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There was a huge crowd in the middle of the street. They were poor folk, angry folk, tired folk, and while they’d been poor and tired for generations, it had been the revolution that lit the anger. The streets of the erstwhile noble district were bloodied and broken from the fruits of that wrath – though the young Revolutionary watching from the edge of the crush of unwashed bodies would prefer to call it a side-effect. An ugly, mouldy twig on an otherwise lovely rose, one could say.
There was nothing lovely about the crowd, or the voice that rung out above it all, the owner smashing two metal utensils together to be heard, but the Revolutionary’s ears pricked up regardless. So did more than a few of the 51 beggars and scrapers and all-around miserable people in line. That voice was a Voice, and it knew how to be heard. ‘Get in line!’ The woman yelled. ‘Get in bloody line, you morons! Nobody gets fed if nobody gets lined up!’
There was still some disruption, some hubbub, but the woman in charge screamed at them again, and again, and then they grumbled themselves into line, or something resembling it. There was still nothing but arguing and shoving at the back of the line, where the Revolutionary was, but he supposed that was what happened when you gave them a government where that worked. The woman with the Voice at the front of the line could not see him, he was too far away and too determined to hide. As the first person in line, an old man who smelt of tobacco and gunpowder over the usual smell of the capital came up to her, she scooped up an enormous ladle full of soup and poured it into his bowl. The soup was watery and the spoon was almost as big as the bowl, but it would be the poor man’s only meal in the day. Before the man could get away, she rattled an empty can under his nose for donations. He just glared at her and stalked away.
The next one was a little child, shoving her way through the adults behind her to get to the table first. The cook frowned down at her scoldingly, but handed her a bowl of her own anyway, plopping an extra hunk of bread into it too. She didn’t ask her for money.
The sun was almost at noon-height by the time the line had dwindled down to the last few people. The Cook had poured more soup into the cauldron from a fuel bottle, stirring it together with the older soup to warm it up a bit before doling it out. Sweat was beading up on her neck, from the sudden heat and the exercise, and from the warm clothes she’d worn that morning. It had no right to be this hot in autumn, she fumed, pulling a last bowl out for the last person in line. ‘No need for that.’ The man said pleasantly. She went on guard at once. He had big, buggy black eyes that seemed to take in everything in front of him at once. His hair was black – another strange thing, but not absurd, given all the foreigners in Luginica these days, and the Cook was from too far away to really notice. And his clothes were all clean, a much-darned carmine coat draped over one shoulder in the heat. ‘You’re from the government?’
‘I’m just passing through.’ He smiled politely and reached for her coin-can. ‘Not getting much help? I doubt you’ll be able to keep this business running out of charity. People don’t like paying for what they can get free.’
She slapped his hand away, feeling slightly, if only slightly, upset at someone else for the first time in months. He rubbed his hand, the easy politician’s smile dripping off, and walked slowly away.
But he came again, the next day.
She’d arranged the table and the cauldron of soup, though there was no bread this time, and by the time he came by, the line had already shortened to the last few people. She was arguing with someone this time, rattling the can around in one hand and waving the other around dramatically. The labourer in question did drop a couple heavy silver coins into the box, visibly shaking. ‘Thank you!’ she called after him sweetly, already pouring another bowl. Approaching from the side this time, the Revolutionary noticed her long hair was well-cut, if nothing else, and her thin eyes were visibly near-sighted. She noticed him too, but merely turned back to her work. He wondered if he should get in line or call out to her to catch her attention. He decided against it – she would not appreciate the distraction, and possibly losing her money was not a good start to an amicable relationship.
He hung around, looking at his citizens as though passively admiring a nice view. Once the last visitor had been served, she called out to him.
‘Are you ‘just passing through’ here again?’
‘Yes.’ He lied, ‘It’s on my way to work.’
She nodded seriously, then looked up towards the midday sun. ‘Sure.’ It was extremely sarcastic. The square was still full of people eating, but they were trickling away towards their jobs by now, their break over. ‘And what is this work you do, Mr. Government guy? Just wandering around and poking your nose into other people’s soup?’
