Chapter Text
“Met a guy down by the docks today.”
“Did ya?”
“Yeah. Was tellin’ me all about Sudai.”
“... Sudai?” Sylnan tracks the clouds through the sky.
“Mhm.”
“What d’you think Sudai looks like?”
Br'aad hums to himself, turning away slightly. “Green, probably. I bet there’s a ton of trees. That’s what the guy was saying. That there’s a lot of trees.”
Sylnan can see the reflection of their room in the glass of the window. It’s gray and empty.
“Green, huh.”
“Yeah.”
Sylnan was no stranger to the cold, but winter in the Wharf still came as a surprise.
The snow under his feet turns to slush with pressure. It’s the kind that seeps in through his boots and sits cold and congealed in his socks.
It’s the kind of day so miserably gray that even the rats aren’t out, and everyone who’s able has retreated back to their creaky damp hostels. He runs a couple of numbers in his head to the tune of his boots clacking on the road. They… should be fine on rent this month, but he doesn’t wanna be caught low if Br'aad gets sick or hurt and they need to buy stuff.
He takes an hour or two to search for pockets to pick, humming to himself to pass the time. The quack-doctors have set up around the street, announcing their presence with bright fluttering ribbons and excitable calls; like the birds do in Sudai, he hears. There’re a few muddy urchin-kids wrestling over in one corner of the marketplace, all dirty hands and scrawny limbs. He doesn’t spot any tourists, just the usual gray-and-brown shapes, crossing over blank stones with heavy steps and heavy shoulders.
The slush in his socks aches with a lukewarm chill. No tourists means no marks. There’s an old guy that looks like he might be wealthy enough to be a little charitable, but Sylnan kinda draws the line at somebody who looks like they’d die if he breathed too hard on ‘em. He sucks in a long breath that tastes like woodsmoke.
The streets are hemmed in by narrow wooden houses, so thin and bony and ramshackle-broken. One of the urchin kids yelps and suddenly pulls their hand too close to their chest, and the small smile that had snuck over Sylnan’s face abruptly disappears.
Sick or hurt. That’s happened once or twice before, and each time is carved into the foundation of Sylnan’s mind with precise and upsetting clarity, a dizzying black helplessness and a sweeping sense of fragility. He absentmindedly kicks some broken glass across the street. It’s glittery.
Br'aad’s birthday is coming up, he thinks, as his breath falls white into the cold air.
He should get him something nice. They’re not as hard for cash as they usually are. He’s been playing with that kazoo thing a lot these days.
Maybe some kind of flute? It’d be hard to find something like that here, though, he muses. And if Sylnan wants to afford something like that, he’ll have to take on a few more jobs at the Guild.
A flute, he thinks. He sticks his hands in his pockets, calms the tremor in his fingers, turns the image over in his mind. It’d have to be second-hand, of course, but Br'aad wouldn’t mind.
That would… make him happy, wouldn’t it?
The heels of his boots make scraping sounds on the cobble street. He said he’d be home around seven today, so he has about three hours to not make an oath-breaker out of himself.
The path to the nearest sewer entrance slopes downward. He never liked the sewers. Especially on days as almost-cold as this. They were warmer than the streets and half as bright, long-winding and mazelike. It was easy to get in and hard to leave.
The Thieves’ Guild is a golden warm room, full of alcohol and enemies and friends. The prospect of being shanked probably shouldn’t be so reassuring, but it is, and Sylnan grabs a clear drink off the splintered bar from Half-face Maud and his favorite table from some unsuspecting newbie kid.
“And then the wench said– Oh, Sylnan!”
Sylnan turns to look over his shoulder and the smile on his face makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Ugarth!”
He’s sitting at a table with his feet up on another chair, a game of poker in front of him and a beer in his hand. “What’re you doin’ here, huh? Thought you were taking the day off.”
“I was,” he says, “But the cold scared all the marks right off of the streets. Don’t suppose you’ve heard of any quick jobs?”
Ugarth gets this look on his face, narrowing his eyebrows and sitting up ever so slightly straighter. This is the look he always gives Sylnan when he thinks he’s being reckless or dumb or overworking himself. Which is unfair, ‘cause he’s not doing any of those things right now. “Well,” he says slowly, “Suppose I have, but– why d’you want to know? Thought you were doin’ alright this month.”
