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Characters: A miniaturised 10-year-old X and you!
Date: August 8-14
Location: Various places in and around Aifaran
Situation: Miniaturised 10-year-old X is very confused, and adorably gullible. But he's also very resilient, and much more capable and self-reliant than any 10-year-old has any right to be. He gets around, and gets into some trouble.
Warnings/Rating: X is trans and at 10 years old he wasn't aware of that yet. If anything becomes an issue, please let me know!

A | AUGUST 8 | THE BEGINNING: THE DREAMING BRIDGE
He still sleeps, even if he doesn't need to. It's a routine. Everyone does. You have nice dreams, and sometimes you wake up with the answers to questions that have been bothering you for ages.

But he's pretty sure he wasn't sleeping right before he woke up in this unfamiliar bed, in this unfamiliar room.

Aifaran, his mind supplies, cutting off panic at the pass. The Dreaming Bridge. It's safe. The only thing his mind doesn't mysteriously supply is his own name, something he only realises when he ventures tentatively outside and asks the first person he sees where he is.

Are you lost? What's your name?

"It's --"

-- blank.

That, he feels, is an acceptable reason to panic, and so he does. He spends the next several minutes running through the Bridge and addressing total strangers, asking if they know what his name is, because whenever he tries to guess it hurts and he doesn't know why and he doesn't understand what's happening --

B | MARKETS | COMMERCE - 3 | BOGO!
It's a hot, muggy afternoon while X walks around the market carrying a bright silver 'kitchen appliance' he bought, even though he's never seen it before in his life. But it was a fantastic deal! The seller said... a lot of things X can't quite remember anymore, but they sounded good! He can't wait to get back to the Dreaming Bridge and try it out!

... Except he's not sure what it does.

X stops in the middle of the street, frowning in intense concentration, and turns to the nearest bystander. "Excuse me," he says, polite and earnest as anything. "Do you know what this is for?"

C | NEAR THE BRIDGE | ARTS - 3 | IGHEERI EYE
The loud construction noises of the Bridge don't quite manage to drown out X's cries of objection as a large group of extremely tall bird-like creatures drag him off somewhere he's clearly very hesitant about going. To the casual observer, it doesn't look dangerous, especially since the Igheeri are more haughty and arrogant than they are criminal; but it sure does look like a case of a child saying no and the tall adults pretending not to hear.

X, for his part, has no idea how to handle the situation, other than to keep digging his heels in and pulling back. He's never before met an adult who didn't listen to him. It's weird.

"No!" he tries again. "I don't want new clothes, please --!"

D | THE TURTLE HEAD | TEARS OF THE OCEAN HEART - GUILTY PLEASURES
The head of the giant turtle the city rests on is the most peaceful place X has ever been. He can't put his finger on why, other than the view and the quiet, and he got plenty of both of those back in the Forest. But, whatever the reason, he spends several hours one day sitting cross-legged right on top of the turtle's head, watching something on his yimo intently.

The experienced soap opera fan might recognise the faint dramatic sounds of Tears of the Ocean Heart, a production very few people admit to enjoying and rarely watch in public. X, however, has no idea, and he has a teary smile on his face as he watches it. It's amazing. He never knew love could be forbidden, and the characters' fight against that cultural taboo to stay together anyway is so moving that he doesn't know if he wants to scream at the villains or stand up and proclaim that this is the most beautiful art he's ever witnessed.

After a moment, he chooses the second option, and does exactly that. Standing tall, with the yimo over his head, he announces: "This is beautiful! Everyone needs to see it!"

E | CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE!
X can be anywhere, and will be fascinated by the smallest things, so please feel free to create your own scenario and he'll jump right in!

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Perhaps it's old habit manifesting itself, but since the strange business with the Narrakra and the shadows Rutile has taken to making rounds around the Dreaming Bridge. They check on some of the frailer Dreamfolk and make smalltalk with acquaintances, but otherwise keep from disturbing other inhabitants; they don't purport to any kind of authority, it's simply a comfort to know who's about and what state they're in, even if Rutile cannot do anything about it.

Still, they don't know everyone, and things have become even worse with so many of the Dreamfolk reverting to their childhood selves. Humans have no business looking completely different as time passes, they observe irritably to themselves. When the latest child approaches them with panic in his wide eyes and pleading in his voice, Rutile doesn't recognize him at all.

Worse, the child doesn't seem to recognize himself. He wants to know what his name is - how is Rutile supposed to know such a thing? It's not as though humans make it easy. Fortunately for X, Rutile has dealt with this kind of thing before - memory loss is a frequent side effect of injury for gems.

The child is not that much shorter than Rutile; eye contact is easy enough. Still, they lean down a bit to come to his level, their hands resting on their thighs. "I know it is unreasonable to ask you to calm down," Rutile says evenly, "as you are understandably distressed. But I am not distressed, and I might be able to help if you can keep your wits about you."