‘No, mostly paperwork, lobbying, that kind of thing.’ I’m Subaru Natsuki, the boss of the whole damn operation, he imagined saying. He tried not to let his practised smile wobble out of control. ‘Poking into soup is just a hobby.’
She had the graciousness to smile at the joke at least, though it was more of a toothy leer. ‘Well, you won’t find your rocks in here, so you might as well go.’ It took him a moment to realise she was talking about his bocco powder – rocks, who even called it rocks – and by then she had turned away. She seemed to understand her mistake quickly enough, as she shouted out just as he’d picked up the coin-can: ‘Hey!’
He threw in the gold coins he had ready, and smiled a fraction of a degree more warmly, backing away with his hands up. ‘Thank you for your help.’ He smiled at her, as innocently as he could manage. There was a pause, and he could feel a few eyes on him as patrons came to return their spoons and bowls, as the Cook checked the can. ‘Ugh.’ She sighed at last. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to be jumped, the Revolutionary turned away. ‘Thank you.’ The Cook clearly meant for it to be heard, but she was back to work when he glanced back.
The Revolutionary was sure he’d see her again, his little gift at least would ensure that for maybe another few weeks? But he expected their next meeting to be similar, and to happen at least the next day: it did not.
The President’s work at the National Convention took, in the most charitable estimate, forever; it was either very early morning or very late night when he finally got out. ‘Good morning.’ The woman hadn’t expected to see him out so early. ‘Shouldn’t it be ‘Good night’?’ asked the man, who hadn’t been to bed. ‘No it shouldn’t!’ She was going towards the edge of the city, and he was just wandering, and it was natural for their feet to fall into step. At least, the man hoped it seemed natural, and the woman hoped it was.
‘Why so early?’ The sky was the deepest of navy and there was no light to guide them on the street – the only reason the sky was lit at all were the faraway foundries on the other edges of the capital.
‘All the wholesalers start selling just about now. I need a good shop’s worth of food for just the one meal.’
‘It must get tiring, waking up so early.’
‘Eh.’ She made a noncommittal noise. Aaand just like that, you’ve managed to plunge us into yet another uncomfortable silence! Good job! She thought to herself.
She led him through the black, silent streets, stopping here and there to look around and ensure that they weren’t off track. The man noticed. ‘Are you new to the capital?’
‘Uh… no? I mean, last time I was here, it was… a lot different.’
‘A good different, I hope! …I, I mean, I think the changes are good. Changes for the better.’
‘Mmm. All the trees are gone.’
‘We needed the space for the factories, for our peoples’ employment.’
‘All the spirits have left, too. And… there’s so much violence. Guns, bombs-’
‘There was violence before. The knights only crushed it underfoot or chose to ignore it. And spirits…’
‘Oh, don’t I know it!’ she shook her head, sad humour in her voice. ‘Don’t I know it.’
‘What are you reminiscing over? The racism, or the misogyny? The entire attitude towards the lower classes, perhaps? It’s not like they were invisible: they were just disregardable. It was easy to look away, and everyone did so, until they had had enough. It was the aristocratic mindset- believe in a wholly fictional ‘golden age’ and pump all your funds – steal from the purses of your own people – into self-aggrandizing nonsense. And the masses will look at it and see beauty! Wonder, magic even! Bread and circuses, that’s all it is – the bohemian enjoyment of a few is nothing to trade the living of the many over.’ He had to cut himself short before he fell into a rant – what had gotten into him? He was supposed to be casual and friendly, not incendiary!
This time she really did laugh, huffing out a few wry breaths. ‘Hah. There really isn’t a shred of romance in you, is there?’
