ffxivwrite 2021 - #20 Petrichor

Limsa Lominsa, 1567 6AE

The illusion of solitude was easy enough to keep- the heavy wood door admitted little more than the muffled rumblings of voices of passersby and the limestone walls allowed even less- save for two times a day when Corporal Baenblyss came to call. The moment the door cracked open a cacophony of voices poured in from down the hall- as did the stench of sweat and dirt and unwashed bodies that had sat together too long.

Ojene’s nose wrinkled in reflexive surprise. “Sailors?” she asked, but she hardly had to.

“Aye,” Baenblyss conceded, and moments later the bilious croak of an accordion exhaled a noise like a cat being dragged over nails. “They just rolled in from the docks- well after they rolled in from the taverns, most like.” She shot a glance over her shoulder, her toothy grin excavating the caverns a pair of missing molars left behind in her smile. “Here’s supper- but is this going to be enough for ye tonight?” Concern washed through the undertow of Baenblyss’s pale eyes, stained purple like the petals of an iris.

It wasn’t much. A hunk of crusty bread far more rind than substance and a bowl of lumpy gruel, its pale humps interspersed with burnt flakes of black and brown. Far less than the Barracudas normally brought, for on a typical day they set aside for her whatever bits the sailors didn’t eat in the mess hall. But every so often the leftovers ran out, and so her overseers made do with the only thing left- a prisoner’s food.

The irony wasn’t lost on Ojene, but at least the plain teapot beside the bread was sure to be full.

“It’s plenty,” Ojene said, accepting the platter into her arms. “Thank you.”

“They’re from Western La Noscea,” Baenblyss continued conversationally, but she turned her concerned eye in the direction of the ruckus as to the staccato beat of full-chested shouts of encouragement, the instrument heaved in a dissonant catastrophe. “Or were for any rate,” Baenblyss raised her voice to be heard as the accordion at last began to even out into a passable tune. “Them’s some of the number what had their homes wiped out by the sahagin a few moons past.”

Ojene’s heart lurched. “Oh,” she murmured, but the sudden heave of sympathy warred with an urge to burrow safely into the confines of her Barracuda-assigned room. The chance that one of them would recognize her was slim- and yet why risk what didn’t need to be gambled? “Well, I’ll forgive them for their music then,” she added dryly. “Speaking of ships, though-”

“No word on yours yet. But I’m keepin’ an ear out, sure as can be.”

It was still early, Ojene reminded herself, as the door enclosed into her cocoon of silence, shut away from prying eyes as she had been for the last three moons. The Syhrwyb wasn’t due for another week- gods only a week. A peculiar energy sparked through her fingertips as she set her tray down upon the table, easing a splay of leftover papers out of the way. Anticipation, she decided, as she scrubbed her knuckles against her side. Or nerves.

The room was barely different since he left. Repurposed officer’s quarters in a sailor’s barracks, her neighbors were constant transients changing out from one week to the next and her only company was herself. It had suited her well enough. The bed, while stuffed into one corner spanned wide enough for a roegadyn with some room to spare, and the table served well enough as a sitting room and desk. It even had a private bathroom, only big enough for one person at a time, and a tiny kitchen that in truth she hardly used.

In an odd way she’d felt as if she’d fallen into the lap of luxury. Clean water to bathe in and enough food to eat- when she was lucky she’d had that, as hard as it had come by in the last ten years. But the simple fact of having a chair to sit in and a place to sleep? One that was hers- if borrowed. It was a world she’d never thought she’d have again.

But as Ojene liberated a dented spoon from the drawer and sat down to consume her unfortunate dinner, her eyes drifted to the empty chair across from her. And the room, cavernous in its cramped expanse, felt small.

With a prickling sensation, not for the first time she wondered what Sylbfohc would think.

Ten years was, after all, a long time. And their three weeks of reunion had been far too short.

Not for the first time, a hand trailed up to her hair. The strands crimped beneath her touch- short and spiky, but long enough now to budge between her fingers. And quietly, she wondered if he’d like it.

((@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast))