Chapter Twenty-Three Running Alone
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RUNNING ALONE
T HEIR KATAKA FLAT had always been abysmally small, no more than an inkblot on the canvas of Setgad, yet it seemed absurdly vast and empty to Lythlet in the days that followed, she alone amongst the gazette-and-straw-laden floorboards.
After Desil left her, she had stumbled home and fallen upon her sleeping pallet, exhaustion pulling her headfirst into a dreamless black ocean. A new day had begun by the time she opened her eyes, Desil’s pallet untouched.
As the days drew on, the seasons graying beyond the windows, it would remain untouched.
At first, she thought to give him time alone, so that they could temper their moods, but she started worrying about him after a week, when there was no sign of him returning.
She went to The Steam Dragon in search of him, and while feeding Runt—who was undergoing a miraculous growth spurt, more than quadrupling in size—Lythlet learned from Madame Millidin that Desil had requested time off. His other workplace, the metalworks, informed her he’d done the same.
Her last hope was the Homely Home, but she went there only to learn she’d just missed him.
“He came for a spot and played with the children, but went off soon after,” Naya said, looking more frazzled than usual, curls escaping the knot tied at the nape of her neck. “He seemed in a glum mood, truth be told. Is all well?”
Lythlet evaded the question, looking around the Home. It seemed quieter than usual, with only a couple of children playing in the courtyard. She had nothing to do, and the thought of returning to her empty home depressed her further.
Naya frowned, the weight of her unspoken questions growing, though she was either too polite or too busy to voice them.
“I really must hurry off, but you’re welcome to stay, of course.
Help yourself to some tea over in that corner.
If you need rest, go ahead and borrow my own cot—all the others are taken up by the builders.
They’re so exhausted by work, they can barely get out of bed.
It’s ekelenzi flu season as well, and half of them are coughing up a storm.
I haven’t had much rest thanks to all the caretaking they require—I know it’s not their fault, but I’m plain tuckered out. ”
Guilty about being such a bother, Lythlet assured Naya she could go and attend to more important matters.
Once alone, Lythlet found in the corner a glass jug filled to the brim with a brown tea, loose leaves settled at the bottom, and poured some into a chipped mug.
With a sip, she placed the ingredients: opalten leaves brewed with longan honey.
Lythlet set her mug down, mood shifting down even more dismal paths.
Desil would sometimes make her this tea during her bloodsweek to help her cope better with the cramps.
She hadn’t even meant to conjure the memory of him up, but so entwined were their lives, it was impossible to avoid thinking of him.
The urge to cry sprang up—she felt like a storm-tossed ship drifting in the boundless seas without an anchor.
· · ·
T HE CITY HAD never seemed so vast before, so filled with unknown nooks and crannies.
Desil had vanished for a month now, the Harvest Holiday finally beginning.
Lythlet was sitting by the ledge outside her flat, legs dangling a hundred arm-spans off the ground, twirling the invitation card for the next match between her fingers.
She rested her chin on the railing, staring at the sunset drowning the city in a sea of autumn orange.
A cool breeze engulfed her. She ought to fetch her cloak, but she felt too miserable to move.
She had always thought herself a solitary creature, but it seemed even she had her limits, and she had crossed them violently.
The rope ladder twitched.
She eagerly leaned over the edge, hoping it was Desil coming home at last. But to her surprise, it was Shunvi ascending the ladder, pausing to wave at her before latching his hand back on a rung. She waved back, confused, but glad for any companionship.
“Are you well, Lythlet?” he said once he arrived, wiping sweat from his brow. “I wanted to check on you. The river match was simply awful.”
“I feel better. I’ve been resting as much as I can, and the root has done much for my healing.”
He sat down next to her, the closest contact she’d had with any other person for the better half of that month. “I’m glad to hear it.”
On a hunch, she asked, “Did Naya send you here?”
He smiled. “I’m not her errand boy, if that’s what you mean. But she did mention you were distraught last you met. We were worried about you, Naya and Ilden and me.”
“I’m fine,” she promised, a lifeless assurance.
“Has Desil been taking care of you?”
She hesitated. “I haven’t seen him since the last match,” she said at last, tense.
Shunvi looked taken aback. His lips parted, questions ready to spring forth, but it seemed he read her stiff demeanor well enough to leave the matter alone. He glanced around awkwardly before nodding at her hands. “What’s that you’re holding?”
