Eidolon Earth: Candidate Author

Her face went from relaxed to confused to horrified in the span of a second.

"Bholu!" she practically shouted.

The little boy ran towards his mother after being called and stopped near her hand.

The frail woman raised her hand, which was trembling slightly, and started twisting his ear.

The little boy grabbed his mother's hand and desperately tried to get away while his face contorted in pain.

"WHAT DID YOU STEAL?" Her voice began to rise.

Meanwhile, the rest of them standing there felt their hair rise, reminded once again of the trauma of a mother's anger.

. . .

"He didn't steal anything?" the frail woman asked in disbelief, and perhaps with some hope, even after being told so for the third time.

"Yes, we came here to deliver this packed food," Hayato-san said.

"W-we cannot accept such generosity," she tried to argue.

"If I had been in your place, I would have gratefully accepted, young lady." Arin turned his head to see Sir Graham standing with his arms crossed.

"Huh?" she seemed confused.

Seeing that she didn't understand the situation, Sir Graham came towards her.

His heavy armor made a weighty sound with every step, his greying hair tied back in a ponytail.

He looked at Hayato-san and then at Arin before continuing, "The one who decides what the receiver receives is the giver itself."

She stared blankly at his face.

He sighed and then said, "Look not at what is being offered, but at who offers it."

He then looked at Arin and said, "That young man over there is the Royal Messenger of the Kingdom of Parshara."

Then he looked at Hayato-san. "The old man sitting beside you is the Royal Scholar, who is responsible for preserving the very identity of Parshara — its culture and traditions."

The woman was at a loss for words and remained seated for a minute.

"I-I…" She looked for the right words; perhaps the situation was too much to take in.

"L-let me see too," came a few shrill, young voices, slicing through the serious atmosphere.

They turned only to see three pairs of big eyes peeking from behind the wall of the hut.

When Arin saw them, they blinked once, twice.

"Aww, they caught us," came the voice, and soon three little figures emerged from behind the wall.

In single-piece cloth dresses stood three children, maybe five or six years old — two boys and one girl with brown pigtails.

Their eyes were shining as they looked at the escort guards.

One of the boys slowly came closer and poked at the steel-hard armor, his mouth drooling.

"It's… real," he yelped in awe.

The other boy went towards Sir Graham. He stared at his sword for a second, took a deep breath, and then asked, "Can you teach me how to wield a sword, sir?"

Sir Graham looked at him for a moment and said, "I am afraid I cannot."

The boy's shoulders dropped.

"But I can show you some moves, if you're interested," Sir Graham suggested.

The boy's eyes lit up again as he followed Sir Graham out.

That interaction made all of them smile.

The little girl walked towards the frail woman.

"How are you, Aunty?" she asked, eyeing the packed food on the table.

At that moment, Arin felt a touch on his lap. He looked down only to see Bholu trying to put a small letter on his lap.

"What's this?" Arin asked, taking the letter in his hand.

"BHOLU! Take it back!" his mother screamed, but Bholu hid behind him.

The letter was plain — no sigils, no symbols. Even the paper was of low quality, and cheap ink had been used.

It was sealed with wax that had since hardened.

"What is this?" Arin asked again.

The frail woman replied in a low voice, "I am… a postwoman," she continued.

"I travel once a week to deliver letters to Tilmis City — the one at the border of Nazarana Kingdom," she said.

Then she bowed. "I am ashamed that my son did something like this. Please consider his actions a child's carelessness."

Arin listened to her and looked at the letter.

"Well, since we are already going to Nazarana, we might as well deliver this along the way," he told her, tucking the letter into his pocket.

At that, she looked up — her jaw dropped and her eyebrows raised.

She tried to stand while attempting to argue.

"No! How can I let such esteemed guests do my lowly work?" She almost stood, but Bholu ran and hugged her — even though he could only reach her legs, he managed to stop her from standing.

She glared at him, but he stood his ground.

Seeing that, warmth filled Arin's chest.

Yeah, I would've done the same if I were him.

His hand went to Bholu's head. "He's a strong kid," he said, smiling.

Everyone agreed. The door creaked again, and Sir Graham entered.

"Looks like I missed something interesting," Sir Graham commented.

The boy who had gone outside with him returned as well, the light in his eyes brighter than before.

Arin stood up, searching for something in his pocket. "I would have liked to know more about this place, but it looks like we need to depart now."