“Br’aad’s birthday is coming up soon.”
It’s not really an answer, but Ugarth sighs nonetheless and points over to a well-dressed man stood needle-straight in the vague proximity of the fireplace. “Merchant-y fella over there has been lookin’ all shifty for a moment now. Reckon he could use a favor.”
Sylnan sighs, and a little bit of the wire-frame tension in his shoulders leaves. “Thanks, Ugarth.”
“Yeah. See ya ‘round, Sylnan.” That’s what Ugarth says when he means be careful, and some part of him winces. He’ll be careful. He’s always careful. Sylnan is the responsible one.
The firelight sharpens the merchant guy’s face like the colorful masks of market-square actors. He’s a gaunt sort of man, scarecrow-thin arms under his heavy red cloak and a nervous look in his eyes. Ugarth was right, he thinks. This is the kind of fellow with a job. And if he’s lucky, it’ll be an easy in-and-out information-type gig. That’s what merchant guys typically want.
And he’ll be back by seven.
The lateness of the night pulls the color from the leaning houses and stony streets. The air is fog-silent pale, quick-leaving and luminous.
Also, his feet hurt.
It’s to be expected, of course, he’s been running around all day and sneaking and stealing. He’s tired.
It’s probably somewhere around two in the morning. And not seven. He kinda hopes Br’aad’s asleep by now; he says he gets worried when Sylnan doesn’t come home on time. He shouldn’t be, though, because Sylnan’s careful.
Really careful, he thinks, and ignores the sting of a new cut on his side. It’s not too deep, anyways, and the blood on his hands isn’t only his own.
And besides, now he’s got eight silver in his pocket and the heat of his hands to keep him company as he walks through the blank gray streets.
What did Br'aad say about the guy at the docks and Sudai again?
Something about trees. Hm. Sylnan’d like to see that, one day.
Yeah. One day, he thinks as he rounds the corner. That’s a concept that’s always been good to them.
The feeling of the road sloping upwards under Sylnan’s feet tells him he’s on his way home. He hums to himself; some old lullaby he can barely remember. He doesn’t even remember the words.
He ducks slightly through the doorway and up the brittle, rusty stairs. Br’aad’s asleep in the corner when he slinks in, and there’s a rush of relief and guilt in equal measure.
He looks so young.
Sylnan sighs to himself slightly. He lies down to sleep as the moonlight bleeds through his eyelids.
One day, he thinks. Ha. Fuck that.
Right now. Just remember everything about right now.
Somehow the weather is worse today.
It isn’t raining. It looks like it should be raining, and the world is tense with anticipation, with the promise of a good storm– but nothing. But there’s nothing.
He stands at the corner again. There aren’t any tourists and there aren’t any travelers and there’s nothing to be gained from standing around.
The road slopes downward, Ugarth gives him that same look, and the air tastes like smoke.
This time, it’s a lady of the night with a big smile and red hair and a grudge to settle. She calls him honey and tells him that a client of hers has missed a payment or two; she taps her long black fingernails against the counter and says that she just wants her money– with a little interest to compensate for the trouble.
Sylnan gets paid in four silver and a black eye, courtesy of the client, but it's a quick job and he’s on his way back home earlier than he’d said. The roads are dirty and full of squished, slushy snow. The sky is almost cold and still so very gray.
Not cold enough, he thinks. If it were colder it wouldn’t be slush. It would just be ice.
Sylnan stares at his boots like they’ll magically clear the skies and the bruise from his face. He almost doesn’t wanna go home, because Br’aad’s gonna get that distressed look, and then he’ll be all quiet, and–
And then Sylnan looks up and finds himself in front of a warmly-lit familiar shopfront. Shit, he thinks. He didn’t know bad weather made him nostalgic.
Baker Huang really ought to know better by now. It has been so long.
The bread is warm in his hands. From here, he can see the sea, wine-dark below the city, speckled with little white flashes of ships. He hums to himself as he walks. It’s nice, he thinks, to be so high up. You can see everything from here.
The road slopes upward, the world seems a little brighter, and Sylnan smiles as the rusty spiral stairs creak, but–
Br’aad’s not there.
… He’s probably watching the ships down at the docks. Sylnan walks over to their ratty sleeping-bag-blanket pile— the only part of the factory only slightly protected from the wind— and takes a bite out of his stolen loaf.
He wishes it were warmer.