Spirit of the Mûmak (May 2986) - [One-Shot]
Apr 30, 2018 19:40:06 GMT -5
Post by Amira on Apr 30, 2018 19:40:06 GMT -5
Quick sandaled feet followed closely those of the man in thick black boots, and a small hand was clinging tight with excitement to the delicate fingers of the woman who walked beside her. Slate eyes glittered in the morning, the heat of their golden land not deterring the smile from her lips. “Amira, kanz,” her mother hummed to her. Treasure. Her voice was made of easy, sweeping, low tones. Amira looked up.
“Yes, ’um?” Amira’s voice answered, speaking to her mother in a sound of her own that was like sunbeams.
Jawahir’s dark hair poked from under her silken, beaded veil, deep eyes peering down upon her daughter’s face with a pinch knitted in her brow. The woman’s long fingers tightened on Amira’s small hand. “I need you to listen,” Jawahir reminded her. The tone was pleading, though not from Amira’s penchant to misbehave. A greater concern was working Jawahir’s lilt into something firmer; where they were going, what her husband intended for them to do, was something that perhaps could not be made safe. At least, not to her mother’s heart.
Amira nodded nonetheless, dark hair bobbing about her shoulders for the exuberance she put into the motion. Ahead was the large stable, the place where her father had said the new animals were—a reward for being a good daughter, a wise daughter. Her father had told her she would come with him, to meet the new giants Chief Maalik Asad had brought back from the far south. War beasts, he had called them. “Are they really going to be as big as a house, ’um? How do they fit inside?” Amira looked up with wide eyes, their slate-grey hue catching the light of the desert within them.
Jawahir offered a tight-lipped smile in return, hand clutching tighter to her young daughter’s hand. “That is what Alab said. I suppose we will have to see.” There was unease in her mother’s tone that Amira noted for only a fraction of a moment; it was overshadowed the moment a deeper, firmer voice called her name.
“Amira, hayawan alyf.” Pet.
Those grey eyes flit immediately to Saif, the small veins of grey in his curls of onyx standing out against his hard face. Yet, he smiled to her, and Amira left Jawahir’s tightly clinging fingers for the larger hand of her father as they passed through the stable’s large open doors.
“Alab,” she half sang in reply.
“Come. We are here. This man ahead will take us to the mûmakil,” Saif offered as he stilled his steps beneath the shadow of the stable’s eave, though did not look long to Amira. Instead, he lifted his eyes, dark and firm, toward his wife. “Your Alab has plans for you, Amira. All I teach you, I teach you for a purpose.” Jawahir said nothing, though dropped her chin into a subservient bow to her husband. She was not sure she could hide the worry upon her face; Jawahir’s last hope resided instead in trying to ensure her husband could not see it. Saif would not—could not—be made to change his mind, however much Jawahir did not think their eldest daughter needed to see the new creatures the chief had acquired.
Saif turned, finally passing inside the warm, dark building. It took little Amira some moments for her eyes to adjust to the absence of the sun’s glaring light, though she immediately began to seek out the thick-skinned beasts her father had described. Long noses, ears as large as a horse, teeth that curled out of its face—they were going to be easy to spot, she was certain. And yet, as she followed her father’s steady pace, all she saw were the sleek elegant forms of the horses Maalik kept. “Where are they, Alab?” She asked him. Saif did not answer, though reminded her with naught but his eyes that little girls were meant to behave, and oftentimes that meant be silent.
She quieted; Amira looked forward, peering at a man ahead who stood in weathered dark clothes emerging from one of the stalls. They were of thick cloth, brown about the hem for the dirt and mud, flecks of hay and straw clinging to the thick fabric on his long tunic. His face looked weathered by sun in the way only some of the men of Kahf Al’asad were able to boast. A worker, Amira knew it meant. Perhaps he worked for the chief the same as her father; there were times Saif returned home with mud and dirt upon his clothes as well.
“General Ikraam,” the man greeted the moment he noticed the man approaching, offering a small salute, fist pressed to his heart with a lowered head. Amira knew it was supposed to be done to her father, though she did not understand precisely why. Jawahir told her it was because he was important; Amira thought so, too, for he was the most important person in her little world. Still, when she had done the salute to him he had laughed and told her she need not do so. Perhaps like with some other things, she would understand better when she was older.
“Salman,” Saif drawled in greeting. His lips curled, though it was not an overly warm or friendly motion. The general’s brow was yet creased and hard in frown. “I am here to see the beasts.”