Simultaneously with his words, Hayato-san stood up as well.

The frail woman stood, grabbing the edge of the bed, and tried to walk them to the door, only to be stopped by Sir Graham.

The children pleaded with them to stay longer, but since they couldn't afford to waste any more time here — given the worsening conditions of the Kingdom — they left.

After Arin closed the door of the little hut, he signaled the guards to follow him. The world partially dissolved, and the stored energy in his cells began to course through his veins as he sprinted.

Sir Graham, who was enveloped in a brown glow, ran beside him. "May I know the reason why we are running, Lord Daniel?"

Arin simply smiled and said, "Sometimes forcing your goodwill on someone is better than waiting for them to accept it."

Sir Graham seemed not to understand but still followed behind him, carrying Hayato-san on his back.

.

.

.

The frail woman stood by the doorway long after the sound of boots had faded, watching the little wooden gate at the edge of the yard swing shut on its own, creaking once before it settled.

Only then did her knees allow themselves to shake.

She turned, and her eyes fell on Bholu, who was still watching the empty path with a satisfied little smile, as if he had personally escorted royalty out of their home.

"Bholu."

Her voice was quiet this time — quieter than the shout that had sent him running earlier — and somehow that was worse. He turned to face her, his smile faltering.

"Do you understand what you did?" she said. "You put a letter into a stranger's hand. A stranger who wears armor and carries swords."

Bholu looked at her innocently.

"They were nice," she agreed, and knelt slowly, wincing as her joints protested. "This time. This time, child, we were fortunate — a good man happened to be standing in our yard. But what if he hadn't been good? What if it had been someone who took your carelessness as an insult, or worse, as an opportunity? Do you know what happens to boys who trouble the wrong stranger?"

Bholu said nothing. His lower lip trembled, and she softened, pulling him into her arms.

She held him a moment longer, then let him go and pushed herself up, using the doorframe for support. Her stomach chose that exact moment to twist itself into a knot, and she pressed a hand against it, willing it to be silent.

No. I will not touch what was given out of pity.

The thought came proud and immediate, the way it always did, and she almost believed it. But her legs were unsteady beneath her, and the room had a way of tilting slightly whenever she stood too fast these days, and she knew — better than her pride ever would admit — that there was no strength left in her to spare on stubbornness.

It was not pity. He had said so himself. The young man beside him decides what he offers, and it was the man who decided, not her. She was only the receiver.

Some final piece of resistance in her gave way at that, and she turned back into the hut.

The children were already crowded around the table, small hands hovering over the cloth-wrapped bundles, waiting for permission they hadn't dared to ask for out loud. She began unwrapping the packages, and the smell that rose from them — of warm rice, spiced lentils, something sweet beneath it all — made her own mouth water embarrassingly fast.

She counted with her eyes before she counted with her hands. There was too much here for one sitting, too much even for one day. This would last two days, perhaps more if she was careful with it. Whoever had packed this had not simply fed them a meal; they had fed them a fortnight's worth of worry away.

"Eat," she told the children, setting portions before them. "Slowly. There is enough."

She did not serve herself yet. She watched them eat first.

It was only when she began folding the empty cloth wrappings that she noticed it: a small square of fabric left forgotten on the table, tucked half beneath the food that had rested on it. She picked it up, and her fingers knew immediately that it did not belong to her — the weave was too fine, too smooth, the kind of cloth that had never known a hard day's work. A handkerchief, its corner stitched with a thread so pale it was almost silver.

She turned it over once in her hands, frowning, then hurried to the door, calling out — she wasn't sure what she meant to say, only that it should be returned.

But the yard was empty. The gate stood still. Whatever brown glow had carried them away had long since vanished past the bend in the road, and there was no one left to give it back to.

She stood there for a moment, foolish, holding a stranger's handkerchief in the middle of an empty yard.

With a sigh, she pressed it between her palms, meaning only to fold it properly before setting it aside for safekeeping — and stopped.

Something inside it had clinked.

Her heart gave an odd little stumble. Slowly, she unfolded the cloth, layer by careful layer, until five small silver coins slid into her open palm and caught the last of the evening light.

She stared at them for a long, long moment, and then, without quite meaning to, she began to laugh — a soft, disbelieving sound, half a sob.

"Look not at what is offered," she murmured to no one, echoing the armored man's words, "but at who offers it."