She stilled her idle twirling of the cardstock, holding it out to him. “My invitation to the ninth match,” she said bitterly.
“It’s in two days,” Shunvi said. “Will Desil return by then?”
She avoided his gaze, glancing dourly at the sheets of autumn leaves coating the ground far below. According to the rules, her sole presence would not suffice. She would be disqualified once and for all, and the Golden Thorn would recede from the public eye.
Shunvi exhaled, then clapped his hands together to break the awkward silence.
“Are you to be all alone for the Harvest? That simply won’t do.
Why don’t you come up and visit Ilden and me?
It’s a long journey to Northeast on foot, but I know a shortcut through Inejio.
If we leave now, we’ll arrive at midnight, and you could stay the night. ”
Lythlet contemplated the offer. It was charity, plain and simple, and she was such a proud creature, her first instinct was to refuse.
But the loneliness had grown unbearable, the weariness of returning to a quiet, empty home day after day twisting her neuroses down paths of endless rumination and regret.
So, with a weak smile, she nodded gratefully.
· · ·
T HE P OET AND the Ruffian’s house was a testament to the riches of Northeast, a pristine white building that would be burglarized thrice a week if it were in the Southern sectors.
“May the Maker unmake you; you certainly know how to show up uninvited,” greeted Ilden, jabbing her arm playfully. “I jest, I jest. You’re always welcome around here, Lythlet. Doubly so if you ever got Naya to come along with you.”
Shunvi waved him down. “She’s staying the night,” he explained. “We’ll watch the parade tomorrow and give her as good a tour of Northeast and Central as we can.”
He showed her to her room, and though grateful for his hospitality, Lythlet slept fitfully, plagued by a recurring dream of a swarm of lightning-bees trapping her inside her empty kataka flat, the dark wooden walls closing in like a coffin slamming shut.
· · ·
T HOUGH D ESIL WAS nowhere to be seen, there were memories of him to be found everywhere, phantom images flashing in and out as she went about her day.
During a breakfast of fried eggs drizzled with soy sauce lying atop bowls of pork porridge prepared by the men, Lythlet watched enviously as Shunvi and Ilden swapped Harvest gifts with each other: a matching pair of handsomely jeweled hairpins they immediately fastened above their ears.
It was a Harvest tradition inspired by the tale of General Lauturo and Lieutenant Jinvi, and any two friends who considered themselves kindred spirits partook in it to show their camaraderie.
“Desil and I do that, too,” Lythlet said softly, reminiscing as she stared at the white-gemmed pin resting above the curl of Shunvi’s ear. “Every Harvest since we met. But our pins aren’t so pretty—they’re simple copper pins we reuse every year.”
“Cheer up!” said Ilden, who was one of those misguided fellows yet to learn those words were never helpful. “You’ll find Desil soon, and then you can wear all the pins you like.”
Shunvi jabbed him in the side. “Be a little more sensitive.”
“Ah? Ah! Ah...does she want me to hug her or something—”
“No, I do not want you to hug me,” Lythlet said crossly, very embarrassed by this ordeal.
“Oh, thank the Sunsmith.” Ilden breathed out in relief. “I’m no good at this. Shunvi, you cheer her up. I’ve got to get ready.” He dashed away to his bedroom, returned ten seconds later to retrieve his forgotten indoor slippers from underneath the table, then finally left for good.
“I could take mine off if it bothers you.” Shunvi gestured at his hairpin.
It matched his Harvest outfit perfectly—a traditional Oraanu silk robe with long, hanging sleeves, midnight blue with a golden floral print, a broad sash fitting him snugly around the waist, the low neckline exposing his strikingly white clavicles.
Shunvi’s monstrously fluffy white cat, General Meowturo, sprang upon his shoulder just then, batting the hairpin with its mitten-like paws.
“Naughty general,” he scolded, planting the cat onto Lythlet’s lap. It sat obediently but continued staring at the hairpin as if it were a lightning-bee it simply had to squish.
She shook her head. “I’m just being silly. Pay no mind to me.”
“Absolutely not,” he said graciously. “You’re in our care today, and I intend on making your first visit to Central as enjoyable as possible.”
She smiled gratefully, petting General Meowturo.
· · ·