Chapter Text
Eshkhan El-Rizq, five-and-three-quarters years old, not just five, thank you very much, doesn’t remember his father very well.
It doesn’t bother him so much. Mama is always telling him that his father loves him very much and that he’ll come back one day, and that until then, she’ll love Eshkhan and Atal enough for the both of them. But Khal Ahiqar always raises an eyebrow when Mama says this and looks silently away, so Eshkhan is not sure what to make of it, even when Khal Eashoa backs Mama up.
What he does remember is faded, blurry, and hard to reach, like the old black-and-white picture of Mama’s Mama and Baba that she keeps high on a shelf in the kitchen.
He remembers that his father didn’t look much like everyone else in the village. He remembers long, yellow hair kept pulled back in a pony-tail. He remembers tanned skin that wasn’t nearly as dark as Mama’s or Atal’s. He remembers golden eyes. Nothing like the shined red of the rubies that encrust the temple altar, the bright red of cousin Cyra’s favorite dress, the light, flecked red of Atal’s wide, round eyes, or the deep, thick red of the liquid that’s dripping down Mama’s forehead, getting caught on her long, dark eyelashes.
“Mama?” Eshkhan stares up at his mother in horror as she staggers into the house, one hand trying to stem the flow of blood from her head, the other clutching a wailing Atal to her chest.
“Tsira- Tsira!” Khal Eashoa leaps up from his desk and helps Mama down onto the floor.
Atal wriggles out of her grasp and collapses on the carpet next to her, crying loud enough to shake the walls.
“What happened?” Khal asks. He pulls off his sash and attempts to press it to Mama’s forehead, but Mama glares at him so hard, one eye swollen half-shut, that he puts it down, sighs, and turns to Eshkhan. “Go get clean rags from the kitchen, please, and some water-”
Eshkhan nods once, voice caught in his throat, and takes a step towards the kitchen, but Atal screams as he moves away, arms reaching out for him. Eshkhan has never been able to say no to his baby brother, so he hoists him up on his hip, though he’s far too big for it, and takes him with him into the kitchen in search of cloth for Mama.
“Hush, Atal, it’s alright.” Eshkhan whispers. Atal just weeps and buries his face in Eshkhan’s shoulder. He carries his brother back into the living room and hands the rags and small jug of water to Khal, who’s talking to Mama in a low, angry tone.
“-shouldn’t have been traveling to Sada alone, Tsira, the Amestrian-”
“It was a lone soldier, not an alchemist or a regiment,” Mama says wearily, and sucks in a sharp breath as Khal wets a rag and presses it to her head. The white of the cloth comes away corrupted with red and brown, and Eshkhan feels his stomach twist.
Atal whimpers and shoves his fists into his eyes.
“A child, really. Maybe five summers older than Cyra.” Mama says, like she’s holding back a laugh, or maybe a sob. “Saw that I was alone with Atal and thought he’d have some fun.”
“This isn’t funny, Tsira,” Khal growls.
“I never said it was, my dear šaqīq, but what is there to do?”
Khal lets out a noise of frustration when he dabs at the wound again and it still comes away dripping with the red. “Tsira, it’s still bleeding.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“If you would just let me try the Alkahestry I learned-”
“I’ll be fine.” Mama repeats sharply.
“And if I can’t stop the bleeding?” Khal throws up his hands. “What am I to do? Just let you d-” He cuts off abruptly and looks back at Eshkhan. “Habibi, can you and Atal go get Cyra from school?”
Atal lets out a hoarse sob, obviously upset by the idea of leaving the house, and Mama makes a noise and pushes aside Khal Eashoa, holding out her arms for Atal. Atal throws himself at her, and Eshkhan can see red-crusted blood dried at the very top of his white-blonde hair.
“Oh, my baby,” Mama runs her hand up and down his shaking back. “My love, we’re safe now. We’re safe, I promise. Breathe deep, Atal.”
Atal takes a heaving breath, lets out one final sob, and settles against Mama’s chest.
“We’re safe in the village, yes?” Mama asks him kindly.
“B-but-”
“Atal, my love, who lives in the village?”
“Y-you,” Atal says hesitantly, knotting the ends of Mama’s light pink head-wrap around his hands. “And Khal Ahiqar, a-and Cyra, and Eima Samiah, and, and-”
“And who else?” Mama prompts. Khal Eashoa silently kneels down next to her and begins to wrap her forehead in a clean white cloth.
