The dial struck late noon; meaning, the day has only just begun for the little Sijarkes, a girl with the looks of no more than fifteen summers, standing on a cushioned ebony stool, having tinkered with a life-sized model of an island fortress. Towers, halls, and gardens—slimy and slick were her hands as she pressed and cut away at these, careful not to break a piece.
As she yawned and stretched, a sliver of light poured in from the large window from high above, illuminating the unnatural forms of her features, reflecting back this bizarre acidic sheen that only highlighted the edges of her scales.
"I win," she said through a wide open mouth. "I win, once again."
Glancing at the window where her companion, a giant winged man in fur coats stood not too far off, she then scoffed. "I told you to put in more effort this time. I'm beginning to suspect you don't actually care about beating me."
She hopped off the stool, wiping her hands free of the dust.
"What are you, afraid? Where are your standards, Domme Tirkju'a? I'm getting bored here."
Her companion, the Domme Tirkju'a, was in no mood to be pestered for such a thing. With his thick head of orange hair bent low, all four of his eyes remained plastered unto his work, undeterred. Contrary to the Sijarkes' belief, he was above every other known standard—he was her guardian; being a guardian meant you were to have full knowledge of your care's activities.
This was, however, not one which particularly interested the Tirkju'a.
As of the moment, anyway. He was just busy.
That might not be obvious to the Sijarkes, even with her heightened senses, but he was swamped. Beyond his usual activities of having to oversee incoming plans and civil projects, attend necessary court dates, and check in with the councils operating under his watch, he also has to babysit the Sijarkes.
If he were to be frank, it was not a terrible post though it may have the potential to.
"It just gets better every time," she said mockingly, gesturing to the other island model behind her. "You can't even design a citadel. At least, competently. It's supposed to be your job. You've been doing this for thousands of years, Domme Tirkju'a. Give me something, or I'm just gonna have to bully you over it."
The Tirkju'a remained unresponsive. A shuffle of papers and he's unto his next batch of scrolls, truly unbothered by her taunts.
"Domme Tirkju'a?"
Yet another batch. His hands worked swiftly, making use of all four of his arms.
"Domme Tirkju'a. Domme Tirkju'a!"
In a fit of rage, she took the tower figurine from his island model and launched it up as far as she could hit him.
Thuck!
The clay figurine hit the Tirkju'a on the left wing, and broke as it fell to the ground. Now, there was a shift. His head glanced at her from the side, but only slightly.
"I have no time for this, Domma Sijarkes."
The Domma Sijarkes huffed in disbelief. It was always him being so busy that made the days in the towers so utterly boring. If he would not be around so much, he could've at least made up for it whenever he stopped by. She huffed her chest, seeming big and uncompromising. "False. A true busy person has time for everything. How do you suppose they make time for matters they're apparently busy with?"
The Tirkju'a turned his attention back to the task at hand, leaving the Sijarkes to anticipate a response which never came.
She exhaled sharply, brows twitching.
"Whatever, I still did it better than you," she said at last. Turning her attention back unto his citadel model, she grimaced at the overall lack of effort he had put into it. Outdoing him in his own field of expertise had been the goal, yet she noticed his wavering interest in this activity.
She thought that, maybe, he was simply getting bored. Or maybe he wasn't.
Still, she would not have it either way. He'd promised her he'd play, and he should.
In her frustration, she could swear she felt tremors. As it rippled all the way from her toes then to her knees, it became completely apparent to her that there was movement in her surroundings. Her senses had not betrayed her; the Tirkju'a was there, slowly making his way towards the curtained exit.
"Now where are you going this time?" she said, crossing her arms.
"The Ori'ehemian Quamship temple in Gu'ambiss," the Tirkju'a said so simply, it was almost enough to make the Sijarkes cry.
"Gu'ambiss?" She willed her tears back, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, consumed with bitterness. "But you promised to play with me just an hour ago. God! You don't care at all!"
She jumped down from her stool, barefoot and tense. "And how long will you be gone?"
"I do not know."
"No, no." The Sijarkes held up an accusing finger. "You'll be gone for a week. Two weeks at most if it's just to see the council. I can't be studying under you for this long and not understand that."
"The Council has someone they wanted me to meet. It's not something I can delay any further." The Tirkju'a was not eager to discuss his business any further to the petulant child.
"But what about me?", she bellowed in a voice greater than her own. "Who shall keep me company?"
Much like a doll, she slumped over the smaller model with both arms lying limp against the sides.
"You know, this wouldn't be a problem if you just let me come with."
"No." The Tirkju'a finally faced her. "You ask me the same thing every year. You simply cannot be out there."
She lifted her head vigorously. "Why?"