He was left scrabbling for a response, and she grinned in victory. It was a long few minutes before they finally reached the carts of merchants from the fields, already surrounded by shopkeepers from every corner of the city. ‘Hey, Appa-man! Kadomon! Long time no see!’ She dove right into the crowd, while the man stayed some way away. From what he could tell, it had been so long with no ‘see’ that the merchant had completely forgotten who she was. She bought a smaller sackful of potatoes and a bigger one of carrots and threw the former onto his back the moment he came into range. ‘Come on! You can help me get this home!’
‘When did I agree to that?’ He kept his voice low and polite with some effort. ‘I never believed that I might be tricked into bound labour.’
‘You followed me all the way here, so that was your first mistake!’ She pointed at him forcefully, and the sack of potatoes on her shoulder immediately began sliding off. ‘I’ll have you know, I have a reputation for getting what I want out of people!’
‘Oh? Is the secret in your delicate femininity, or your charming personality?’
She threw her head back to laugh, and he almost jumped at the sound. It… she was very loud. Louder than he remembered laughter being, and sweeter, and clumsier. His cheeks ached, and only then did he realise that he’d been grinning like a loon the whole time. ‘Neither.’
‘Eh?’ He had to scrabble to recall the thread of the conversation.
‘Neither. I’m just one persistent bitch’ Certainly, Suwen had driven the difficulty of getting people to pay their goddamn taxes deep enough into his brain, that he could appreciate that.
He did not look away from her, though her eyes were still on the road ahead. He saw the deep bags under her eyes, the pain in her premature lines and ever-present smirk. He also noticed the softness of her cheeks and the curls of the hair that fell over it, though not as most men would have noticed it – not that most men would have noticed it at all. ‘Certainly. Any person who works so diligen- so hard to help others-’ for little enough thanks, both of them thought, ‘- can’t be anything but persistent.’
‘Hmm.’ She still wasn’t looking at him, and part of him was glad to be away from those searching eyes – to be free to continue examining her – but her eyes had taken on a, dare he say, wistful look. ‘Yeah. It can be hard sometimes – sometimes all you want is to lie still and not move – sometimes you want more than leftover food and second-hand clothes – but someone has to do it. And I have to do it – I’ve already wasted enough- trust, enough- life, lying on my back and doing less than what I need to. They deserve more than that.’ And now she turned to him, trying to temper her driven tone and eyes with a weak smile. ‘I’m sure you’ll think I’m dumb, or – what’s the word? – naïve, for this – but I believe, from all my heart, with all my life, that people are good. That people have reasons for doing what all the terrible things they can do.’
‘Naïve’ was an understatement. You haven’t seen the riots, and the idiots trying to defend them in the assemblies! The man wanted to scream, some strange part of him almost… afraid, of this strange vivid woman. Or afraid for her? You’ve never had to face an old warthog calling you a thief for freeing his goddamn slaves, and had to smile and simper and talk about compensation and cooperation. You can’t really believe- But there was that look on her face, a look that said, plain as day, that she had seen terrible things… and he couldn’t… he couldn’t…
Luckily, he didn’t have to, as the very next moment he was almost curled inwards from coughing and hacking, his old diseases choking up again. She raised a hand over his back awkwardly, shocked, confused, and half-convinced that her speech had somehow brought this on. He had to hack, spit on the side of the road (rubbing his mouth surreptitiously afterwards to clean off the spit) and crack open his box of powder again.
‘Isn’t that stuff like… cocaine?’ She was looking very closely at his face, or seemed to be through all the tears. Why was she doing that, he was trying to hide his face.
‘I’m not an addict.’ He coughed firmly. ‘It’s medicinal, I need it.’
‘Sure. You can stop any time you like.’
‘I can, actually. And I don’t see why you seem so interested in my methods of medication.’
‘Hey, I can’t be concerned for a friend?’
‘I wasn’t aware that we had reached the necessary point to become friends.’
‘Well, we haven’t, but sometimes I just get this feeling, y’know?’
‘No?’
‘Like I’m meant to be friends with the guy I’m with!’