Atal turns his head and looks at Eshkhan with those wide red eyes, so unlike the sandy gold Eshkhan sees when he makes faces at himself in the well.
“Brother.” Atal says quietly.
“And would your brother ever let harm come to you?” Mama asks gently.
Atal shakes his head.
“That’s right.” Mama puts him down. “As long as your brother has you, you’re safe. Do you understand, Atal?”
“Yes, Mama,” Atal says, though his voice wavers.
“There’s my little hero,” Mama smiles; there’s blood on her teeth. “Now, can my two strong, brave boys run over and pick up your cousin from school? I’m sure she’d enjoy your company on the way home.”
“Yes, Mama!” Eshkhan says, and tugs Atal out the door and into the blinding late-afternoon sun.
Cyra is late coming out of her classes. She always is. She stays back and chats with her friends forever, and comes home so late she almost never has to help make dinner. Eshkhan scowls at the small sea of big kids, trying to find Cyra’s red-ribboned braids. When he goes to school, he’ll leave right after class is done and go home and help cook, because what kind of cousin leaves their poor, defenseless, younger cousin to cut all the peppers by themselves? A monster, that’s who, a real-life monster in double braids-
Atal spots her first and brightens, waving vigorously at her.
Cyra eyes them, says something to her little group of friends, and hurries over, her eyebrows furrowing. “Atal? Eshkhan? Why are you-” Cyra stops suddenly. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them again. “They’re fighting, huh?”
“Yeah.” Eshkhan says dully. He’d tried to get the blood off of Atal's head on the walk over, but as the sun drops below the temple, it sets Atal’s hair aflame into a blinding white-gold, and the dark specks become even more apparent.
Cyra sighs and takes Atal’s hand in hers as they set off down the road towards home. “What about this time?”
“Mama got hurt.” Atal’s voice wavers again. “They-they threw rocks-”
“Rocks?” Cyra’s eyes widen. “Atal, are you hurt?”
“No, I checked.” Eshkhan says. His stomach hurts again. He wishes he could take Cyra’s other hand, but she’s holding her writing tablet and chalk in that hand, and he’s not a baby, he doesn’t need to be comforted like Atal does. Not even when a soldier dressed in cold, distinct blue passes them and narrows his eyes, letting one hand rest on the butt of his gun.
Cyra scowls and grabs Eshkhan’s hand anyways, shoving her tablet up into the crook of her arm so that she can tightly grasp his fingers. She hurries them past the soldier and mutters a swear under her breath, spitting on the ground.
Atal gasps, thoroughly scandalized. “Cyra!” He scolds. “You shouldn’t say that! Khal Ahiqar would be so upset with you-”
“But Khal Ahiqar isn’t here, is he?” Eshkhan says crossly, poking his head around around Cyra’s skirt to wrinkle his nose at his brother.
“And what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” Cyra says, chin tilted up, swinging her head so that her braids swing with her.
“What won’t hurt me?” A deep voice rumbles behind them.
Eshkhan freezes to the spot, and sees Cyra and Atal do the same out of his peripheral vision. They slowly turn to find Khal Ahiqar standing behind them in his full temple ceremonial dress, eyebrows raised.
“H-hey, Ammu,” Cyra says, false cheer injected into her nervous voice. “We were just-”
“Uh, we were walking home from school!” Eshkhan supplies, and his uncle’s eyes turn on him, red and unforgiving.
“And talking about?” Khal’s eyebrows raise even higher, if at all possible.
“N-nothing!” Atal stutters, then sticks out his lip, his eyes watering. “Mama and I got hurt by a ‘Mestrian!”
“What?” Khal demands, immediately dropping down to his knees to pat down Atal for injuries. He finds the blood in his hair and gasps. “Atal, are you hurt?”
“No,” Eshkhan and Cyra chorus as Atal dials up the crocodile tears and looks close to wailing again.
“Mama was,” Atal says tremulously, and Khal narrows his eyes, hoists Atal up to his hips, and immediately takes off towards the house.
“Hurry up,” he says sharply behind him, and Cyra gives Eshkhan a wide-eyed glance before they hurry down the road after their uncle, the sun setting vibrant gold and red behind them.
By bedtime, the wound on Mama’s forehead is just a small white bandage over her eyebrow. She pulls the blankets up over Atal’s shoulder and leans over, pressing a kiss to Eshkhan’s nose. He wrinkles it at his mother, but doesn’t push her off.