General Ikraam was not unexpected; word had been sent by the Chief himself that the general was going to be checking in on the progress being made with the new acquisitions, yet the worker at the stable looked from the general to the two women in his company in hesitation. He had been expected, perhaps, but the women were not.
A strange, loud sound came from beyond the stable. Amira gasped. “Is that a parade, Alab?” She inquired. She did enjoy them; they were grand affairs with bright costumes and music in the streets. They were special occasions, and she got to wear her pretty dresses for them. Saif, though, shook his head.
“No,” the general answered. “Those are not trumpets. You shall see soon.”
Salman, though, politely and lowly entreated for the man’s ear. “General Ikraam, I must caution bringing women and children to see the mûmakil. They—”
“I did not ask your opinion,” General Ikraam said coolly. It was enough to make the other man halt his words and offer a small, stiff bow.
“Of course,” he drawled, though Amira could see the way he looked to her. There was hesitation in his eyes. She tilted her head to look at him curiously, though said nothing. Once more there was the sound of a discordant parade and the young girl’s attention was again parted from him, the small cloud of understanding the man was frightened for her did not last long against the bright sun of her curiosity. “This way,” the man offered, and with a sweep of his arm, turned and led them toward the back of the stable.
The door bar was lifted, the large gates pressed open and the bright light of the morning stung Amira’s eyes for a moment before they once more adjusted to Harad’s broiling sun.
“Look, Amira,” Saif said, motioning with a sweep of his arm toward the great expanse of grounds ahead. “The mûmakil of the far south: Chief Maalik’s greatest prize yet.”
The young girl gasped in marvel. There, across the large field, were towering grey figures, thunder in their steps and trumpets in their lungs. Their teeth grew in long curls from their lips, their noses nearly touched the ground; Amira had never seen anything so magnificent. “These are the mummykills?” She asked.
“Mûmakil, hayawan alyf,” Saif answered her. Amira’s grey eyes were wide as moons, her mouth parted in adoration and wonder. They were taller than any building she had seen, save perhaps the palace that sat upon its hill; they were the ones making the strange parade sounds, discordant yet powerful.
“I love them,” she whispered, squeezing her fingers around her father’s. Amira, though, caught sight of another one, a smaller one; it stood, swaying nearer them than any of the others, large ears flapping in the dry air. Its teeth did not curl as much, because they were small nubs that framed the long, thick nose. She pointed. “Is that a baby one, Alab?”
“It is,” her father answered her. “Small like you, hm?” The words, perhaps, were kind. Though, there was little warmth in his observation. He released her hand, and the little girl moved immediately to the fencing, hands pressed as close as her face as she peered at the little mûmak; no, it was not little like her. This was easily bigger than any of the horses in the stables behind her, Amira could tell. Still, compared to the others wandering the far fields, it did look much smaller. A baby.
The adults were talking, and as often happened when such began, the conversation began to slip into paths that Amira could not yet follow. Her attention was too captivated by the strange new creatures to pay her father, the stablehand, or her mother any mind, and on a compulsion she ducked into the pen herself.
If it was a baby, she reasoned, he would want to play, too.
“Hello,” she called to the standing grey creature. Its ears flapped, coming to rest against its head before fanning out wide, and loud was its call through its nose.
Jawahir gasped, knees suddenly feeling faint. “Saif!” She nearly shrieked. The bellowing of the mûmakil raised in chorus, and the two men turned to look inside.
“Amira!” Saif bellowed, voice like thunder. His frown was distinct, and as the little girl froze and turned, she could see it even from her distance away. The stablehand, though, hurriedly stepped forward.
“General, please—your voice—“
“Silence, and keep your tongue,” Saif growled back. He was already reaching for the gate, shoving the other man aside.
“It is dangerous, General,” Salman interjected, moving with a swift step to block the man’s advance. “If you go in there, you may cause a stampede. Your daughter will be crushed if that is the case.”
Jawahir gasped, the sound mingled with a sob as her eyes tore from Salman toward her daughter, little Amira’s dark hair glinting in the bright sunlight. “Amira. Amira, come here right now,” she called.
The little girl tilted her head, unsure what she had done to cause her parents to have such strange expressions. “All right, ’um,” she answered tentatively, little legs already bringing her back toward the gate. She heard larger footsteps behind, though, and her mother’s color drained to white.