What. They thought in union. The man immediately went into another convenient hacking fit, while the woman just stared into nowhere, slow pain crossing her face. ‘You know,’ she almost mumbled, trying to get over the sheer cringe of what she’d just said. ‘You know, if you uh, ever need a hand – or a uh, sword-’ she tapped at her hip, and he followed the movement and noticed, for the first time, the short sword – what had it been called? He was sure he’d seen one just like it, and someone had told him about it – on her belt. ‘- you can ask me. I’m very, very far from the best, even good, but I have picked up a few tricks in my time abroad.’
‘Guns are better.’
‘They’re too noisy! And you are incredibly unromantic!’
‘I don’t think that’s a normal insult!’ he laughed, because it really wasn’t, and he would never have considered it one (from anyone else). Their voices had become louder as the conversation went on, and now they echoed through the empty, now light-blue steert.
‘Not to mention ungrateful.’ She said, turning her nose up dramatically. ‘Incredibly ungrateful to your incredible new friend!’
‘You-’ He should stop her there. It had been literal months since his conscience had last pulled its neck out of the sand, but it was definitely doing so now. ‘You really shouldn’t make promises like that. I don’t-’ Common sense dictated that he should continue… whatever this was, and use her undoubtedly blossoming network of patrons from the lower strata for the republic. Still, he had his authorities, he had the whole police force at his disposal – he didn’t need one young, clearly ditzy foreign girl. He… should stop her now. ‘I don’t- really need a bodyguard, or a-’ friend ‘- whatever you’re suggesting. And you really shouldn’t make promises like that to people you barely know. For all you know, I could be a horrible person, a monster in a nice suit. And you should –’
She bumped her shoulder into his ribcage with all the weight of both the sacks on her back. ‘Don’t tell me what to do, mister Monster!’ He wobbled back a few steps, and she frowned at his face, pursing her weather-worn purplish lips together. ‘What, you already forgot what I said? Or did you think I wasn’t serious?’
‘What-’
‘I think, most people are good, or more good than bad!’ He struck a dramatic pose, or as dramatic as she could get with all vegetables weighing her down. He would have liked to help her, but he was a bit too scared of getting shoved again. ‘And that includes you! I haven’t known you for long, nut- I can tell. You’re decent enough. Decent enough.’
‘I… I have done terrible things.’
‘Probably.’ She sighed, like she’d seen that coming too. ‘Real original… Listen, before I ended up here? Most of my closest friends had done one terrible thing or another. Some even to me. But, even so, they were good people, and I loved them.’
Loved, past tense. Of course.
‘Really, I’ve done… some pretty shitty things too.’ Of course it’s past tense. ‘But all we can do is keep moving on.’ She looked up, up at the sky, up at the new day. In fact, she looked so far up, he was worried she might topple over. ‘Speaking of which, take this stupid thing back, we need to get going!’
He forced out a laugh at that, and though it was forced and charismatic, he was still surprised by how easily it came, and then he took the sack, and then they walked on together. He was more than a little discomfited by her words, and so he stopped looking at her, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have known that, when she looked at the cold winter’s morning ahead of them, she thought it suited him well: all blinding white skies and cawing crows, yet lovely in its own way, a reminder of the life still left in even the dying year.
‘I think I’ll be returning home now.’ He said, when they were not far from her own house. He knew they weren’t by the clear relief in her shoulders and the way she was clearly planning the next things to do. ‘If you can take this back- thank you –’
‘- Thank you -’
‘I’m glad we got done: I have work soon, and I have to check up on some people – Od, I hope She isn’t awake - ’
‘What, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend? Mr Monster, you sly thing~’
‘No, no! She’s just a roommate! Nothing like – ugh – that.’ Why was he so disturbed by her thinking so? Because Capella was a pile of humanoid diarrhoea? Yeah, probably that – and she was as far as you could get from this humorous, tough, pretty young lady. Well, I suppose if you used only those adjectives…
He realized that she’d never told him her name – normally, asking the little questions like that was a good big ice-breaking step towards asking after the other’s past, beliefs, and (eventually, and usually most importantly) political stances – why hadn’t he ever thought of asking her that? Well, there hadn’t exactly been any ice to begin with –
- Not that that was anything he could do at the moment – asking that would lead to her asking his name, and –
There wasn’t even time to consider it. She grinned as she hefted both bags into a better position, then stepped closer – uncomfortably close, in fact – the man wouldn’t deny that he froze up in fear for a second, that she would do something like kiss his cheek – but, weirdly, she just knocked the side of her head against that of his, then half-hopped back, wobbled, and twirled on her heel to make her way – presumably – home.