“Did you say your prayers, my little prince?” Mama whispers, and Eshkhan nods. He’d even corrected Atal when he stumbled on his pronunciation.
“Good job!” Mama praises, and presses another light kiss between his eyes, then makes to get up off their bed.
“Mama,” Eshkhan says, as Mama seems about to leave.
“Yes, my love?”
“Khal said- Khal said you shouldn’t have walked alone today.”
“He’s just worried about me, habibi. Nothing for you to be concerned about.”
“But you shouldn’t have walked alone!” Eshkhan insists.
“I won’t walk alone again, I promise. How’s that?” Mama asks.
“You wouldn’t have walked alone if Baba was here.”
Mama pauses and sits back, wrapping her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “No,” she admits. “probably not.”
“Why isn’t Baba here?” Eshkhan asks quietly, after checking to make sure Atal is still snoring beside him.
“He’s travelling.” Mama sweeps back his hair. “Your hair’s getting long, do you want to cut it-”
“No!” Eshkhan shakes his head. “Mama, is he coming back?”
Mama’s hand stills on his forehead. “He will.” She says, her voice measured. “He’ll come back, Eshkhan, I promise.”
Eshkhan may not remember much about his father, but he remembers how well he and Khal Eashoa got along. They’d be awake all hours of the night, talking, laughing, debating, scratching away at their desks.
His father’s handwriting is nothing like Khal’s careful script. It is small and hurried, and words are blacked out nearly every third sentence. It’s not Ishvalan, either; that much, Eshkhan can tell in the low lamplight.
While they know how to speak Amestrian, reading it is a different story altogether. Mama had taught them the Amestrian alphabet ages ago, borrowing Cyra’s tablet to show them how the foreign lines- all weirdly disconnected from each other- made sounds not unlike their own characters, but Eshkhan has never really tried to read full words and sentences.
He squints and sounds out the first character on the page- a looping circle with a small tail- “A“
He can still hear the adults outside. Surely, they think he’s asleep, curled up next to Atal in bed. If they thought otherwise, if they knew he had snuck into Khal Eashoa’s study, they wouldn’t be talking like this- voices sharp and angry, swears punctuating the ends of their outbursts.
Eshkhan takes a deep breath and traces his fingers over the next character- sharp lines that intersect at the bottom. “L”
“Sada’s fallen, Tsira,” Khal Ahiqar says, barely-concealed rage straining at the edges of his words. “What do you think happens next? Do you think they’ll leave us alone? They’ll simply pass over Ahlirat out of the goodness of their shriveled, black hearts?”
“No, but we already have soldiers here, Ahiqar.” Eashoa says wearily. “What difference does it make if they send more?”
A curved character. “C”
“All the difference in the world!” Ahiqar explodes. “This is our homeland, and their occupation is-“
“We have no choice.” Mama interrupts, and her voice is hard in an unfamiliar way that makes Eshkhan pause as his fingers trace the fourth letter- (“H”). “We must abide. What else is there to do?”
“Get the children out, at least! We’re close to the border- maybe we could get them to Resembool-“
“And then what?” Mama asks sharply. “It is true that Eshkhan inherited his father’s looks- Ishvala must have wanted him to be able to hide, if needed- but Atal and Cyra? Brother, their Ishvalan blood runs too strong. There is nowhere they can hide in that country where they won’t be found.”
(“E”)
“And of the boys’ father?” Eashoa asks Mama. “It’s been two years. Could he not get the children out of here?”
“It’s the absolute least he could do, after abandoning you and the children.“ Ahiqar says bitterly.
(“M”)
“He didn’t abandon us,” Mama says, but her voice doesn’t sound as sure as it usually does. “He’s just traveling.”
“Where?”
“I-I don’t know.”
(“Y”)
Silence. Someone sniffles, a chair creaks.
“We have to abide,” Mama says, and her voice sounds thick. “We have no other choice. And maybe- maybe once the protesting calms down- they’ll pull back, and we’ll be left alone.”
“Maybe, Tsira,” Eashoa says quietly.
Alchemy.
Eshkhan pulls the lamp closer to the pages, and he begins to read with a desperate fervor.