Into her dark hair something sank, huffs of air like the howling sandstorms roaring over her. The little girl giggled, and Amira turned to peer up; there, before her, was the baby mûmak with its small tusks and wispy tail. “Hello!” She chirped to it once more, voice brilliant and eyes dancing in happiness.
“Amira! Amira!” Jawahir’s voice was shrieking uncontrollably, though Salman was doing his best to quiet her, and Saif was growling his own reminders that her frenzy could very well get Amira killed right then.
Amira, though, was unaware of what the adults were doing beyond the fence; her dark hair was being pulled up by powerful sniffs through a thick, long nose, and it soon looked as if she had not brushed her hair that morning at all. “I am little, too,” Amira hummed happily to the creature. It was hard to look at it, for it was very tall and nearly tipped her over backward to peer so far above. “We can be friends—so you do not have to be afraid,” she whispered to it.
Sometimes when she went somewhere new, she was frightened too.
The mûmak bent, shifting its eye to peer at her closely. Amira smiled, reaching a little hand up to stroke its grey, wrinkled skin. It felt dry, and thick; like bark on the new trees of Chief Maalik’s garden.
It blinked, its large round eye focused on her thoughtfully in consideration. It stood upright, all the way to its full height, and lifted its trunk.
A firm push of its tip to the little girl’s chest sent her sprawling into the dirt, and as a fountain she bubbled up into laughter. “I am going to call you Sibi! Because you are little, like me.” She told the mûmak as she scrambled to her feet, moving forward and wrapping her arms in a hug around the creature’s nose. “I love you, Sibi,” she told her new friend.
Sibi’s trunk twisted around, reaching one more for the little girl’s face. The end of the nose pressed against her cheek and sniffed, and the little girl laughed as she felt her skin pull with Sibi’s breath.
Sibi moved, turning away from Amira, ears flaring out and an excited gait whisking him further out into the field. Amira’s mussed hair and shining eyes were fully eager to follow. “Wait for me, Sibi!” She called, though before she had taken a step after her new friend, her father called to her.
“Amira! Taeal 'iilaa huna!” Come here.
Amira immediately turned, and seeing her father’s cross features tucked her chin against her chest in shame. “Goodbye, Sibi,” she said over her shoulder in a mumble. That tone meant Alab wanted her to listen, which meant she had done something wrong. Amira, though, was not sure what it was she had done that was bad; Saif had taken her to see the mûmakil because he had wanted her to meet them. Maybe he was sad he had not been able to meet one first. Quickly, little sandaled feet moved once more toward the fencing. “Coming, Alab!” Her voice called, tone saccharine and pleasant.
“Amira, what do you think you were doing, walking into the—” Saif’s voice began in lecture before the little girl had crossed back through the fencing. It stilled, though, and his eyes grew wide. Beside him, Jawahir began to shriek, her dark hair falling from the up-do she had kept under her veil.
“Amira! Amira, hurry!” She was screaming. It was enough to give little Amira pause, and her little heart began to fly within her chest.
Behind her, she could hear heavy footfalls, the sound of running. The ground beneath her began to shake and she turned. “Sibi?” She called in question, though now her voice was pinched in fear. Her mother was frightened; she likely needed to be as well.
The mûmak was approaching, quickly and with ears flapping freely. It trumpeted to her, and the sound suddenly seemed large and frightening. Sibi stopped though, and with its long grey trunk tossed to her a tangle of reeds and branch. Eagerly, the mûmak waited, and Amira watched the ball, nearly as tall as she was, roll to a halt a few feet away.
The child’s face illuminated and she smiled. “Do you want to play?” She asked excitedly. Sibi did not answer, but he tramped his feet in a strange dance that had him moving from side to side. Amira quickly paced forward and gave the branches a shove; though her strength did not allow the bundle of weeds to roll as far as Sibi’s had, the baby mûmak excitedly ran up to meet it, and with its trunk batted it back toward her.
Laughing, Amira looked over her shoulder and smiled to her father and mother. Their faces were stricken, surprise upon their face like cloud before the sun in storm. “Can I play with him, Alab?” Amira asked eagerly. Her friend wanted to toss the reeds; she, too, could play that game.
“…Of course, Amira. Go on. We will leave soon,” Saif answered after a moment, dark eyes considering as his daughter turned and gave the ball of branches another shove. It tumbled awkwardly, rolling in an arc that Sibi immediately moved to intercept, trumpeting in glee. Once more it was batted back, Amira running over the golden-hued earth to return the toy.