He couldn’t hear it, but she was chuckling to herself, all the way back.
It was a few days until the next time the Musician saw her new friend. He didn’t show up at noon nor pre-dawn, no matter how she searched or waited, and the rest of her work – mild physical labour, she really had lucked out when she met Felt, huh? Can’t expect the same twice, yell for goodness from the gods but don’t expect anything free and all that – kept her so busy, her thoughts barely had a chance to surface above al that. Still. Still, in spite of all this, in spite of all the pain and exhaustion and death of her journey – some fucking hilarious deity up above had given her the dream she had when she was first isekai’d.
‘Any requests?’ she called out to the busy room. A regular chorus shouted out, and she grinned. It was hard keeping this going beside her job and the soup kitchen but… well, she hadn’t died in months, might as well get creative, eh?
God, Satella would kick her ass if she heard that. She still had a job to do there, god, she felt tired just thinking of it. So she didn’t.
Instead, she cycled through the chords of half-a-dozen marching tunes – whoo, propaganda! – and a tune or two or her own, tempted still to mumble in English alongside them, in the tiniest hope that there could be another isekai-ee out here. She’d learnt Vollachian folk songs and Gustekan hymns, sea shanties and love ballads, and every person here had one that they preferred. She was pondering on a nostalgic wedding waltz when the curtain over the open doorway flew open.
‘Here she is, boy.’ It was old Kadomon, broad and smiling as ever, if a bit thinner or worse for wear from the past years. And behind him: ‘I heard you were playing.’ Said her friend. A few people squinted, like they weren’t sure whether or not they recognized him.
‘I found ‘im running through the night, asking after the young lady!’ Kadomon laughed, thumping him on the back and leering around him meaningfully. A few people sniggered at the sight, and the Musician smiled too. ‘Thought I was bein’ hassled for a minute, but then I saw the look of `is arms!’
‘Your girlfriend lets you out this late?’, she baited him.
‘I believe her own words would be – ‘Get out of my fucking sight you disgusting worm’, with some added profanity. If I had one, that is.’
More laughter. The Musician was the only person in the room on a chair – her landlord and his extended family, Kadomon and Plum, Chamov and whatever friends he’d invited out today; all sat on the floor on cushions or plump rugs and blankets. There was a thick smell in the air, and the air was cold and stale, but it felt homely. And now her friend was here! She didn’t know his name, but she didn’t think she needed to. She could just keep calling him ‘Mr. Monster’, nicknames were always good. She would have spoken again, but a crash of thunder and a quickening patter preceded her.
‘It’s raining!’ a cry of dismay went around the room. The Musician just chuckled as a thought came to her. ‘Yeah. Cold November Rain.’
And her friend looked up at her then – did he sense some meaning in her words, or was that just wishful thinking? – and she called him to sit nearer her. He did. He came all the way forward, and sat on the ground beside her feet. Despite the cold, despite the rain, despite everything she saw in his day-tired eyes as he looked up and he surely saw in hers’ –
Sitting here, friends around her, she felt warm. Not forever, maybe not even for long – but when she played and they sang, and when she stood, suddenly dizzy and they made way with understanding in their eyes, when the friend found her leaning, eyes closing against her will, on the staircase; and when she hugged him, pressing her face against his shoulder and feeling him shudder and respond silently –
- in that short present, there were all their lives spread in that dark, and there was light.