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aeolus-enjoyer · 21 days ago

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yowchie

“Sorry, buddy, not this time.” Their finger gently pushes the toy across the counter, an apologetic smile slightly raising the corners of their thin lips. “The kiddos do love your trinkets, but, you know… Have to feed them, don’t I?” The Ember lingers there for a moment, inhaling the herbal scent one last time before bowing at the person and jumping down begrudgingly from the small box they have been using as a step to reach the counter. A queue seems to have formed while the child was not looking — but all the latter does is grab their sack and hurry away. There is no point in remaining here any longer. The day has come, it seems.

you can read the fic here or below the cut. contains spoilers for the two embers chapter 1

tw/cw: loss, mentions of death, self-harm tendencies

tags: angst, hurt no comfort

Disappear Faster

The kettle whistles softly behind their back, the quiet sound almost teasing, almost mocking. Somebody clears their throat nearby — a person with a coin in their pouch, no doubt, or at least something worth more than a badly painted piece of wood. The noise brings the child to the reality awaiting them outside the shade cast by the tent and the aroma of a freshly brewed drink, the reality that is the insufferably hot sun and the bustling of the market, adults rushing somewhere, children lurking in the corners, eyes fixed on pockets and wallets.

The child sighs, the mere idea of having to walk back in these conditions making them want to lie down and never move again, and reaches for the crabby. Carefully putting it into the bag, they leave their eyes locked on the shopkeeper’s face — those hollow cheeks, sand-coloured eyes, and a never-fading wrinkle on their forehead they know by heart — for any sign hinting at change of heart. They find nothing.

The day has come, it seems.

The Ember lingers there for a moment, inhaling the herbal scent one last time before bowing at the person and jumping down begrudgingly from the small box they have been using as a step to reach the counter. A queue seems to have formed while the child was not looking — but all the latter does is grab their sack and hurry away. There is no point in remaining here any longer.

The sun outside is as scorching and the air as full of dust as they anticipated. They grunt as they adjust the strap of the bag on their shoulder, already chafed from the weight. A couple of elderly people sit on the bench to their left, reminiscing about times when summers were less hot and life less difficult; the young Ember passes them by before merging with a stream of people rushing towards the eastern part of the Last City.

The shopkeeper is not a bad person, they have to remind themself as they clench their fists while manoeuvring through the crowd, inevitably bumping into a person or two, some ignoring them, others muttering something the noise of the sellers and buyers alike makes sure will never reach their ears. The shopkeeper is not a bad person, they repeat to themself as they reach a pipe and place their bag on it to take a breather.

The shopkeeper is not a bad person. They have accepted five toys so far — and considering they have only two children, for whom five playthings are more than enough, and their creator’s work is far from anything better than mediocre (not once has anyone traded anything for those when the child tried to arrange a semblance of a shop of their own: an old faded blanket in the middle of a busy street), they are actually extremely kind.

It really is a shame that kindness is not something one can feed oneself with.

Picking the sack up again — they still have a long way ahead of them — the child climbs onto the lower pipe, takes a few steps to the right where the tubes bend in a way that makes it easier to reach the upper one, and throws their bag up, joining it themself a few seconds later.

A salty breeze blows here; it carries the gentle sound of waves lapping the rocky shore. The Ember peeks over the wall blocking the view and throws a quick glance at the blue water. The beach looks nice. But it is not a place one is supposed to go — they are not even sure there is a road that leads there.

The pipe, having absorbed the heat of the sun, burns their feet, and they set off, wasting no more time. The walk should not take too long: they have learned the distance can be easily made shorter by avoiding the busy streets, which look a bit funny from up here: a pattern of mismatched tents teeming with people. The child wonders, in the back of their mind, whether other settlements are like this, too.

Birds chirp happily in the middle of the path, blocking the Ember’s way. It is lovely to know that someone is able to enjoy the scorching sun, but the child cannot share their pleasure; if anything, even the wind does not prevent sweat from trickling down their face. The creatures should budge — there is no time for their games.

“Shoo!” the child cries, stomping their feet. Alarmed by the sound, the birds scatter in a whoosh of feathers.

Those have a light burning in their chests, they know. It is visible from the outside — many people look at creatures with envy because of it. The Ember themself has done so, too — if they had fire, maybe, things would have gone better…

They sigh and speed up, eyes on the ground, hands clenching the strap of their bag. There was a time, they used to say, when Light was closer. When its vengeful sibling was kept at bay. When things were easier. But that time ended long ago — now, all they have is the pipes and the figure in dark clothes gazing from the posters on every wall. The child does not like those posters: there is something cold in that person, in their gestures and the pitch-black silhouette.

