The Song of Home and What It Makes of Us - 3

Ilya isn’t so lucky with jobs the next day.

The crowd outside the towering, noise-making buildings of the factory district doesn’t thin nearly as much as he hoped, and he has no special skills the floor bosses’d want. He gets desperate. So desperate he shoves his way through the throng of people to get to the docks.

Gods, the docks. The pay is good but he hates the docks, he hates the sea, he hates boats and fish and water and the sky today — it’s filled with dark clouds — he hates it but he has to do this. He has to. He doesn’t have a choice, not if he wants to get a fraction of the way to paying his debt to Lise.

He gets picked up quickly. Some ramshackle fishing crew filled with sorry sobs like him; all silent, bruises and scars on their bodies, clothes ill-fitting and patched. He doesn’t make eye contact. It isn’t worth it, none of them want to talk. Not like he wants to, either, not now.

Ilya’s hand is white-knuckled gripping the side of the boat as his feet leave solid ground, the nauseating sensation of the deck swaying under him almost too much to bear. He swallows and stares out at the horizon, walking away from the dock to a net no one else is using, his legs very nearly giving out as he has to let go of the railing.

He stares out at the dark clouds rolling over the sea, stares at the choppy, rough, grasping waves he knows are under them. It isn’t raining yet, but it will be. He knows what that weather looks like too damn well.

The deck rocked violently side to side— he thinks he was crying, but it was hard to tell in the lashing rain—

“Snap out of it, idiot,” he bites out under his too-quick breath. He can’t shut down now, he has a job to do and if he doesn’t do it— he has to do it. He has to do this.

The deck sways under him rhythmically. It makes him want to throw up.

He’s leaning over the edge of the boat as he’s meant to, his net dragging under the water, when he’s yanked out of his trance by a raindrop on the back of his neck. No.

Vaate, Yksen ev Likhe, he prays desperately, chei va uza lutaiv i semusak— don’t do this to me—let me take my mind away, I don’t want to think about it, honored Yksen of Water don’t do this to me—

The Sau gods abandoned him long ago, though, and she doesn’t listen — and so he is left awake and too aware, trying not to flinch every time a drop of water hits his tense shoulders. He breathes in and out, the salty air filling his lungs, and at least it isn’t the seawater, he reminds himself. At least he can still breathe.

He pulls up his net, watches as the fish drown in the air. Watches them flail helplessly. He remembers how it feels to be them and he tries not to care— they’re only fish, after all, and some other poor worker back at the dock will gut them soon.

He gasped just like them, trying vainly to pull himself up out of the water, desperate for the opposite— for air—

“I survived,” Ilya hisses, glaring at the ocean. His sharp, desperate gaze turns back to the fish. They are no longer moving. “…I survived.”

He has a job to do.

At least the library is there for him, when the work is over. He doesn’t think he can face Lise and Lovey, not yet, not with the boat so fresh in his memory — he doesn’t want them to see his eyes that haunted. He tries to stick to the corners, the dark unremarkable places, where no one will look at him.

But abruptly he can feel someone’s gaze on him— he glances up, looking around.

Up near the rafters, someplace only accessible by special passages for the royals and their servants, is a small open room set into the wall— a box, the kind you see in theatres. And sitting in the box, looking right at Ilya, is Prince Alastair Valiquette. His eyes go wide, seeing Ilya look right back at him.

The prince is something of a mystery to Ilya. He’s heard of him, of course— but mostly before he lived here. The prince had been a princess back then anyway, and a child besides. Everything he knows now is hearsay or vague headlines in the papers he snatches glimpses of.

Ilya has seen him before, though — the one thing he can say for certain he knows about His Highness is that he likes to read. Ilya sees him up there in that box fairly often.

He doesn’t think the prince has ever looked back at him before, though. So Ilya grins, stepping out from the shadows, and bows to His Highness; the prince’s gaze is still fixed on Ilya.

The prince averts his eyes then, almost flustered. Ilya just laughs under his breath and turns away from the prince.

