Sketch: Streets

Hopefully I can get to more regular updates soon - until then, here's an older bit of prose I've written in which Noira makes a friend...

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The long nights still troubled Noira. Her own thoughts would bind her as the workshift came to a close, her feet pulled down along the circuitous halls, her eyes following the tangled, blooming patterns in the carpet, weaving through each other like so many gilded vines. Ornate chandeliers dangled overhead, saturating the corridors with warm auburn hues. She would circle back to rooms she’d seen before, under the pretense of exploration, or a fancy for any one office in particular; she would fascinate herself with the homogenous styling of the building, repelled by the stairwells that would take her down to the lobby, down and out the front doors, onto the cold stone streets, the streets which wound down and down and down towards her apartment, nestled among lush, towering residences, glittering in the streetlights like empty glassware.

Eventually the chronometer in the foyer below would chime, sometimes an hour since she’d clocked out, and she would force herself to collect her things, draping her thick petra about her shoulders, clutching her satchel tightly as she followed the dreadful stairs to the ground floor. She would bid farewell to the receptionist, clinging to precious seconds of conversation before the biting cold would beckon from beyond the threshold, and she would turn to brave the journey home.

As the chronometer marked an hour and a half since her shift had ended, regret gnawed in her stomach. This was the latest she’d ever stayed, pretending to be engrossed in some older technical documents in one of the records rooms, so captivating as to require a little extra delay — then a little more, and more, until finally the churning knot in her chest, not the chronim, compelled her to return to her desk, possessed by that awful quiet panic that bubbled through her veins. Hurriedly she stuffed her notes and tools into her pack, pushing her arms through the coat and slinging the load over her shoulder as her feet carried her down the hall.

Arriving at the bottom of the stairs, the icy grip on her heart tightened; the receptionist was gone. His shift had ended, or he was on break, or he was receiving at the telegraph; in any case, nothing remained to keep her from tumbling out the magnificent wooden doors, nearly sprinting into the night.

It had been an eternity since Rosa had dipped beneath the horizon; in some part of her mind, Noira knew this was the fourth or fifth round of the night. The midnight air was the icy sea; jagged floes cutting at her ankles and wrists and her cheeks as she stumbled down the street, willing her petra to swallow her whole. Alleys gaped in her peripheral vision, dark maws like the mine, or cast in amber light from streetlamps, flickering like the corridors of Ark Royal, frozen wind howling like the sea rushing beneath her, the crashing of waves against the lifeboat, her footfalls ringing in her ears like cannonfire.

The core of her mind knew what was happening, but those clearer thoughts drowned in the turbulent smoke of panic. A streetlamp filled her vision, and it was not orange like the flame, or red like the blood, or gold like the klaxon; it was white: brilliant, blinding white, the eyes of the Founder piercing her soul, stripping flesh down to bone until she stood bare before it, her heart beating in the open, glowing as the waves closed around her, washing the soot from her skin and freezing her solid.

She sobbed into her gloves, the petra coarsening as it grew damp. Her heart still pounded in her chest as she sat against the icy stone, taking in shuddering breaths as the episode gradually passed, doing her best to quench the fires still singeing her nerves.

“Hey?”

Noira startled, her head jolting up as her eyes swept the alley.

“Oh! Hey, I’m sorry — are you alright? I wasn’t trying to scare you!”

A woman stood hesitantly at the mouth of the alley, peeking around the corner of the tall, stone building. Noira could see long, dark hair, and deep, dark eyes, reflecting the soft light from the street. At once she was aware of her own appearance: curled into a dark street corner, very lost and, until recently, entirely inconsolable. She raised her voice in reply, projecting a poor impression of composure.

“Oh, hi,” she managed, rubbing freezing tears from her cheeks. “I’m okay, I’m just…I’m a bit lost, I think. I…” She searched for words. “I didn’t mean to come down this way.” Her voice still trembled, and she could see the concern in the woman’s eyes.

“Okay, well,” the woman paused, taking in Noira’s condition. “If you want, I can try and help you get back? I don’t know where you live, of course, but…” There was a light, playful melody to her voice, and Noira perceived a hint of laughter in the last few words. She sat upright, idly checking that she still had her bag as she responded.

“I don’t...think I want to go home right now, actually.” She held her satchel near her chest. “Is anything open right now? Maybe a library, or somewhere I could stay for a little while?”

The woman’s eyes lit up. Noira saw, as her eyes adjusted, that she couldn’t have been much older than herself. “I could take you to Mr. Bavari’s shop! I was just leaving, but he keeps it open through most rounds of the night. I can get you something to drink, too, if you want.”

Noira took a deep breath. “Sure,” she managed. “Yeah, that sounds good. You said it’s nearby?”

“Yeah, I just came from there — it’s just a couple of blocks back up the road.”

“Okay.” She rose unsteadily to her feet, the midnight chill once again permeating her clothing. “Thank you, I appreciate it.” She glanced behind her, down the dark alley, before turning back to her new acquaintance. “I’m sorry if I worried you, I…I get anxious at night, sometimes.”

“It’s alright! I just wanted to be sure you weren’t hurt or anything. I bet you'll like Bavari’s place; I’ve always liked spending the night rounds there.”

Noira pulled her coat closer to her body, stepping out of the shadows of the alley to meet the woman in the street. She could see her much better now; she had a long, narrow face, with dark features; her eyes were bold, but had the same playful light as her voice. Long, black hair was tucked away into an ornate shawl that sat in bundles on her shoulders; beneath that, a stylish petra overcoat which seemed much warmer than her own. They studied each other for a moment, before the woman abruptly remembered something.

“Oh! I haven’t even introduced myself — I’m Maliyah.” She held out a gloved hand.

“Noira,” she replied, taking Maliyah’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Same to you!” She cracked a broad smile, glowing in the amber light.