Temple is boring, as it always is. Elder Abdes drones on for so long that Atal falls asleep, snoring softly against Cyra’s shoulder. Eshkhan wishes he could do the same, but Khal Ahiqar is assisting today, and Mama would be so disappointed if he didn’t pay attention. It’s at least a little more exciting to watch his uncle sit by the altar, back ram-rod straight, head lifted to the gold sun painted on the ceiling, eyes fixed and unmoving.
When Elder Abdes calls the final convocation, Atal wakes with a start and stretches, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn. His sash slips down his shoulder as he does, and Mama smiles, adjusting it for him.
“Did you not sleep well last night, my love?” She asks absent-mindedly, running her fingers through his hair.
Atal freezes and makes wide, desperate eyes at Eshkhan. Eshkhan shakes his head vigorously and Atal smiles sweetly at their mother. He and Atal had been up far later than they were meant to be. Eshkhan had finally stumbled his way through Baba’s first manuscript, and had explained all the principles to Atal. They’d even stolen a bit of Cyra’s chalk to practice drawing circles on the ground in the study.
“No, Mama, I’m okay.” He says, doe-eyed. “Can we go to the market to get sweet buns? Mama, please?”
Eshkhan widens his own eyes and sticks out his lip, and Cyra does the same, fluttering her eyelashes up at her.
Mama snorts and pushes their faces away. “You little devils,” she chuckles. “Yes, we can go get sweet buns.”
The market is always bustling after Temple, and today is no exception. Atal hangs onto Mama’s skirt as she gracefully weaves through the crowds, greeting elders and friends alike with a wide smile on her face. Eshkhan is content to follow Cyra, making sure he has at least one eye on her red ribbons.
“Eshkhan!” A voice calls, and Eshkhan turns to find Eima Samiah waving at him from her booth.
Eshkhan glances over at Cyra; she’s stopped to talk with the boy at the tea booth, and her cheeks are glowing a bright pink as the boy pours her a cup of tea, so he has at least twenty minutes before she moves again.
“Good morning, Eima,” Eshkhan says politely, bowing.
Eima smiles at him and reaches over the counter to ruffle his braid. “Your mother raised such considerate children!” She says, and Eshkhan feels his cheeks flush.
“She doesn’t seem to think so,” he mumbles, thinking about the dressing-down he’d received not three days ago for forgetting to feed the chickens.
“No mothers do, habibi. Here, don’t tell her-” Eima hands him a kebab, right off the grill. It smells of slightly-burnt peppers and fragrant spices, and his stomach growls.
Eshkhan grins and bows again. “Thank you, Eima!” He yells as he runs off with the kebab, fully intending to eat the whole thing before Mama catches him and makes him share with Atal and Cyra, and-
He runs headfirst into a solid blue mass and ends up sprawled on the dusty ground of the marketplace.
Eshkhan blinks up at the blue mass, head reeling. He can taste blood in his mouth, and the sharp copper overtakes any of the spices of the kebab. The blue mass looks back down at him, and it has a face- pale skin, dark, dark, hair, even darker eyes.
“Watch where you’re going, kid,” The blue mass growls in Amestrian, blocking out the sun. Eshkhan stares up at it, feeling his voice caught in his throat, gravel scraping his elbows, his lungs becoming smaller-
“Leave him alone!” Cyra stomps in between the blue mass and him, braids swinging. “You gonna bully a child? Is that what the Amestrian military is here for?”
“Watch your tone, little girl-”
“Watch yourself.” Cyra snaps back. She roughly pulls Eshkhan off the ground, not letting go of her tight grip on his arm as she marches him away from the soldier and into the crowd.
“Cyra-”
“Hush, Eshkhan,”
“But Cyra-”
Cyra doesn’t stop until they’re in front of the bakery and she deposits him in front of Mama, who’s holding a steaming bag of sweet buns in one arm, and Atal in the other.
“Cyra? Did something happen?” Mama asks.
“A soldier was messing with him.” Cyra says, voice tight, and a look of understanding passes over Mama’s face.
She puts Atal down and kneels in front of Eshkhan. “Eshkhan, are you alright?” Mama asks softly, hand resting on his cheek, and Eshkhan bursts into tears.
“Eima Samiah gave me a kebab, and I lost it when the soldier knocked me over!” He wails.
Mama’s face is surprised for a second, before she lets out a sigh and wipes the tears from his eyes. “Okay, my love. You’re safe now. You’re safe.” Mama murmurs. She hoists him up and settles him on her shoulder like he’s a baby again, but Eshkhan doesn’t protest.
He just buries his head in the excess drape of her head-wrap- a soft yellow today, like the flowers that bloom on the cacti in the summer- and tries to block out the sounds and sights of the market.
Khal Eashoa and Mama are doing the dishes from dinner when there’s a loud swear from the living room, and Eshkhan looks up from his card game with Atal.
Cyra is sitting on the floor, her writing tablet broken in pieces in front of her and an entirely annoyed expression on her face. “I dropped it on accident!” She throws her hands up in the air. “Now what am I supposed to do? I have school tomorrow morning!”
Khal Ahiqar looks up from his holy texts to raise an eyebrow at her. “You should have been more careful, Cyra. Go buy another one.”
Cyra scowls at him. “I don’t have enough money to buy a new one. And it’s past curfew.”
“And what of your allowance?”
“It’s gone.”
“Spent on?”
“Tea,” Eshkhan supplies his uncle, when Cyra fails to respond.
Cyra drags a single finger across her neck in warning. Eshkhan sticks his tongue out at her.
“Tea?” Khal frowns. “When I make tea you never have any!”
“It’s not the tea, Khal,” Atal adds, giggling. “It’s Peroz.”
“Atal!” Cyra yelps, her face flushing.
“Who’s Peroz-?”
“The tea-boy.” Eshkhan wiggles his eyebrows, and Cyra growls and launches herself at him. Eshkhan dodges her attack and crawls under Khal’s desk.
“Baba!” Cyra yells in the direction of the kitchen. “I’m being bullied!”
“Do you deserve it, binti?”
“Yes!” Atal and Eshkhan chorus, and Cyra lets out a yell of frustration that makes Khal Eashoa’s deep laugh and Mama’s higher chuckle echo from the kitchen.
“Cyra, Cyra, listen,” Eshkhan scoots back out from under the desk. He and Atal have been practicing some arrays for a couple of months now, might as well try them now. “Do you still have your chalk, or did you break that, too?”
“I still have it, you brat.” Cyra says, but hands him the chalk anyways. “Why?”
Eshkhan ignores her in favor of breaking the chalk in half and handing the other portion to Atal. Eshkhan draws the circle, just a little bigger than the broken tablet, and Atal carefully adds in the sigils. Eshkhan grabs the broken board and places it in the middle of the circle, and turns to Atal.
“Ready?” He asks, and Atal grins, placing his hands on the array. Eshkhan touches his hands to the edges, and the array glows a bright, blinding blue. Cyra yelps and moves back, and Khal Ahiqar makes a startled noise. The glow dies down, and in the middle of the circle sits a perfectly whole writing tablet.
Cyra’s jaw drops. She scrambles up and grabs the tablet, turning it over in her hands as if inspecting it for cracks, but she finds none.
“Alchemy?” She asks, hushed, and Eshkhan grins at her.
“Me ‘n Atal have been practicing.” He says proudly.
“Alchemy is- it’s an abomination!” Khal Ahiqar says, horrified.
Eshkhan feels his smile falter. Khal Eashoa and Mama come in from the kitchen, and Mama gasps.
“Boys!” She says, and the rest of the smile falls directly off Eshkhan’s face. “Where did you learn this? Did your father teach you?”
“Our father?” Eshkhan scowls. “How can someone who’s not here teach us? We taught ourselves from his books.”
“Oh my,” Mama says, and then swoops down, kissing their heads. “that’s wonderful! He would be so proud of you!”
“Tsira!” Khal Ahiqar says sharply. “It is against Ishvala’s commands, you know this as well as I do!”
“So is all of my work, brother,” Khal Eashoa says dryly. “you know this as well as I do, too. It’s wonderful, boys. Thank you so much for fixing Cyra’s tablet. Why don’t you three run along and play for a while?”
“But Baba-”
“Now, Cyra.”
Cyra narrows her eyes at her father, but drags the boys down the hall to their bedroom anyway.
The adults continue arguing in hushed tones long after the sun has set, and Atal is snoring in bed. Cyra sits against the wall, head tilted up, the moon illuminating her white hair.
“Cyra?” Eshkhan whispers, throwing off his covers to crawl over to her. “Why are all the adults so worried?”
Cyra sighs and pulls her legs to her chest. “It’s complicated, Eshkhan.”
“I’m not a baby. You can tell me.” He says stubbornly. He turned six last month. He’s practically a teenager at this point.
“I know, Eshkhan.” Cyra leans over to tweaks his braid with a wry smile. “I know. Okay, listen, you know all the soldiers that have been around?”
Eshkhan nods. It seems like he can’t go five feet outside the house these days without catching sight of a blue coat.
“They don’t like us very much.” Cyra says quietly. “They don’t want us around.”
Eshkhan stares at his cousin as the words settle in his brain. “They- they want to hurt us?”
Cyra nods slowly. “They do. But Baba and Ammu Ahiqar and your Mama are going to keep us safe, I promise. If they can’t do it, I’m gonna keep you safe. Eshkhan, I need your help, though.”
“With what?”
“If I can’t keep you two safe, you have to keep Atal safe. Do you promise?”
Eshkhan glances behind him; Atal is hugging his pillow to his chest, and his hair is flopping over his eyes.
“I’ll keep him safe, Cyra.” He whispers, and it feels like a swear.
“Okay, Eshkhan.” Cyra says softly. “Come on now, get into bed.”
That night, explosions rock the house. Eshkhan, huddled up to his baby brother in bed, sleeps through all of them.
When Eshkhan drags himself out of bed the next morning, Atal trailing behind him with one hand fisted in his tunic, Cyra is sitting in the living room, arms crossed, and eyes red and swollen.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at school?” Eshkhan mumbles, suppressing a yawn.
“Yes.” Cyra says shortly.
“Cyra, don’t be like that.” Khal Eashoa says reprovingly from the kitchen. “You know why you can’t go.”
“So Amestris gets to tell us when we can leave our house, when we can leave our village, and now they get to stop us from going to school?” Cyra throws her hands up in the air. “What are they going to take from me next? My life?”
“Cyra-”
But Cyra has launched herself up and stomped down the hallway. A second later, a door slams, and Khal Eashoa winces.
“Come on, boys, there’s porridge on the stove.” He says wearily, rubbing his forehead.
“Why can’t Cyra go to school?” Atal asks as Eshkhan ladles out porridge for him.
“It’s not safe right now.” Khal says. “I told her I would get her lessons for her, but she’s very upset with me.”
“The Amestrians aren’t letting her go to school?” Eshkhan asks.
“Well, not exactly, but the streets aren’t so safe, right now. Cyra can go back to school when all of this is over.”
“When is it going to be over?” Atal grumbles into his bowl.
“I’m not sure, habibi,” Khal says lightly. “But we’ll persevere until then. Say, will you two show me more of your arrays today? It was amazing, what you did yesterday!”
Atal immediately brightens, and Eshkhan grins at his uncle.
When Mama comes to tuck them in that night, her eyes are swollen like Cyra’s were.
“Did you say your prayers, my little prince?” Mama whispers.
“Yes, Mama,” Eshkhan says, though he didn’t really pay attention as he did.
“Alright, my love. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.” Mama presses a kiss between his eyes.
Eshkhan grabs her wrist before she can leave. “Mama, is everything okay?
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry, I just had a hard day.”
“Did the soldiers bother you again?”
“No, no.” Mama smiles softly at him, though it looks weird with her eyes all bloodshot. “I was safe. We’re going to stay safe, okay? I promise.”
“Okay, Mama. I love you.”
“Ta’burni, my love. Now go to sleep.”
She presses a final kiss to his forehead, then leaves the room, shutting the door quietly.
Eshkhan turns on his side, huddles into Atal’s shoulder, and stares at the crescent moon out the window until his eyes feel heavy, and he finally closes them, giving into the darkness.
He wakes to a siren, an explosion, and a blood-curdling scream. Eshkhan forces his eyes open, shooting straight up in bed.
“B-brother?” Atal’s hand snakes around Eshkhan’s wrist. His eyes are wide with terror.
Eshkhan shakes his head. “Hold on, Atal.” He whispers, throwing off the covers.
But before he can move, the scream starts again, and the house shakes. There are voices outside the door, there’s screaming outside the house, and Eshkhan sees a bright flash of light outside the window.
The door bursts open, but Eshkhan doesn’t see who it is- there’s a rumble above them, and he looks up in time to see a fracture spread along the ceiling, pieces of it beginning to crumble off. Eshkhan dives over Atal, who's screaming in his ear, as the split widens with a sickening crack, and the roof falls.
And Eshkhan El-Rizq, six-and-one-fourth years old, doesn’t see much of anything after that.