He walks, as he nearly always does, to the fiction section, and picks up his book again— the one about the engineer from Steelgard. He wishes he could keep it at home, he’d have more chances to read it, but as much as he enjoys the rush of stealing, the privilege of being allowed in the library is too precious to risk. He flips open the book—

Ilya notices the prince again in his peripheral vision and blinks up at him. Why is he still looking?

The prince blinks back at him and then picks up his book, tapping the cover with his finger. Ilya cocks his head to the side, trying to see what the prince wants him to—

Oh. Ilya bursts out laughing — he’s shushed by the librarians, which does make him feel chastised — but he still grins up at the prince, because they’re reading the same book.

He thinks the prince starts laughing, too, hiding his mouth behind his hand as his shoulders shake. Ilya feels an odd sort of kinship — strange, really. They’re not that similar. They’ve led very different lives, up to this point. And yet they’re still reading the same book, about some other place— some other life.

Ilya pauses. He’d like to keep up— whatever this is a little longer, but it’s not really possible, considering the distance. Unless… there are those ladders on the walls…

He holds up a finger, hoping it’ll get across the message that the prince should wait, and makes his way over to the shelves near the prince’s reading box, book tucked under his arm. He takes long, purposeful strides, finding himself smiling at the absurdity of the situation.

He finds a ladder and rolls it over until it’s lined up with the box, and begins to climb. A ladder is far easier to climb than a wall, and now he’s up there — beside the prince.

“Hi, Your Highness,” Ilya says, grinning. “You have good taste.”

Prince Alastair stares at him wide-eyed, mouth slightly open. He’s pretty — curly brown hair tied back into a low ponytail, tan skin, hazel-brown eyes. His hands are slender and soft-looking; one of them is still holding that book.

“Ah,” he says, after a moment, still staring at Ilya. He blinks, then smiles awkwardly— he has dimples, too. “As do you.”

“Which chapter are you on?” Ilya asks, leaning slightly closer, trying to see how many pages the prince has his thumb tucked between.

“Er— well— chapter ten?”

“Oh, amazing, you’re in for some really good stuff. My favorite’s chapter thirteen, so far. Hey, what character’s your favorite?”

The prince considers it for a moment, twirling his hair around his finger. “...I think I’d have to say Irene? I enjoy her, um, bluntness.”

Ilya beams at him. “She’s my favorite too!”

He’s noticed the guard standing behind the prince, of course — it’d be hard not to. The guard seems mostly bored, but she is staring at him — watching in case he does anything untoward, he’d guess. There are a lot of people who might wish the royal family of Ambrylline ill. And he does sort of fit the description.

The prince smiles back, genuinely this time— vibrant in a manner Ilya hadn’t expected of someone he’d thought was so… uptight. He has dimples. Cute. “I also liked Henrik a lot. He’s cute. Resourceful for such a young character.”

“Oh, absolutely. I liked— oh, no, that’s from chapter eleven, I can’t tell you— well, he’s very fun to read about, anyway.” Ilya is trying not to think about how godsdamned weird it is that he’s talking to the literal prince. Like they’re friends, or something. He doesn’t really get how it happened, or how he’s suddenly cheerful again, even after the first half of his day. “I’m on chapter seventeen, by the way. I don’t get… many chances to read,” he laughs a little, “but when I do I try to make the best of it.”

Prince Alastair’s gaze softens a little. “I see. That does make sense. Well—” he glances away, suddenly seeming flustered— “I do have to go, unfortunately, but— if you’re ever here while I am again, I’d— I’d love to hear more of your opinions on the book?”

Ilya blinks, then grins. “I’d love to tell you more, Your Highness.” He does his best attempt at a bow while still hanging onto the ladder, then watches as the prince and his guard leave the box.

It doesn’t escape his notice that Prince Alastair’s eyes linger on him until the door is closed.

“Ilya, there you are— here, help me with the groceries, will you?” Lise says to him, handing him a stack of bread, fish, cheese, and vegetables as soon as he’s in from the window.