“General, if I may say,” Salman began, voice low and tentative, though perhaps equally as filled with marvel as that of the girl’s own father. “Your daughter has the spirit of the mûmak. None have been able to get close to the beasts yet…”
Saif hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps this is well,” he said, looking to his wife. “For if she has the spirit of a mûmak, she, too, will be great and mighty in her time.”
“Yes, ’um?” Amira’s voice answered, speaking to her mother in a sound of her own that was like sunbeams.
Jawahir’s dark hair poked from under her silken, beaded veil, deep eyes peering down upon her daughter’s face with a pinch knitted in her brow. The woman’s long fingers tightened on Amira’s small hand. “I need you to listen,” Jawahir reminded her. The tone was pleading, though not from Amira’s penchant to misbehave. A greater concern was working Jawahir’s lilt into something firmer; where they were going, what her husband intended for them to do, was something that perhaps could not be made safe. At least, not to her mother’s heart.
Amira nodded nonetheless, dark hair bobbing about her shoulders for the exuberance she put into the motion. Ahead was the large stable, the place where her father had said the new animals were—a reward for being a good daughter, a wise daughter. Her father had told her she would come with him, to meet the new giants Chief Maalik Asad had brought back from the far south. War beasts, he had called them. “Are they really going to be as big as a house, ’um? How do they fit inside?” Amira looked up with wide eyes, their slate-grey hue catching the light of the desert within them.
Jawahir offered a tight-lipped smile in return, hand clutching tighter to her young daughter’s hand. “That is what Alab said. I suppose we will have to see.” There was unease in her mother’s tone that Amira noted for only a fraction of a moment; it was overshadowed the moment a deeper, firmer voice called her name.
“Amira, hayawan alyf.” Pet.
Those grey eyes flit immediately to Saif, the small veins of grey in his curls of onyx standing out against his hard face. Yet, he smiled to her, and Amira left Jawahir’s tightly clinging fingers for the larger hand of her father as they passed through the stable’s large open doors.
“Alab,” she half sang in reply.
“Come. We are here. This man ahead will take us to the mûmakil,” Saif offered as he stilled his steps beneath the shadow of the stable’s eave, though did not look long to Amira. Instead, he lifted his eyes, dark and firm, toward his wife. “Your Alab has plans for you, Amira. All I teach you, I teach you for a purpose.” Jawahir said nothing, though dropped her chin into a subservient bow to her husband. She was not sure she could hide the worry upon her face; Jawahir’s last hope resided instead in trying to ensure her husband could not see it. Saif would not—could not—be made to change his mind, however much Jawahir did not think their eldest daughter needed to see the new creatures the chief had acquired.
Saif turned, finally passing inside the warm, dark building. It took little Amira some moments for her eyes to adjust to the absence of the sun’s glaring light, though she immediately began to seek out the thick-skinned beasts her father had described. Long noses, ears as large as a horse, teeth that curled out of its face—they were going to be easy to spot, she was certain. And yet, as she followed her father’s steady pace, all she saw were the sleek elegant forms of the horses Maalik kept. “Where are they, Alab?” She asked him. Saif did not answer, though reminded her with naught but his eyes that little girls were meant to behave, and oftentimes that meant be silent.
She quieted; Amira looked forward, peering at a man ahead who stood in weathered dark clothes emerging from one of the stalls. They were of thick cloth, brown about the hem for the dirt and mud, flecks of hay and straw clinging to the thick fabric on his long tunic. His face looked weathered by sun in the way only some of the men of Kahf Al’asad were able to boast. A worker, Amira knew it meant. Perhaps he worked for the chief the same as her father; there were times Saif returned home with mud and dirt upon his clothes as well.
“General Ikraam,” the man greeted the moment he noticed the man approaching, offering a small salute, fist pressed to his heart with a lowered head. Amira knew it was supposed to be done to her father, though she did not understand precisely why. Jawahir told her it was because he was important; Amira thought so, too, for he was the most important person in her little world. Still, when she had done the salute to him he had laughed and told her she need not do so. Perhaps like with some other things, she would understand better when she was older.
“Salman,” Saif drawled in greeting. His lips curled, though it was not an overly warm or friendly motion. The general’s brow was yet creased and hard in frown. “I am here to see the beasts.”
General Ikraam was not unexpected; word had been sent by the Chief himself that the general was going to be checking in on the progress being made with the new acquisitions, yet the worker at the stable looked from the general to the two women in his company in hesitation. He had been expected, perhaps, but the women were not.
