbit. He chuckles, small and shy, but not for long.
Dust and debris billow out from beneath their rapid feet, the ferocious beat climbing and climbing, the tempo merciless when they link their hands and begin to spin in a circle. It's a clumsy, vibrant disorder — it's children dancing after death. It's defiance stuffed into tiny hands.
Laughter is the most wonderful sound.
The reach up and up and up, encased in dirt and dust, steadily blinded by the thick of it before the last beat thrums like the bottom of a waterfall — crushing and wicked, and they all fall back and into the earth, gasping and starry-eyed but still linked, still united.
For a long moment as the dust settles, there is only gasping and heartbeat. Roach is smiling wide. Red in the face. Twice as filthy. A hand squeezes her fingers. She turns to look.
Sen is still gazing at the ceiling when he whispers:
“Never bow down...”
She smirks, nods, and thrusts their fists into the air.
“Never give in!”
I did have a question if anyone was willing to lend me their ear? Er, uh eyes? Brain.
This is about Roach’s age. In earlier drafts she was much younger (eight, originally lol), and she currently sits at around +twelve. I know that can make her capabilities feel surprising or even difficult to believe for some readers, so I wanted to open the floor for your thoughts.
(is) funny, creative, and relentlessly alive. She’s nineteen now, and still is one, if not the most, inspiring people I know. (See +80k of words for evidence).
should, but because they had to. I’ve seen kids become protectors, caretakers, negotiators, shields. In a perfect world, children would be the ones protected. Halidom is less than a perfect world. For me, Roach being young, and still capable, still strange, still powerful in unconventional ways, feels honest. Perhaps not fair, but real.
Would ageing Roach up (to around fourteen) make the story feel more grounded? Or does her current age work within the world as it’s presented?