She really didn't understand. It's been a few thousand years since she's been to Oriehem. That's where she was born! But the Tirkju'a simply would not have her come with him for the same reason she expected him to say, which she will say also:
"You are not needed. Stay and do what was assigned for you," the two of them said in unison. The Tirkju'a raised a brow at her.
"I mean it." The Tirkju'a frowned. He nodded down towards the pile of scrolls stockpiled on the other side of the room. "Did I not tell you to complete those over the last fortnight? I expected you to have finished it by now."
"Like what every great Domme should be doing, am I right?" she said bitterly, with as much venom as she could. Her tongue lashed. The Tirkju'a caught the hint. He nodded plainly.
"Precisely."
"No!" she threw the island model over, destroying what the Tirkju'a had made. Uncontrolled as she was, she stepped on multiple broken figurines and stumbled her way around until she fell over her own.
By chance, she caught hold of the Tirkju'a's model before she completely toppled over. She let out a sigh of relief.
Then slyly, she looked up at him. "This is all so stupid, and I really need this said: All this, even our stupid constitution, is stupid. Why keep me here when I could be doing actual work? What kind of work do you want me to do? Just sit here, reviewing the work you already did and having to rewrite them by hand? What is that all about, anyway?"
She felt a shift in his mood, for her nerves were as sharp as it could get, picking up bursts and dips in the general atmosphere. She did not think she could pick up such a thing, she felt she might have imagined it this whole time—and it might actually be imaginary in the first place—but she trusted it when it came to her. It's all gut stuff, and she believes she's an absolute god at feeling it in its most deepest, most intangible form.
"Is that how you think of all this? Your future responsibility?"
"Yes, exactly. Like I said, it's stupid. But I may have overexaggerated that part regarding the constitution being stupid…"
The Tirkju'a set down all four of the scrolls he had been reading and moved towards the Sijarkes, now towering over her, obstructing the light from the window. He approached with slow, heavy steps, face grim and sorrowful that even his beard frowned with it.
"Dur ku Domma, jal Sijarkes. Dur ghamfer voz'hajak'a du'hanaso (You are a Domma, little Sijarkes. You hold a higher power)," he said, a sharp tone at the tail of every word. "You have your scrolls. You have your models. You've been graced by all that you might ever need. Have you, for once, thought about the intention behind our efforts?"
The Sijarkes, for once, felt she was at a loss for words. But regardless of that, she was still inclined to speak despite not having anything to say back.
"I-"
"The world out there is not kind to those who cannot keep up," the Tirkju'a interrupted, now gesturing towards the window, towards the outside world which she has not stepped a foot unto in long, long time.
He continued, "I am confident that once you step foot out of this island, you will be trampled on and beaten like an animal if you remain-" That same pointing finger now aimed at her slumping form. "-the way you are now!"
At this point she could not bear it any longer. She threw herself behind her island model, covering her ears and crumpling her knees to take up as little space as possible.
The room fell into a silence, yet the Tirkju'a's booming voice remained echoing in her head, unable to die down as soon as he was through.
"I don't know why you look down on me that much. I can't help being so clueless. I've never been out," she cried through her tears.
The Tirkju'a shook his head, turned again to the window, and leaned against it on one arm.
"You are fortunate enough that it is only I who truly knows the truth. It is that you, the Domma Sijarkes, are not competent enough to wear the mantle of your future responsibility. Simply not good enough. Not bright enough to see your own faults. Not disciplined enough."
Defiantly, the Sijarkes emerged from her hiding spot and spatted, "Not yet!"
"Not ever," responded the Tirkju'a giving her a sharp look which made her shrink in turn. "And that is my opinion—if you choose not to abide by my guidance."
When he talked like that, her heart would just burst. She would feel small and infuriatingly incapable of doing what even she herself is assured by her capabilities. It was outrageous but she didn't want to agree that there was reason behind it all, though it may have been why she has remained within the tower these thousands of years, in spite of being left at her liberty most days.
"It's for your own good. Our own good. Do you understand?" He bent over to see her expression.
Hate was evident on her face. Under her thick bushes of brows that arched bitterly welled her gaze of pointed spirals. They were harsh against the Tirkju'a's golden slits for pupils.
He stood back. "As I said. Dur ku Domma, jal Sijarkes. Dur'haijaka ghamfer i'hanaso. (You are a Domma, jal Sijarkes. You hold a higher power.) Remember that well."
The Tirkju'a began to take his leave, taking his scrolls. Pulling the curtains back, he gave her one final look only to see she has returned back to crouch behind her island model. He lingered momentarily, thinking of his approach, his words. But it ringed true no matter how much he thought back on it.
"You hold a higher power," he said again with finality, and then left, disappearing behind the layered curtains that cascaded from the ceiling nearly fifty feet over her.
Long after he was gone, the Sijarkes remained where she was, and had been, for the last millennium—alone and bitter on a tower away from the rest of the known world.