Ilya blinks and holds them, which is all he can do. He can’t move his arms or the very precarious stack of things will fall dramatically. “Uh. Sure. How?”

“Eh, just hold ‘em. I’ll put them away. Lovey’s gonna cook.” Her voice is a little quiet — the circles under her eyes a little darker than usual. Maybe she had a long shift. She starts taking things from him and putting them in cupboards.

Ilya wonders if this is from his payday with the Lafailles — he feels a guilty kind of pride at the idea. He shouldn’t be prideful. This is the bare minimum he should be doing. “How was work?”

Lise doesn’t look at him. “Work’s work. Nothing that horrible, I s’pose. What about you?”

“…It was… a little hard to find a job, but, uh, got something eventually… out on a fishing boat. Not fun, but, hey, it’s money.” Ilya shrugs, trying to seem unaffected. After all, it’s just a boat. Just mildly unpleasant. It’s not like Lise would mind being on a boat. Lise would be fine. He was fine.

“Ah, damn. Musta stunk.”

“Yep. At least I had the refreshing sea air,” Ilya laughs. He’s not looking at Lise either.

Lise chuckles. “Yeah, there’s that at least. Hey— Lovey?”

“Whaaat?” Lovey calls back from the bedroom.

“You doin’ alright, dove? Nearly got the groceries put away.”

“Oh! Okay. I’ll come cook!”

“Thanks, Lovey,” Lise says as Lovey rushes into the room.

She’s so fast. Ilya marvels at it every time he sees her running around in her bare feet, managing to not trip over all the loose floorboards or bump into furniture. It reminds him of himself, a little, jumping over buildings and running for the thrill.

He hopes Lovey is a little more well-adjusted than he is. She’s had a more stable life. Well. She is only eight, his life had been fairly stable when he was her age— not that it matters.

Lise takes the last few things— a loaf of bread and a small bag of potatoes— from Ilya’s arms and puts them away in the cupboards, and turns to him with a smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks, Ilya.”

Ilya beams at her. “Anything for you!”

Ilya wakes with a start to the sound of quiet sobs. Lovey is curled up in a ball next to him in the bed, her shoulders shaking.

“Oh— Lovey— sweetheart, what’s wrong?” he whispers, putting his hand on her shoulder. His heart aches, seeing her like this— he has to fix it.

She peeks out from behind her arms at him, eyes red-rimmed and wet, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I— I had a nightmare…”

“Oh, dove.” Ilya pulls her into a hug and runs his hand through her hair. “It’s okay. It wasn’t real. You wanna talk about it?”

Lovey looks away and shakes her head.

Ilya gets a pang in his chest. “U— um— how about a story?”

“…that’d be nice…” Lovey mumbles, hugging him tighter.

Ilya glances over at Lise. She’s still asleep there on the other side of the bed. Gods, she really must be tired— her sleeping through Lovey’s crying is hard to believe.

He wracks his brain for anything that would do to soothe her, but he’s coming up blank. Why now? His head is usually so full.

Lovey looks so sad. He can’t just leave her hanging. There is one story, but… it’s a childhood one. He never likes talking about where he’s from. But. For Lovey. He’ll do it for Lovey.

“Once upon a time,” he begins, quiet so as not to wake Lise. The shape of the Ambrylline words in his mouth feels wrong with this story, but he continues. “A very long time ago, in a faraway land where the mountains are capped with snow all year round, a beautiful deity was born. Their name was Lulione ev Pachmaka— Lulione of Sky.”

Lovey sits up straight, looking up at Ilya. She’s intrigued, he can see it, and it makes him feel a triumphant pride.

“Lulione was born when Old Mother World was still young; she wove Lulione into existence as a beautiful tapestry of deepest blue, a shawl to put around her shoulders. And as Mother World grew, she kept on weaving her shawl; and as everything did in those early days, Lulione began to live. They took their own form, and could walk the earth, or swim the waters. But Lulione was reclusive. They disliked the rowdy, loud voices of the multiplying latsasomi— the gods.”

