On Mount Alyppia

Unwanted

Being unusual is dangerous. We shy away from those who are different than us. We mock, we jeer, we belittle, we alienate, we isolate. Outcasts tend to stick together, but for some, there is no one to stick together with.

    Arista knew very well what it was to be an outcast. She was not the same as other youth living on the walled, island city of Kalterra. With hair whiter than snow, she was a Lippian, what happened when one of the long-lived Nymphs of the mountain Alyppia grew bored of immortality and emerged for a bit of fun with a mortal woman. She was a constant reminder that none of them knew much, if anything, about the nymphs. That nymphs were more powerful than them. That pretend as they may, none of them were safe from the nymph's ever-changing moods, from the mountain looming eerily over the city. Few had use for such a child. Arista's mother had not. She had abandoned her in an unfamiliar alley when the girl was four or five, scarcely old enough to toddle after her, crying and screaming. Her very name screamed her status. Arista. Unwanted. Arista. Unloved.

    After all these years, Arista had barely a fleeting memory of her mother. She did not remember what she looked like. She did not know who she was. She did not know if she even wanted to know, or if she even cared. Certainly she had no interest in finding her or meeting her. But these weren't things she thought of often. Most of the time, when she bothered to think at all, she was thinking of her sore ribs or aching belly or parched throat. Or, like she was now, thinking of the task at hand, content to keep her thoughts void of anything at all. Her mind was vacant as she sat on an empty, overturned wine barrel, polishing swords.

    Across the cobblestone courtyard, two muscular young men, one of them shirtless, sparred with dull-edged blades. They lunged and parried in a violent dance, sweat glistening on their tanned skin, neither one better than the other. Gregor watched them from a corner with a keen eye, stroking his mostly-gray beard rhythmically. Gregor was an odd man, and everyone seemed to think so, but he had a little granddaughter who was nymph-born, a Lippian. And perhaps because of her, he treated Arista better than anyone had any right to treat a Lippian street-girl.

    He had come upon her years ago, when she had been even smaller and scrawnier, digging through a rotting rubbish heap with bleeding fingers to search for some edible morsel. She had tried to run mud through her scraggly hair, chopped to her chin, earlier that day to hide the color. But the rain had washed it away, and what she was was clear to see. Arista had yelped and cowered when she had seen him, a big man looming over her with his head tilted curiously to the side. She had waited for him to chase her away, but he hadn't. He had asked her if she wanted a drink of water, and at her jerky nod he had opened the gate to the back courtyard, where he held his lessons and ushered her in. He pointed her to the water-pump in the corner, and said to her that she could get herself a drink. She had asked him if he wanted her to pay, and he had merely pointed to the pile of old swords lying on the rack and ordered her curtly to polish them. She had done a sloppy job, dropping the swords and cutting her fingers in the process, and she had not been finished by the time the sun had gone down, so she had come to finish them the next day, and the next, and the next, and the next. She polished swords and oiled door-hinges and fetched water and mended baldrics and cleaned things and sometimes did chores for the cook. She was given leftover food for her services, and soon enough she became a sort of servant, even though she still slept on the streets. Gregor didn't pay her, he barely spoke to her, and he had never so much as asked her for her name. But he had been kind to her, and he fed her. So she stayed.

    "Halt," Gregor called to his students at last, raising a hand.

Watching as she always was, Arista set down her blade and greased rag and hurried forward with a bucket and dipper, letting both of Gregor's students have a long drink. The first didn't spare her a glance, nevermind a thank you, but the second looked at her briefly, then seemed to notice something and looked some more. Arista raised a hand to check that the scarf she kept tied round her head was still there, her heart starting to thrum, patting and tucking the ends to make sure every white wisp and tendril was out of sight. She let out a quiet breath when he at last looked away handed her back her dipper, calling out taunts to his opponent. Arista hurried back to the safety of her tipped over barrel and her tarnished swords. Being invisible seemed like a burden, sometimes, but being noticed could be worse. Far, far worse.