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[personal profile] edenfalling
Several months ago I wrote a weird 15-minute thing about a woman traveling south in the winter. Then it bugged me until I worked out a more coherent background for it. This is part of that background.

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Ata of the Bloody Hand
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When Ata was nine, she killed her brother.

Oh, she didn't walk up and stab him, and nobody admitted anything, but she was the one who lost him on the steppe in midwinter. She was the one who didn't realize that Mirel, who always huddled so close to the fire, wouldn't have her strength to stand the howling winds.

So she had blood on her hands even then.

When Ata was thirteen, newly come into her woman's blood, a man of the Urut caught her in a raid. He hauled her onto his horse, his hand tangled in her long, black hair, and bit her earlobe in half to stop her screams.

When he came to his tent that night, drunk and ready to make her his wife, Ata put out his eye with her broken bracelet and slit his throat with his own knife. She moaned and screamed to keep attention away, and then slipped into the night. The horses didn't spook easily, but a burning tent-pole finally sent them keening into the broken hills while she leapt onto one and rode with them.

Once the sky cleared, it was easy enough to turn the horse toward her own people, the Aigur. The Urut pursued her, of course -- the loss of so many horses, a warrior, and a family tent was not taken lightly -- but this time, her people were ready. The Urut didn't raid for many years thereafter.

And Ata had more blood on her hands. That time, she was glad of it.

When she was sixteen and willing to marry, Ogan Buraigur, a young man from a neighboring camp, offered five horses to her father, who willingly gave his wild daughter to a man who didn't mind her stained hands.

"I'm not a proper woman," Ata told him brusquely when they entered his tent after the wedding and she lowered her veil, giving him his first glimpse of her uncovered face. "I've killed, and I won't be ruled by you or any man."

Ogan smiled, the tiny upward quirk of the lips that passed for great amusement or joy among their people. "Good. I want a strong wife, not a broken mare or a tent-rug. And I hear you can make butter and sew, no matter what you think of yourself as a woman."

At this, Ata laughed. "True! My butter is the best in my camp -- in your camp now, I suppose. But what do you need a strong wife for? Your standing is low, your camp is small, and our people have been dwindling for a long time." She gave him a challenging look.

"Not anymore," Ogan said, calmly meeting her eyes. "The Urut are weakened -- I know who won that battle, no matter how your camp tried to hide your part -- and the Malir fight among themselves. This is our time to build."

"Ha!" Ata said. "You might as well say you'll take the Winter City and all the Middle Kingdom."

Ogan smiled. "Why not?"

Ata returned his smile. And in the next years, her hands ran red again.

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Inspired by the 11 July 2004 [livejournal.com profile] 15minuteficlets word #62: bloody

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In other news, this morning I did my naturalistic observation of children for my Child Psych project. Except it kind of got skewed because the kids kept coming over and talking to me, so I wasn't a neutral observer. Oh well. I think I got a lot of good stuff anyway.

And man, 5-year-olds really don't think the same way adults do. I can't reconstruct my own thinking back that far; I can only get to about age 7 or 8 most of the time. What little I do remember suggests that I was in some ways weirdly precocious -- read on a 2nd or 3rd grade level in kindergarten -- but in others right in line with everyone else -- not quite grasping the rules of certain activities, and being unable to quietly line up and follow group instructions.

Also, I couldn't tie my own shoes. (I learned that halfway through kindergarten -- they came untied during class, and I reached down and tied them, though I'd been completely unable to do that the same morning. I learn like that a lot -- the eureka moment.)

(no subject)

Date: 2004-07-13 05:25 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] redwolfoz.livejournal.com
Excellent story, love Ata and her strength of will.

As for the mental processes of kindergarteners, I have dim memories that we'd made a connection that non-toxic meant that it wouldn't harm you to eat it, therefore, non-toxic equated to edible. Which would explain the number of kids in that class eating Perkin's Paste, Plasticine and paper.

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Elizabeth Culmer

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