A strange, loud sound came from beyond the stable. Amira gasped. “Is that a parade, Alab?” She inquired. She did enjoy them; they were grand affairs with bright costumes and music in the streets. They were special occasions, and she got to wear her pretty dresses for them. Saif, though, shook his head.
“No,” the general answered. “Those are not trumpets. You shall see soon.”
Salman, though, politely and lowly entreated for the man’s ear. “General Ikraam, I must caution bringing women and children to see the mûmakil. They—”
“I did not ask your opinion,” General Ikraam said coolly. It was enough to make the other man halt his words and offer a small, stiff bow.
“Of course,” he drawled, though Amira could see the way he looked to her. There was hesitation in his eyes. She tilted her head to look at him curiously, though said nothing. Once more there was the sound of a discordant parade and the young girl’s attention was again parted from him, the small cloud of understanding the man was frightened for her did not last long against the bright sun of her curiosity. “This way,” the man offered, and with a sweep of his arm, turned and led them toward the back of the stable.
The door bar was lifted, the large gates pressed open and the bright light of the morning stung Amira’s eyes for a moment before they once more adjusted to Harad’s broiling sun.
“Look, Amira,” Saif said, motioning with a sweep of his arm toward the great expanse of grounds ahead. “The mûmakil of the far south: Chief Maalik’s greatest prize yet.”
The young girl gasped in marvel. There, across the large field, were towering grey figures, thunder in their steps and trumpets in their lungs. Their teeth grew in long curls from their lips, their noses nearly touched the ground; Amira had never seen anything so magnificent. “These are the mummykills?” She asked.
“Mûmakil, hayawan alyf,” Saif answered her. Amira’s grey eyes were wide as moons, her mouth parted in adoration and wonder. They were taller than any building she had seen, save perhaps the palace that sat upon its hill; they were the ones making the strange parade sounds, discordant yet powerful.
“I love them,” she whispered, squeezing her fingers around her father’s. Amira, though, caught sight of another one, a smaller one; it stood, swaying nearer them than any of the others, large ears flapping in the dry air. Its teeth did not curl as much, because they were small nubs that framed the long, thick nose. She pointed. “Is that a baby one, Alab?”
“It is,” her father answered her. “Small like you, hm?” The words, perhaps, were kind. Though, there was little warmth in his observation. He released her hand, and the little girl moved immediately to the fencing, hands pressed as close as her face as she peered at the little mûmak; no, it was not little like her. This was easily bigger than any of the horses in the stables behind her, Amira could tell. Still, compared to the others wandering the far fields, it did look much smaller. A baby.
The adults were talking, and as often happened when such began, the conversation began to slip into paths that Amira could not yet follow. Her attention was too captivated by the strange new creatures to pay her father, the stablehand, or her mother any mind, and on a compulsion she ducked into the pen herself.
If it was a baby, she reasoned, he would want to play, too.
“Hello,” she called to the standing grey creature. Its ears flapped, coming to rest against its head before fanning out wide, and loud was its call through its nose.
Jawahir gasped, knees suddenly feeling faint. “Saif!” She nearly shrieked. The bellowing of the mûmakil raised in chorus, and the two men turned to look inside.
“Amira!” Saif bellowed, voice like thunder. His frown was distinct, and as the little girl froze and turned, she could see it even from her distance away. The stablehand, though, hurriedly stepped forward.
“General, please—your voice—“
“Silence, and keep your tongue,” Saif growled back. He was already reaching for the gate, shoving the other man aside.
“It is dangerous, General,” Salman interjected, moving with a swift step to block the man’s advance. “If you go in there, you may cause a stampede. Your daughter will be crushed if that is the case.”
Jawahir gasped, the sound mingled with a sob as her eyes tore from Salman toward her daughter, little Amira’s dark hair glinting in the bright sunlight. “Amira. Amira, come here right now,” she called.
The little girl tilted her head, unsure what she had done to cause her parents to have such strange expressions. “All right, ’um,” she answered tentatively, little legs already bringing her back toward the gate. She heard larger footsteps behind, though, and her mother’s color drained to white.
Into her dark hair something sank, huffs of air like the howling sandstorms roaring over her. The little girl giggled, and Amira turned to peer up; there, before her, was the baby mûmak with its small tusks and wispy tail. “Hello!” She chirped to it once more, voice brilliant and eyes dancing in happiness.
“Amira! Amira!” Jawahir’s voice was shrieking uncontrollably, though Salman was doing his best to quiet her, and Saif was growling his own reminders that her frenzy could very well get Amira killed right then.
