The Song of Home and What It Makes of Us - 2

[A/N before we start:

In between posting last chapter and this one, I changed the nation of Chandelle to Ambrylle, the city of Lumine to Mariseau, and the language Chandellan to Ambrylline. I also removed the language Yvsken, which was a common language between the nations on this continent of Yvske, as I felt it didn't work with the story I wanted to tell (which includes a lot of language stuff). I hope this makes sense and isn't too confusing!]

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Ilya is woken by someone shaking his arm.

Lovey rubs her eyes and murmurs "'s time to get up, Ilya."

"Thanks, dove," Ilya murmurs back, sitting up and shaking the hair out of his eyes. He glances out the window. It's still dark. Good. "You go back to sleep."

She nods slowly. "Mkay."

Ilya drags himself out of bed and pulls off his shirt, replacing it with the clean one Lovey washed yesterday. He hates that she has to do even this much. She's so little.

He slings his satchel over his shoulder, shoving a sandwich Lovey had made last night inside, and clambers out the window.

It's awful. It's so humid; the air is heavy and it's hard to breathe. His shirt sticks to his skin. The sun's not up yet, so it's almost cold, but he knows it'll be worse when the sun is up– he'll be sweating buckets and probably get sunburned, too, if he doesn't get a job inside. (He's not made for the sun they get in Ambrylle. He's pale.)

The streets are eerie this early in the morning, almost entirely empty. Though Ilya knows that's deceptive. If you pay attention, you can smell the bakeries; the people who run those get up even earlier than Ilya does. Though at least they have a stable job.

Ilya makes his way down to the factory district, and here's where the streets start to fill. Hundreds, maybe thousands of other sorry sobs like him, hoping for a day's work. At least he's here relatively early. He'll probably get work. Gods above, he hopes he'll get work.

He waits for an hour at the least, but eventually he does get some work – at a loom in one of the cotton mills. It's hard work, and his back hurts within half an hour, but at least he isn't outside, getting sunburned and carrying crates, or on a fishing boat. He hates boats. It's still hot, though, and sweaty, and he can barely think.

They're let on a short break to eat breakfast; Ilya takes his sandwich out of his satchel and bites into it gratefully. The bread is slightly stale, the slices of ham thin, but it's still food and he hasn't eaten since last night.

And then it's back to the loom. His back hurts; his mouth is dry, and the heat is oppressive all around him. It's so loud here. Across goes the shuttle, the bang of wood against wood, the shuttle goes across again. Someone's singing a work song Ilya doesn't know the lyrics to; it helps him keep time. He bites his lip, hair plastered to his forehead with the sweat. Across goes the shuttle. Again. Again. Time sort of loses its meaning in these places.

Someone else is singing now, their voice high and flute-like. The language doesn't sound like Ambrylline; it's almost like Modiveti, actually, only it is a little like Ambrylline...

Oh. It's Corsair's cant. Ilya wonders what would bring a Corsair here, to the factories of Mariseau.

They live on the ocean, usually, or in the Arichipelago – free as birds and just as unorganized. Their language is a hodgepodge of all sorts of things, Modiveti words for parts of ships and Ambryllan terms for the color of the sea, and their own words besides. Ilya glances at the singing girl, her hair braided with colorful thread and tiny seashells, and he hopes for her sake that this is only temporary. That before long, she'll be back at home on the open seas.

The foreman shouts at him and Ilya turns back to his own work.

By the time Ilya and the rest of the workers are paid and let out, the sun is low in the sky. Ilya doesn't know or care what time it is; his stomach feels unbearably empty and it's only made worse by the smell of food, drifting from the bakeries and restaurants and he– he needs to get home. He grips the strap of his satchel white-knuckled and strides through the streets, almost dizzy from his hunger and the heat still hanging over the city like a heavy fog.

His mistake is taking a shortcut.

The alleyway runs almost right from the factory district all the way to their apartment. It's usually empty early in the morning, when he's travelling there. He always takes the long way back. He likes to people-watch, and besides, it's safer. But he's just so tired, and so hungry. It seems logical at the time.

The alleyway is darker than the streets outside. The buildings are turned towards the setting sun; they're tall, too.

Ilya sees a silhouette ahead of him, all in white and gold. He freezes in his tracks. Royal Guard.

His mind is racing, his eyes flicking from place to place – can I climb that wall? Can I run quick enough that he won't catch me? How do I get out? How, how, how–

The guard starts walking towards him, or maybe 'stumbling' is more accurate. He's clearly drunk. Gods, that's so much worse. "Hey!" he says a little too loud. "Hey, you. You, I know you."

Ilya laughs airily, his heart beating like a rabbit. "I think you've got me confused with someone, sir."

"I know you," the guard growls, advancing towards him. "You're that damn thief."

"I don't–"

The guard lunges and Ilya tries to dodge, but the guard grabs his shoulder and punches him right in the jaw. Ilya stumbles backwards, clutching his face, and he knew it was coming but the shock is just– he– ow. The guard has been thrown off-balance by his own momentum and Ilya sees his chance and he takes it, even through the pain. He ducks around the guard and starts to run, faster than he has in a long while.

The guard yells behind him, and Ilya skids to a halt, jumping up to haul himself onto a balcony and then clambering up the side of the building, his breath coming fast as the guard's footsteps and Ilya almost slips and his stomach drops and he gasps but he doesn't fall and he drags himself up onto the next balcony and the next and he just has to keep going and he finally reaches the roof and he's there on his hands and knees, gasping for air, the sun shining down on his back.

