#caylan

( ayyyyyy it’s Bana’s little brother Caylan! )

Dust. Coarse, grey, and almost-earthen. Like and unlike him, but close enough. People thought he was stupid. Heavy brow, sunken eyes, broad features, his ponderous speech, his blood -- he knew he looked dull, looked like the only good thing about him was his strength. He knew more than he let on. People like him weren't allowed to use the Power. He did it anyway. He thought as long as he didn't hurt anyone or let anyone know it wouldn't be a problem. He just liked to make pretty things with it. That's what he'd learned, growing up big. To be careful. They were careful with his kind. They put him in a room with walls not made of earth for a while. And after a while they thought because he looked dumb he didn't know how to use the Power. They thought in their ignorance that he knew nothing of it, like so many others here. They thought they knew better than him. But he was careful, and kept his secret close. The dust came from the floor. The legs of his too-small bed ground against the tiles and wore them down when he laid on it. He could feel the lime beneath it, lime and metal. And in the walls, behind the almost-not-earth and the definitely-not-earth. But they were watching. The black eye in the corner of the room watched him and told them what he was doing, but he did not understand how. He just knew it couldn't see him when it was dark. Wearing through the tile took a very long time. He couldn't break it with force, no matter how much he tried, because the builders of this place were clever and had clever materials that withstood his strikes, but the bare metal of the bed's legs scratched and wore at it ever so slowly. He ate the dust that built up to keep the guards from noticing the hidden spot under his bed that the eye could not see. He slept and sat and thought and sometimes they brought him out and made him go into the places that reeked of sulfur and blood and sweat. He always heard the crowd, whether they were screaming at him from a stone's throw away or just a low rumble like an earthquake shifting the foundations of the horrible place he was in. Always, always there were others too, fighting like animals for a chance at freedom or fame or because it was all they knew. He hated what they wanted him to do. They thought because he was big and looked stupid and didn't behave violently towards them that he would do what they wanted, what all the animals on the outside of the cage wanted. The first time they undid the massive manacles which took two of them to carry and pushed him out into the ring with a stick in his hands, he was unsure what to do. A man beat him with an identical stick until he took the inch and a half hardwood pole and snapped it like a twig to the resounding cheers of the crowd seated all around the arena. Their cheers turned to boos and hisses when he refused to fight back. The men brought the manacles back, took him back to his cell, and did not feed him for a week. When they brought him out again they told him if he won he would get to eat again. He was no stranger to hunger, and though he was weak and his very bones ached, he refused again. They repeated the punishment. The third time he gave in and felled his opponent with a clenched fist. And so it went. Every night he would use the Power to weaken the hold of his prison using what little grip he could muster on the almost-not-earth, to aid the erosion. He was ashamed to admit that during his stay he did things he was not proud of to keep eating. And after the seasons had shifted and shifted and shifted, the weaknesses he'd sown were large enough for his body to fit. He'd conserved his strength as best he could for that night. When all was quiet and he could no longer hear the footsteps of boots outside his cell, he picked up his bed and gently set it down on the other side of the pitch-black room. Feeling out the tile, his fingers found the weak spot where the leg of the bed had worn and wedged his fingers into it, pulling at an edge. It began to come away from the floor, bending and then snapping now that he had a handhold to force it with. He worked feverishly to get the rest off the ground, going faster and faster as he got more of a grip, and not caring how much noise he made. They had an eye in here, but no ears, and the door was thick metal. When the almost-not-earth was removed he ran his fingers over the not-earth, though he could not tell if it was shiny or not in the darkness. He did not know how the men here made metal into not-earth, but they had managed. But there was a seam, and rivets, and earth beneath it. Feeling the Power in his mind, drawing it out, it came to him like breathing. The earth beneath broke as he pulled it up, and the not-earth creaked. A rivet exploded out of its socket and bounced off the ceiling. Then another. And then, with a torturous squeal, it gave, and the earth was in front of him. He drove it back down and stood over the small opening, placing his hands on the edges of the seam and bending his knees before heaving with all his might. His muscles bulged, on his arms, his legs, his back and shoulders and his neck, every fiber of his body fighting towards freedom. He sucked in short breaths as his arms began to shake, and when he thought he wouldn't be able to overcome the thick barrier's strength, the not-earth began to yield. He grunted and heaved, taking a short break and several wheezing breaths, before pulling again. The not-earth made way, opening like a book, and he jumped into the dirt and crawled. Through the thin spaces filled with lime and grit he pushed himself, drawing on the Power the whole while to make the man-made stone make way for his bulk. He came across metal bars. They were no match for him, and he bent them like saplings in the wind. And before long, heading north as he'd decided to, he sprouted out of a bare concrete wall and landed in a dirty street. A pedestrian stared at him in shock as he landed with an earth-shaking thud, then drew in a breath to scream. He sprung at them faster than one would think a man his size could, taking hold of their neck and carrying them like a doll before cradling their legs. "Please don't. Just be quiet." The pedestrian stared at him with wide, fearful eyes. "I don't want trouble," he added, before setting them down. They took a few wobbly steps back before turning and running away. And then he started lumbering away as well, to a place he knew he would be safe.

So sleeeeepy. #Caylan #babies

#Caylan and her granny, @tmiqueen. 13/25. #babies