Lyr is staring at a beautiful, curving short-sword. It is displayed neatly—despite the otherwise anarchic shop—and is significantly nicer than the one he is issued by the Warden for patrols and guard duty. It catches the too-blue winter sky above; and where Lyr stands, he catches a glimpse of his own reflection. A bright vermillion eye peers back, impassive save for the metallic waiver of the metal itself.
The shop is primarily used for Terrastella’s elite Halycon unit, he knows. He has no wings, and is no Halycon fighter though he might like to be, in another life. The sky, and flying, seems to him as romantic as the sea. There were several ospreys that hunted the Rapax; Lyr remembers that when his father took him in the woods to harvest for medical supplies or sacred herbs—white sage, frankincense, verbena, mistletoe—he would watch the birds of prey wheel and dive, lunging for unseen and swift fish. The memory reminds him of his father’s nearly pacifistic nature, and, and—
Lyr stops there.
He breathes.
Lyr admires the weapon for several seconds more; and then he clears his throat, looking for a shopkeep or blacksmith responsible for the establishment. It smells strongly of leather, oils, and the much stronger overlay of coal dust and iron. Beneath it is something sweater—wax?—and the slight, lingering odour of sulphur. It smells unlike anything Lyr has experienced before—and yet, it seems strangely abandoned. The forge is not burning; there is no chimney smoke. He enters the shop and, concerned by the lack of light and noise, presses into the forge itself. “Hello?” He is surprised at the clutter; his hoof catches a metal object on the ground, and it clangs so loudly agains the cobblestones Lyr nearly leaps from his skin.
He cringes, and in the silence that follows he detects a strange, soft sound. It is breathy, and then rough—Lyr realises it is a nearly inaudible snoring. He finds the shopkeeper face-down at a workman’s table. Lyr clears his throat, rather loudly. “Excuse me, sir? I don’t mean to disturb you… the sign outside says you are open?”
i used to pray like god was listening
i used to make my parents proud
You sleep. It is dreamless and deep. The sort of black senselessness that would pitch an oracle to madness–which is just as well, because you’ve had your fill of auguries, and destiny, and purpose. What has it been, except a knife at your throat, since the day you were born?
It might have been different, before–well, before. You might have stepped up to bat with eyes like perse fire, tipping your hat to the pitcher. It might have been easier to look Uncle Rickand in the eye and say yes like it wasn’t a question. It might not have fallen so flat.
You can’t change the past, Hugo. There is only the here and now. There is only your bottomless sleep and a voice that rolls in from the doorway, calling you back from it–and, louder still, the percussive clang of something falling close to you; this is the thing that wakes you like an animal, scrabbling for purchase on reality, your heart like a panicked bird in your chest.
For a moment the room looks different. These days you don’t recognize it without the film of sleep or the blur that comes with very carefully not paying attention, like seeing a thing in periphery. You realize too late that someone is talking – not too late in general, but far too late to save face, so you put on a brave one, some hand-picked, pleasant grin, and lift your head from the table.
For a longer moment than the last, you stare. You’re trying to look calm, and prepared, but the wrinkle of your brow betrays you. This boy isn’t familiar, but not in the way that seeing face after face, day after day makes each face run into another and each day, too. You search for a name, or some part of him that you recognize, and all that comes up is the same, dreamless black as your sleep.
In some ways, this might be better. No one to tell you to be grateful, or full of bliss and purpose. No one to look you dead in the eyes–eyes they have seen since you were small, too small to say their names and after that too small still to look up from your toys when they ask–and smile like they have never met you. You always thought it was strange, how easily a person can be undone, entirely, by a well-timed misplacing of another’s name. It’s almost as if you–sorry, they were never there at all.
“I am,” you say, in the dark. Your lantern is unlit, your forge is cold, and the only light that filters in is the one Lyr brings through the doorway: the pale, cold light of winter. Your wide eyes, still blinking, do not quite convey the sense of calm profession that you’re hoping for. The pleasant grin goes a long way, though.