They do not smile, but their voice is even and calm, and as reassuring as they get. The voice of a professional.

"Try taking a few deep breaths, and then we'll see if we can't get to the bottom of this. Does that sound reasonable?"

Why wouldn't he ask one of the people closer to his own height, even if he can't tell who they are? Obviously, similarities in height mean other similarities too. Like temperament. Maybe it'll mean he gets some sympathy.

... It definitely doesn't mean he gets any sympathy.

But they're not rude, either, just blunt. And they are trying to help. So he nods, a little more frantic than he means to be, and he takes three very deep and obvious breaths. "Okay," he says. "There. Who are you? Do you know my name?" His head tilts curiously to the side. "Are you a boy or a girl?"

The idea that the question might be impolite doesn't cross his mind. His only interactions before now have been family; they don't stand on formalities.

(In defense of X, that’s solid logic. His one mistake was in applying it to Rutile.)

The child’s question come in a rapid succession that Rutile listens to in stride - until the last one, which leaves them confused and slightly taken aback. They have fielded many questions about their species and occupation thus far (the lab coat draws both respect and disdain, sometimes at the same time), but never about such blatantly human concepts.

“I am Rutile,” they introduce themselves, in the same even tone as before, and gesture to their chest with one hand. “I am named after what I am made of. I don’t know your name, unfortunately, or what you are made of, though you look human enough. As for being a boy or a girl... there is only one rutile, and I am that.”

That ought to be clear enough.

"I'm made of --" He stops, looks down, frowns. "I don't know what I'm made of. I think I'm made of person. What is a person made of? Are they made of human?"

There's a massive breakdown in understanding going on here somewhere.

He doesn't know what rutile is, and Rutile looks enough like everyone else to provide no context clues whatsoever -- except that gender isn't involved at all. That's interesting to him, though he can't quite put his finger on why. Maybe just because it's new? He openly studies Rutile, his earlier panic subsumed by curiosity, and lifts a hand before he thinks to stop and ask first. "Can I feel?"

Now that he's looking closer... is it stone? It sure doesn't act like stone. Why would stone need to wear clothes?

Rutile flinches back from the child’s hand on instinct - gems can often be cracked or even shattered by the wrong physical contact with each other - but quickly regains control. “Ah, yes, I suppose,” they say - why the fascination with touching them, though, they haven’t the faintest. They pull off one of their gloves, revealing golden fingers with delicate striations, and reach out to show him - no need for the child to get his fingers all over their face.

While the child conducts his examination, they go on. “Humans are made of many different things,” they say. “Bones, and flesh, which is many kinds of tissue. It is impossible for anyone but the most clever scientists to figure out all of the component parts of such materials, which is why I suspect naming you is much more complicated. ‘Made of human’ is really quite an apt description.”

After a moment to think, Rutile says, “Given the circumstances, it is probably reasonable for you to pick a name, at least until we find someone who can name you.”

He nearly gives up on the whole idea when Rutile flinches back, because if someone's scared of touch, they'll never say yes to it. Only then Rutile does, and he brightens the way any child would when given permission to do something usually forbidden. He reaches out near reverentially and runs his fingers along one of Rutile's golden ones.

"Made of human," he repeats absently. He's never heard of that before, but it's good enough for him. Rutile's much more interesting, because they do feel like stone, which he guesses makes rutile a kind of stone. His eyes glimmer with curiosity; living statues are never among any of the stories Grandmother tells.

He remembers some of his earlier panic and pulls his hand back. "I tried," he says. "I tried a lot of different names, but they all hurt. Maybe someone else has to name me. Will you do it?"

Rutile feels very little sensation, truthfully, and the gentle pressure of the child’s fingers is not enough for them to register. It is amusing to note the innocent curiosity in his eyes, far more so than any other organic creatures thus far; his has the note of wonder rather than confusion, a fascination with the world for what it is, rather than for why it is different. (It is much harder than Rutile anticipated - being different.)

When he wrenches his hand away they retreat more slowly, sliding their fingers back into a glove that is a little the worse for wear.

“Will you do it?”

They are taken by even more surprise. It has never, not since they were born, been Rutile’s job to name something. Though they were nearly as adept at identifying gems as Adamant, it was never one of their duties. That kind of responsibility is quite beyond them; for a human, whose names arbitrary, it becomes even more crucial.

“I don’t know,” they say honestly. “I think I am probably as qualified as you. I would just refer to you as Child, or perhaps Dreamer, since both of those describe you adequately...

“Or,” they realize suddenly, “we could call you according to your job. Is there anything you particularly like to do?”

Child, and, subsequently, Dreamer, both make him flinch. Not in fear, not away from Rutile, not in surprise or revulsion. It's more like the body-wide shiver of someone who's just been poked hard in the spine.