Well, they also have the night that comes suddenly and the crystal that lights up at that — but people never talk about those. Guards frown at you if you try.

The child crouches and glides down onto a large wooden box, jumping on the ground immediately afterwards. It is a lot less crowded here, and the tents are smaller and mostly empty. Walking along the rows of shelters, the Ember catches a glimpse of a small kid drawing something on the sand with a stick and somebody sleeping on a blanket a few feet away. Carefully going around the two, they take a few more steps forward before arriving at their destination.

The sack lands with a loud thump on the blanket under the canopy, and its only owner drops to their knees nearby. Their shoulder is sore from carrying the things around so long, and their stomach rumbles in discontent. It has been doing so rather often lately — tea and biscuits seem not to satisfy it that much. But today, it will not even get those: the day has come when the kind shopkeeper did not accept the child’s creations as payment. Will they have to give away their blanket? Or, perhaps, the broken shoes that are waiting for the winter in the corner of their humble abode? Must they forgo their bag? The little knife?

Will they have to give away the— no. They will not. That is one thing they will never trade, even for a whole feast. They would rather starve to death.

Which appears to be a likely outcome now.

They suck in a deep breath and clench their fists to prevent their eyes from watering. Crying will not help. It never does. People do not give one food if they see tears — they only look with pity or whisper behind one’s back. And that is useless. The Ember has received enough of both; they want no more.

And yet, these thoughts are not enough to keep tears at bay.

They have not traded a single toy today. Even the kind tea-brewer has refused them, for the first time in a while. Kids have walked past. Adults have not bothered looking down. The shopkeeper has apologised — but apologies are not something you can eat or exchange for food. Perhaps, they should try to go to the Gates and sit down there, hoping that one of the well-dressed scholars will give them a little something. It has worked a couple of times before — and they have seen it work when others did it, too. Maybe, it will be more useful than showing up out there with trinkets nobody even wants to glance at.

The child’s hand reaches for the bag almost automatically, without them ever realising they have moved it until the sack lies in their lap, their fingers rummaging in it. At the very bottom — it knows its place: buried deep inside, the base of everything, the one thing they will have even when they have nothing at all — lies a wooden butterfly, the only thing in the bag that was not made by the Ember themself. No, it was someone far more skilled that managed to create it. The child contributed, too — but the role they played in this is not important. Because it was their hands that carved it. It was their hands that ruffled the child’s hair afterwards. It was their presence that turned rain into sun, darkness into Light, pain into joy. It was them that did all of this — and now, they are no longer here.

The child bites their lip to stop a treacherous sob from leaving their throat, eyes misty no matter how often they attempt to blink the tears away. There is no one to dry them now, no one to offer a hug and to whisper It will be okay, even when everything hints at the opposite. There is no one, only the Ember and their bag filled with things they wish could be called toys but that are nothing of the kind. They were so much better at this! They could bring the most soulless rock or piece of wood to life in a few minutes, deft movements of calloused fingers carving a head, a wing, a tail. The Ember would often watch them, fascinated, as they worked, a concentrated look on their face, a gentle smile tugging at their lips. They could make anything — make and then sell it, and bring home food, or clothes, or sometimes, when they said it was a special day, a little something for the child: a ribbon for their hair or some sweets from faraway lands.

It would be so much easier if they were still here. But they were lost. They were lost and taken away by guards before the Ember could see their face one last time. They were lost and taken away, and the bad tall person with a spear hit the child when they would not stop crying and running after them. They still have a trace of that blow on their cheek — it burns in a way tears do.

It was that day that they learnt of the uselessness of crying, people looking at them strangely while they were sitting alone in the middle of the street. They must have spent a whole day there, just sitting and waiting for nothing to come. Though they do not remember it clearly — it seems like the memory is slipping away.

It is not the only one. Recollections of those gentle, even if covered in tiny scars, hands, or that small smile that appeared almost of its own volition, or all the things that they said were important but that the child did not bother trying to listen to until it was too late — all those are starting to fade as well, just like the paint on the only thing left of them after so much touching and hugging and spilling tears on.

It is almost funny that trying to keep something only makes it disappear faster.

It is almost funny that they feel like they are starting to disappear, too.

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