Ilya feels strange, telling this tale. He’s only ever listened, and he has to translate as he speaks, and he forgets that Lovey doesn’t know his gods. The Sau gods, that is. They aren’t his anymore.

He takes a deep breath and continues, because Lovey wants him to. “The only sound Lulione truly loved was the sound of birdsong. Every day, the only time Lulione would leave their palace of soft, woven clouds, was the twilight of dawn; they longed to hear the morning chorus as all the birds awoke.

“And so every dawn, Lulione brought their golden lantern — the sun — outside the palace walls. And all the latsasomi would hold their breaths, and gaze at Lulione in wonder; for Lulione was the most beautiful being in existence. Every one of the latsasomi wanted them for a spouse. But each of their lavish proposals was met with quiet scorn, and Lulione would retreat once more — bringing their lantern back inside, and once more making the world cold.

“But there was one god who did not take this chance. Ieli ev Chahomi, of the Stars, would not force his affections on the one he loved.”

Lovey leans forward, eyes finally sparkling again. “Ieli really loved Lulione?”

Ilya grins at her, relieved, ruffling her hair. “Yes, dove, he did. More so than any other god. He wasn’t just entranced by their beauty; Ieli was also the deity of song and storytelling, you see, and he felt a kinship with Lulione. Sometimes, Lulione would sing along with the birds. And their voice was so sweet, and their passion so true, that Ieli couldn’t help but stay mesmerized until they left.

“And so it went, for many moons. Ieli would watch Lulione as they sang, and he would long to join them, to sing as they sang and hold their hand, as lovers do.” Ilya hears his voice overlaid with someone else’s, for a moment, sees a flash of hand in hand from where he was sitting on his father’s lap.

He shakes his head to dispel that memory. He knew this was a bad idea. But Lovey is still listening. He can’t let her down. “And— and still, Ieli did not propose. Until one day, Lulione came to him.

“‘I have heard you are a singer,’ Lulione said, and their voice was soft, like rain. ‘You are the only one of our fellow gods whose voice does not bother me. Please — could you sing for me?’ And of course, Ieli agreed. ‘What song would you like to hear?’ he asked, his face flushed pink like he’d just come in from the snow. Lulione smiled, and to him, it was brighter than fire and so much warmer. ‘Anything you like.’

“And so Ieli sang, an old song passed down from his mother, the Moon. He sang, and Lulione was entranced by his voice. They fell in love immediately. When he had finished, Lulione grasped his hand in their own, eyes shining like Ieli’s own stars. ‘Marry me,’ they said. ‘Stay by my side and I’ll join you and the gods outside my palace.’”

Lovey gasps. “They love him too!”

“They do, Lovey,” Ilya laughs. “They love him so much.”

“And then what?” she asks, clearly trying very hard to keep her voice down, so she doesn’t wake Lise. “They got married, didn’t they?”

“Of course they did,” Ilya tells her with a smile, leaning in to kiss her forehead. “Ieli joyfully accepted Lulione’s proposal, and the biggest party the gods had ever seen was held to commemorate it. And Lulione finally came out of their palace; at night, they sat with their husband, singing songs and telling tales; and in the day, they would stride across the land, the shawl of sky wrapped ‘round their shoulders, carrying their lantern and warming the earth. And that, dearest dove, is how the sky and the stars fell in love.”

Lovey beams, and pulls Ilya into a hug. “I love that story, Ilya,” she says into the crook of his neck. “You have to tell me again sometime.”

“I will, promise,” Ilya says softly, stroking her back. “Now, we’d both better get some sleep, if you’re feeling alright.”

“I am.” Lovey pulls back and rubs at her eyes, smiling at him a little sleepily. “G’night, Ilya.”

“Goodnight, sweet dove,” Ilya says. He lies down again, and pulls the covers under them both, and hopes to the gods that abandoned him that he won’t dream of Chiesau Nova.