You’re still looking at him when you strike the match, like it’s second nature, and light a row of fat candles on the table, carefully stacking stray objects–leather scraps, tools, the quiver you had been working on before you dozed off again–out of the way of the flame. In the light you almost love this place like you should. In the light it looks more like home than your home did, anyway.
“What can I do for you?” you ask, rising finally from your seat at the table, tucking your wings against your ribs as you do. “Name’s Hugo.”
What can I do for you? asks the man that has stared at Lyr for so long he no longer remembers why he is there. There is an undoing in that, too, as the sleep leaves the blacksmith’s eyes and the wrinkle eases its way from between his brows, and Lyr stands shrouded in the too-white, too-cold light of wintertime.
Hugo strikes a match, lighting several candles that cast a warm, flickering illumination on everything. Lyr knows the warmth doesn’t play on him the way it ought to; no, winter has always been his season and always will be. He is still as cold as breath fogged on the air outside, white and grey and nearly luminous as he closes the door behind him. Then there is nothing but the flickering candles, glinting off all the sharp angles.
The scene is nearly menacing. Nearly. The firelight glances off of metal and hardwood; it smells of oil and coal, metal and leather. Lyr does not expect to see a man so flamboyant, with bright feathers decorating his head like a crown. He still seems half asleep. But kind. And Lyr appreciates the kindness, although he feels more and more out of the place the longer he stands there.
The blacksmith, however, smiles. It is long and pleasant enough that Lyr eventually smiles back, albeit in a cool way, with tight lips. It is the only smile he knows. “I was… Well, I was hoping to look at at a short sword out front… but if you’re occupied I can always come back at a different time.” His tone is neither conversational nor clipped; it is some airy, nearly dreamy, in-between. He looks everywhere but at Hugo’s eyes.
i used to pray like god was listening
i used to make my parents proud
You can hear the churn of the crowd outside. Terrastella is always so busy, with soldiers bustling from the barracks to training and back again. Your chest tightens a little, hearing it. There is much to do and you cannot bring yourself to do any of it. It is as cold as the winter wind that blows in from the open door. You feel like your candles, dancing to stay alive. You look like your candles, too, flickering helplessly in the dark. If they go out it is not their doing. If they go out, well-- you look down, at an empty matchbox.
That's fitting.
It almost makes you laugh. Instead you just smile, like you're telling a private joke.
Across the room, backlit by the light of winter that enters your workship in sharp angles, like a backwards shadow, Lyr is smiling at your back. You don't see that it looks like yours - tight lips, pressed together too tight, the way people smile on a crowded elevator, the kind of smile that does not quite feel like a smile at all - which is maybe for the best, because it would shake you. Turn your bones to ice.
You don't like when your own misgivings are reflected back at you. You don't like to see yourself look so strange and inhuman. You drink because it's easier when the world is a blur of color and light. You smile because it is the only reason that no one asks questions you are either unable to answer or entirely uninterested in answering, either way.
"Lyr." you repeat. Lyr is deliberately avoiding your eyes, which is unnerving. It is all too much like looking in a mirror. You are smiling, but it has the air of a trapped animal. Before you can think you are moving forward, carefully sweeping past in a flurry of feathers: orange, white, black.
"You can bring it in here," you say, lighting more candles, and then the lantern that swings quietly over the work table until the room itself is cast in a faint yellow-white glow that illuminates the rows of shelves and bounces off the curves of blades and the tips of broken arrows all stacked in a barrel. When you smile now it is comforting, though you're not sure if it's comforting to you or him. "You should know I'm going to judge your choice." This is said flippantly, but the weight of the room makes it drop to the floor line a ringing nail.
You figure, if he does go out to bring it in, it will have been worth waking up for. If he goes out, and stays out-- maybe that's better. A part of you hopes.
