'Orphanage' - B.C. 2

        “Master Hawke,” growled an elderly man in Darnassian, as the child’s eyes flickered open.  “Can you hear me, boy?”
        The room swirled violently around the boy, as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.  Closing his eyes again tightly to block out his nausea, he said nothing, but nodded.
        “You’ve been asleep for four days now, son.  Do you remember what happened?”
        The child searched the depths of his brain for any memory of where he was or how he got there.  Try as he might, the last thing he could remember was his mother kissing his forehead, and drifting off to sleep.  He shook his head no.
        “Do you know where you are?”
        Again, the boy shook his head.
        “You are in the Hope Center for Orphans,” the gruff-voiced man reluctantly replied.  “Do you know what that means?”
        Confused, the child suddenly barked back, “No, I don’t!  Okay?  What’s with all the questions?”  He glared angrily at the persistent old man, who had masked his face with pity, behind his silver beard and spectacles.  The room had relented in its swirling.
        Quietly, the old man stared into the child’s eyes, awestruck by something.  “Skiria, come!” he called toward the door of the small room.  “Come quickly, you must see this!”
        A fair-skinned elf maiden rushed into the room clutching a scroll beneath her arm.  She seemed somewhat flustered, flicking her sapphire hair out of her eyes and adjusting her blouse.  “What is it, Father Lightweave?” she inquired, but with a glance at the boy, her question was answered.
        “By Elune!” she gasped, covering her lips with her free hand.  “What does this mean?”  The child gazed from her to Father Lightweave, puzzled.
        Gawking like foul-mannered children, the two stood completely still.  The young boy began to feel very uncomfortable.  
        “What’s wrong?” he asked, timidly.  
        Father Lightweave fumbled around on the bedside table, unable to take his eyes off the child’s face.  He managed to tug open the drawer without looking down, and withdrew a small mirror, handing it to the child.
        Taking the proffered mirror in his tiny hands, the boy peered into it.  The round face of a pre-teen elven child gazed sorrowfully back, framed behind a matted mess of cerulean hair and long, drooping ears.  Much to his surprise, his tired eyes did not glow silver like he had remembered.  His left eye shone a brilliant blue, whereas the right flickered with a faint olive colored light.  It was apparently this peculiarity that had piqued the others’ interests.
        “How could this be?” stammered Skiria, still staring at the small boy.  “It isn’t the mark of a Highborne… never in my hundred years have I heard of such a thing as green and blue eyes!”
        “You are right,” responded the elder.  “The mark of the Highborne is golden eyes.  This child’s eyes are quite unique.”
        He wanted to shout at them that he was still there; he could still hear them!  Instead, he remained silent, feeling like a lab subject of some sort.
        Skiria hurriedly unraveled her scroll, almost dropping it in the process.  “What is this child’s name?” she inquired, apparently preparing to jot down notes.
        Finally breaking his gaze on the child’s eyes, the Father closed the bedside table’s drawer and growled, “Berufeng Hawke.”
        Suddenly, something in Berufeng’s mind clicked into place, and he recognized the name as his own.  
        Skiria scribbled it down, then looked hesitantly up at Father Lightweave.  “…Anayana’li’s boy, Father?” she asked quietly, as if she thought Berufeng would not hear.  The elderly man nodded mournfully, muttering a prayer under his breath.
        Berufeng’s ears rose at the mention of his mother’s name.  “Mum?  Where’s mum?” he pleaded, realizing that something was terribly wrong.
        The frail old man placed a hand to his wrinkly brow, and tears began to form beneath his spectacles.  “This is always the hardest part of my job, son…” he began.  Skiria hid her face from view.
        “There was a tragedy in your home, five nights ago, Berufeng.  No one can explain how it happened, but your mother has gone missing… and your sister…” he trailed off.
        “…Annika?” Berufeng choked.  “What’s happened to Annika?”
        Father Lightweave sat down on the edge of the bed, and took two deep breaths, before continuing.  “She’s gone, son.  I’m so sorry.”  Tears began to fall from his silver eyes.
        Berufeng sat perfectly still for several minutes, unable to think clearly, much less speak.  After an unbearably long silence, he suddenly began to audibly weep.  Between suppressed sobs, he looked directly at the Father and stammered, “They’re both dead.  I-I remember it.”
        Skiria began furiously writing, as the weeping child explained what he had seen.
        “There was a… a thing…” he sobbed, frustrated at his inability to describe the scene.  “It was all black, like a ghost, but I couldn’t see through it… It was…”  He choked back another wave of tears, his chest heaving with uncontrollable sobbing.  “It was made of bones, with green eyes… It pointed at Mum, and she…” he stopped abruptly, threw himself face first into the pillow, and screamed in agony.  After several moments of weeping, he began to quiet.
        Reluctantly, the Father asked him to continue, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “Tell us the rest, son, and I promise we won’t ask you any more questions.”  He nodded at Skiria, who readied her quill again.
        Berufeng gathered himself, drying his face.  His sobs had begun to subside, the tears ceased in their flow.  “It pointed at her, and she turned to dust,” he said flatly, but his face wrenched in disgust.  Skiria’s quill scratched furiously at the parchment.  
        “And then Annika… sh-she screamed,” he continued, “and the thing turned to her and… and…” he trailed off, reverting to heaving sobs.
        Father Lightweave nodded at Skiria, and she stuffed away the quill and scroll.  He turned to Berufeng.  “It’s quite alright, child.  You don’t need to tell us the rest…”  With a meaningful look at Skiria, he continued.  “Thank you for telling us what you know, son.  You’ve been very brave.”  
        He rose to his feet, reaching for a walking staff that had been leaning against a bureau near the door.  “We will let you rest a while longer, Berufeng,” he sighed, gesturing for Skiria to exit.  “The other children will be gathering for supper in half an hour.  Would you desire to join them?”
        Berufeng shook his head, drying his tears again.  “I’m not hungry.”
        “Very well,” replied Father Lightweave, a hint of concern in his gruff voice.  “Someone will stop by to check on you after supper, then.”  And, unsure what else to say, he awkwardly hobbled out of the room.  With a click, the door shut behind him, and Berufeng was alone.
        The Father made his way down the hall to his office, where Skiria was filing the scroll into a cabinet.  “Take the boy a plate, please, Skiria,” he ordered in a gruff, but caring tone.  She nodded, and hurried to the kitchen.
        A few minutes later, she knocked lightly on Berufeng’s door, then entered with a generous helping of stew, bread, and fruit overflowing its plate.  She looked up, smiling, to find the room empty.  Her smile faded as her gaze settled upon the open window, curtains flapping in the evening breeze.