"No," he says, sounding dejected. "Those don't work."

And they hurt, he thinks, more than his own guesses did. If it weren't for Rutile's next question, he might have panicked again.

"Games," he says, after considering seriously. "I like games. Hide-and-seek, Moon-and-shadow, Dragon tail. I don't think I have a job. I help pack up some of the tents when we move, and -- oh! Grandmother says it's my job to make sure we don't leave anyone younger than me behind. But mostly I like the games."

The child shudders as though something far harder has cracked him, though Rutile sees no injury. They stand at their full height as they ponder the matter; the names ‘not working’ is quite strange, but not entirely unexpected. This is not their particular skillset, after all.

“We could try games, but unfortunately it may have the same effect, if my naming system did not work for you,” Rutile says, “because the principle is the same. Or perhaps you could be Watcher or Guardian, since that is the function you serve.”

They eye the child up and down once again, searching for a reaction.

“You could also simply remain nameless. That seems to be serving you well enough, right now.”

No naming system seems to work, but the more Rutile tries, the worse the soul-deep pain becomes; by the time they suggest remaining nameless, he's unconsciously gripping his side, face twisted and breathing laboured. It takes him a moment to answer.

"I had a name," he says. "I remember having a name. Everyone called me that name, I remember it, it's -- it's right there, but I can't --"

He's on the verge of panicking again, and he remembers what Rutile said, about how it's easier for them to help if he stays calm, and so he takes another three deep breaths before trying again. "I can't remember what my name was. That's why I'm scared. I can't remember it at all. And now, every time I try to guess what it is... every time you try to guess what it is... it hurts."

Rutile is not familiar with human responses to sensation, but they have the sinking feeling that each of their suggestions is only hurting the child more. Surely that isn't normal behavior, doubling over and wrinkling one's face with tension, and struggling for breath such that one cannot speak.

They turn suddenly, pacing back and forth a few steps as they think about the situation. "Well," they murmur to themselves, "obviously the situation will not be solved by us trying to determine your name, as neither of us has the faculties for that... nor can we assign you a new one without causing incredible pain..."

With solemn resignation, they meet X's eyes, one hand on their hip and the other dangling at their side. "The most I can suggest is to try and find someone who does know your name. This is far too risky a prospect for me to keep trying, and I must admit I was never up to the task in the first place."

Rutile bobs their head and shoulders in a short bow. "I offer my apologies. I truly wish there was something more I could do."

He likes Rutile. They bowed to him. In different circumstances, when he's not on the verge of panic and not trying to work out where is or why, he would probably want to spend more time with the living rock; he's fascinated by anything he's never seen before, and he loves to learn. But these aren't different circumstances, and he is on the verge of panic.

"Who would know my name?" he asks hopelessly. "I don't know anyone here." He gathers himself up with an effort and looks around. "I don't even know where I am. What is this place? How did I get here? I -- I know it's called Aifaran, and I know... I know I'm not in danger. But I don't know how I know that."

Oh, dear, he's starting to panic again - mitigating emotions was always more Euclase's or Yellow Diamond's strong suit, not Rutile's. They would have had this whole thing fixed by now.

"Well, this place is another land far from the lands we are both from," Rutile begins to explain. They debate getting into the nitty-gritty of the Dreaming and its fellow planes, and decide that is far more complex than required at this time. "A... a veil of magic called the Dreaming brought us here. It is very safe, to my knowledge. You really are quite safe."

X raises a good point about his name, however. After thinking a little more, they posit, "Or, we could go to the Dreaming Bridge secretary and ask them for a list of everyone who has passed through. We wouldn't be any closer to knowing which name is yours, but you will probably recognize it if you see it."

Safe, Rutile confirms, but it doesn't change the fact that he can't remember his name and he can't make one up. He takes three deep breaths again, like Rutile told him to at the beginning, and tries to really believe he'll be safe. A part of him wonders if this means he's never going to see his family again, but... he's not as worried about that as he thought he might be. Somehow, for some reason, it feels like he's already seen them again. It feels like he's already dealt with and processed their disappearance, and already moved on.

Even Rutile's next suggestion sounds like a perfectly reasonable one, even though it can't make sense because he can't have been here before. But: "You mean you think this isn't my first time here?" he asks out loud. "Or that I've been here a really long time and just don't remember?"

He sounds more resigned now than curious or afraid.

Suddenly, Rutile isn't so sure. Perhaps they're mistaken, and this child really is a newcomer to the Bridge. They wrack their brains again, trying to think of someone, anyone they might have seen who fits his description - but no one comes to mind.

"I don't know," they admit. "But it's quite likely. It wouldn't be the first time this kind of thing has occurred."

Then, a little more curtly as they cross their arms, "And anyway, I don't have any other ideas."

They're not irritated with the child, just pointing out the obvious. They have literally tried everything else.

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