Amira, though, was unaware of what the adults were doing beyond the fence; her dark hair was being pulled up by powerful sniffs through a thick, long nose, and it soon looked as if she had not brushed her hair that morning at all. “I am little, too,” Amira hummed happily to the creature. It was hard to look at it, for it was very tall and nearly tipped her over backward to peer so far above. “We can be friends—so you do not have to be afraid,” she whispered to it.
Sometimes when she went somewhere new, she was frightened too.
The mûmak bent, shifting its eye to peer at her closely. Amira smiled, reaching a little hand up to stroke its grey, wrinkled skin. It felt dry, and thick; like bark on the new trees of Chief Maalik’s garden.
It blinked, its large round eye focused on her thoughtfully in consideration. It stood upright, all the way to its full height, and lifted its trunk.
A firm push of its tip to the little girl’s chest sent her sprawling into the dirt, and as a fountain she bubbled up into laughter. “I am going to call you Sibi! Because you are little, like me.” She told the mûmak as she scrambled to her feet, moving forward and wrapping her arms in a hug around the creature’s nose. “I love you, Sibi,” she told her new friend.
Sibi’s trunk twisted around, reaching one more for the little girl’s face. The end of the nose pressed against her cheek and sniffed, and the little girl laughed as she felt her skin pull with Sibi’s breath.
Sibi moved, turning away from Amira, ears flaring out and an excited gait whisking him further out into the field. Amira’s mussed hair and shining eyes were fully eager to follow. “Wait for me, Sibi!” She called, though before she had taken a step after her new friend, her father called to her.
“Amira! Taeal 'iilaa huna!” Come here.
Amira immediately turned, and seeing her father’s cross features tucked her chin against her chest in shame. “Goodbye, Sibi,” she said over her shoulder in a mumble. That tone meant Alab wanted her to listen, which meant she had done something wrong. Amira, though, was not sure what it was she had done that was bad; Saif had taken her to see the mûmakil because he had wanted her to meet them. Maybe he was sad he had not been able to meet one first. Quickly, little sandaled feet moved once more toward the fencing. “Coming, Alab!” Her voice called, tone saccharine and pleasant.
“Amira, what do you think you were doing, walking into the—” Saif’s voice began in lecture before the little girl had crossed back through the fencing. It stilled, though, and his eyes grew wide. Beside him, Jawahir began to shriek, her dark hair falling from the up-do she had kept under her veil.
“Amira! Amira, hurry!” She was screaming. It was enough to give little Amira pause, and her little heart began to fly within her chest.
Behind her, she could hear heavy footfalls, the sound of running. The ground beneath her began to shake and she turned. “Sibi?” She called in question, though now her voice was pinched in fear. Her mother was frightened; she likely needed to be as well.
The mûmak was approaching, quickly and with ears flapping freely. It trumpeted to her, and the sound suddenly seemed large and frightening. Sibi stopped though, and with its long grey trunk tossed to her a tangle of reeds and branch. Eagerly, the mûmak waited, and Amira watched the ball, nearly as tall as she was, roll to a halt a few feet away.
The child’s face illuminated and she smiled. “Do you want to play?” She asked excitedly. Sibi did not answer, but he tramped his feet in a strange dance that had him moving from side to side. Amira quickly paced forward and gave the branches a shove; though her strength did not allow the bundle of weeds to roll as far as Sibi’s had, the baby mûmak excitedly ran up to meet it, and with its trunk batted it back toward her.
Laughing, Amira looked over her shoulder and smiled to her father and mother. Their faces were stricken, surprise upon their face like cloud before the sun in storm. “Can I play with him, Alab?” Amira asked eagerly. Her friend wanted to toss the reeds; she, too, could play that game.
“…Of course, Amira. Go on. We will leave soon,” Saif answered after a moment, dark eyes considering as his daughter turned and gave the ball of branches another shove. It tumbled awkwardly, rolling in an arc that Sibi immediately moved to intercept, trumpeting in glee. Once more it was batted back, Amira running over the golden-hued earth to return the toy.
“General, if I may say,” Salman began, voice low and tentative, though perhaps equally as filled with marvel as that of the girl’s own father. “Your daughter has the spirit of the mûmak. None have been able to get close to the beasts yet…”
Saif hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps this is well,” he said, looking to his wife. “For if she has the spirit of a mûmak, she, too, will be great and mighty in her time.”