He stands up, still breathing heavily. His nose is bleeding. This isn't good, this isn't good, he can't lead that man to their apartment, what is he going to do–

"You can't run forever!" the guard yells, a drunken, slurred shout.

Ilya bursts out laughing, almost hysterical. His hands are shaking but it’s fine. It’s really fine. "I can run longer than you," he shouts back, and takes off again.

-----

It's not really a decision to run the opposite way from the apartment. He just does it. He knows this city, he knows how to get back, he just has to throw the guard off. It won't be too difficult; the guard is drunk and angry but not very observant at the moment. Besides, none of these back-alley roads are particularly wide. It’s easy enough to leap across the gaps to the next building, and then the next, and he knows the guard won’t be able to follow his path.

Oh, gods save him, he’s exhausted. His stomach is empty and he’s so, so tired, and he’s still running. He’s still running; he sends up a prayer to Yksen ev Likhe— though he never prays to the Sau gods, not anymore— because he really is desperate. He can’t stop moving, he can’t, or he thinks he may never get up again. Lise and Lovey need the money. He can’t let them down.

He can’t. He can’t let them down, can’t let them down— ochu uza vosesuen— gods above and below, now he’s even thinking in Sau, damn it. The heat and the hunger are getting to him, making him dizzy, making him stupid and senseless and he just needs to get to the apartment. It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

Ilya runs, and keeps running, and eventually he starts to properly know the streets, and after that it isn’t long until he’s swinging in through the window, and—

“Ilya!” Lise shouts, grabbing his shoulders. She looks so worried. He can’t stand it. “Where were you, we—“ she freezes. “Ilya, your face.”

Ilya blinks. “Huh?”

“The bruise?”

“Oh. That. There was a guard.” Ilya grimaces. “A drunk one.” He shakes his head, puts on a smile. “It’s fine— I got the money!”

“Ilya, you—“ Lise pauses, sighs, and shakes her head. “Okay. Whatever. Just… I’ll take the money, go eat. Lovey made fish and flatbread.”

Ilya hands her the pouch and scurries off to the kitchen.

Lovey is standing at the stove, sniffling. She turns, and then her eyes go wide, and she throws herself into his arms. “I was so worried!”

“Oh, dove, I’m alright,” he laughs. “There’s no need to worry.”

“You need to eat,” Lovey says, and, oh, her eyes are red, and her eyelashes are wet and there are tear tracks down her cheeks. She really must have been worried.

“I will, Lovey. Thank you for the food.”

Lovey smiles at him, still a little watery. “You’re welcome.”

Ilya tries not to eat his food too quickly, because he knows there won’t be enough to satisfy the gnawing emptiness in his stomach— there never is— and eating slowly helps, sometimes.

He hopes the money will help. It isn’t the worst pay he’s gotten for a day’s work. He chews the small bite he’s taken of his flatbread and watches Lovey busy herself with the dishes.

She’s trying to hide it, but he sees the way her shoulders jump when she sniffles, and he hates it. He hates that he let her feel this way. It’s his fault. If he hadn’t barged his way into her and Lise’s lives, if he wasn’t yet another mouth to feed, if he wasn’t there she wouldn’t have to feel this way.

But he is and she does and he can’t leave because then Lovey and Lise wouldn’t have enough money, and he still wouldn’t have paid off his debt to them. And so he stays.

-----

Before Ilya knows it, it’s morning. Out he goes once again, but thank the gods, this time he lands one of the cushy jobs with the Lafaille estate. It’s still hard work, but he gets nearly double the pay washing the mayor’s sheets as he does working a loom. This is good. This is good, Lise will be so relieved.

They’re even let off a little early, with the full pay. Ilya is hungry, of course, but Lovey won’t have made dinner yet so he’s got to wait.

He finds himself, as he always does when he’s this lucky, at the Lumine Royal Library. The one place he’s always found solace, the one place in the godsdamned city that doesn’t cost money to exist in.

The arches of the ceiling are so high, the lights dancing on the walls — entirely populated by bookshelves. He always feels so small here, surrounded by this unfathomable amount of knowledge. There are so many people here, but it’s so quiet. He watches people high up on sliding ladders pick out books, gripping the strap of his satchel.

Ilya likes to pretend sometimes that he’s still the sort of person who’d get to go to the university attached to the library — that he’s just like the students gathered here, discussing things he doesn’t understand in hushed, excited tones.

But it’s only a daydream, and he doesn’t do something as stupid as try to join them. Instead he smiles to himself and walks over to his favourite section — fiction. Little worlds he can escape to for an hour or two. Though he shouldn’t stay too long today.

He hadn’t realised he was so exhausted, but he finds himself nearly nodding off as he reads. The chair is just so soft, and warm by the fire— like someone’s lap, long ago, when he’d been small enough to sit in it. The book back then had been for kids, and in Sau for that matter, but—

Ilya shakes his head and tries to focus on the words in front of him. Something about an engineer from Steelgard. He’d read part of it last time, but it’s been so long he’s sort of forgotten how it went, and now he’s confused. Maybe he should start from the beginning again.

Then again, maybe he should just relax. He so rarely gets the chance.