The lights go out and I can't be saved
Tides that I try to swim against
Have brought me down upon my knees
Oh, I beg, I beg and plead …
- Clocks – Coldplay
~Chapter One~
~Beyond Futility~
It was turning out to be a rather bad day for Fabiola.
Partially, but not completely because she had just been stabbed with a fork in the back.
The day had started like any other; waking in that shabby damp little room, falling back asleep and being late for work (which was quite a feat, considering she lived overthe shop), bowing, scraping, and generally ingratiating herself to the well-heeled patrons of the dress-shop in the hope of a better position, and maybe a life.
Which, at seventeen, was really very little to ask.
A stiff smile painted onto her face, she turned to greet the next customer, a fussyyoung woman, twittering on about a wedding dress or some other such frivolous matter. Fabiola feltancient, hearing her prattle with utter sincerity about her fears over the lace on the cuffs, and wondered, for at least the fifth time in the past half an hour, how much longer until lunchtime.
Oh, do shut up, she yawned mentally. Feeling slightly guilty andrealizing that the bride had paused her chattering, Fabiola attempted to snap herself to attention. The young bride was likely just excited, and more than a bit nervous. Harmless, really.
However, the stern mother hovering over her shoulder was another matter.
'Well, why don't you just slip the dress on, there, miss, and we'll see what we can do about it,' Fabiola said, smiling winningly. The bride still seemed peevish, but her mothersoftened.
'Please excuse me just a moment,' Fabiola beamed at the duo, and curtsied elaborately. To anyone less ignorant, the sarcasm and overtly pious manner would have been obvious as disrespect, but this mother was happy to believe the serving girl was humbled by her presence. Stupid stuck up rich girls. Life on a silver platter, and all they needed to make it complete was the "lower classes" to bow and exalt. She had always hated their hypocrisy.
Fabiola maintained the warm smile, as she backed out of the shop to the backroom, covered in swathes of material, looms, thread and haberdashery galore. She crossed without hesitation to the bench and sat down, resting her head on a pile of soft white fabric for a couple of blissful moments, before someone poked her in the shoulder and she had to drag herself back to the door, stumbling gracelessly. She paused at the door and pulled herself erect, pinning the determined smile back on her angular, milk-white face and walked back into the shop to face her doom.
'So, what other type of lace might you require, mistress?'
Fabiola leaned heavily on the counter of the dress-shop, in a rare moment of idleness, and sighed, melancholy invading her every thought. Her eyes seemed heavy as she blinked them, day-dreaming. A sharp smack across the back of the head had awakened her fairly quickly, with a squeak of pain, to leave her formidable superior glaring at her.
'I don't pay you to dilly-dally, girl,' she told Fabiola sharply, her deep voice imperious as always and pointed forcefully to the door into the backroom.
Technically, you don't pay me at all. Technically, you pay the Varden for my service, and I get a few sovereigns a year from them for my keep. And that is, technically, the reason I'm so bloody thrice-damned poor.
Fabiola threw herself down at a bench, and rubbed her already tired eyes. The other women smiled down at her, through their chatter, and she found it in herself to grin back, as the made light conversation in the dark backroom. It was a pleasant, friendly place, and for a few hours, Fabiola felt right she was where she was supposed to be, comfortable in their motherly company.
But that was, of course, before she had been stabbed in the back with a fork.
oOo
It was impossible for a growing young lady with a tragically artistic eye to remain clothed for the few miserly coins the Varden got to her every year. It wasn't that she squandered her money on trifles; expensive clothes, fans, pretty nonsense. But she was a seamstress, and she did have her pride. She wouldn't fashion a dress for herself out of sacking, the best her allowance could give her. Well, she understood at least. It wasn't as if the Varden could afford to splurge with her salary – she was still a child to them, after all. She had three choices.
One was unwise to mention in civilized company, if such a thing existed in Teirm – though mentioning it might have resulted in a few more customers.
One would earn her a quick drop off a high platform – dabbling in stolen goods just wasn't classy.
And the last was degrading, ill-paid and torturously hard when you were a passably attractive young girl with a full working day behind you, and a meagre sum of food to sustain you.
Tavern work.
It was dinnertime, and rowdy as it always was on market day, when Fabiola tied the apron around her waist, and pushed her dark hair behind her ears, willing herself not to pass out in the soup.
'Fab, three stout gentlemen, quick now!'
Fabiola nodded and deftly filled three tankards, pondering deeply to herself how unbelievably pointless this effort was, watching the foam settle on the amber surface.
'Thanksluv,' the drunk merchant slurred at her as she set the beer down. She didn't bother with a reply, and stalked off.
'Oooh, sour puss today, Fab.' The voice behind her sounded amused, but Fabiola scowled.
'Bite me.' she retorted.
Her red-headed friend smirked at her over her own arm full of glasses. Fabiola glared at her for a moment, before sighing, and dumping the dirty glasses she carried behind the bar.
'Lass! Can we get some service here?' she heard the call behind her, and sighed, as she began gathering the dirty tankards.
'You know, sometime I wonder why I bother, Aina,' she told her friend apathetically. Her friend narrowed her eyes.
'Feeling alright, Fab? You look a little pale, and you're acting strange.'
'I know, I know. Not perfect. Just one of those days, I suppose.' She shook her head and shivered, as if trying to shake the odd feeling off while snatches of poetry played in her head. None of them were cheering, and all where only half-remembered.
Her friend patted her on the shoulder.
'Oh, cheer up, you. You bother because there's hope of a better life somewhere, Fab. You bother because we're all girls together, stuck in this one rut. And you bother,' the girl said, winking at the sailor who had just slipped her a sly coin, 'because occasionally the tips are simply excellent. That's a new bonnet for me,' she said happily, slipping the coin down her bodice and patting it affectionately. Fabiola couldn't help but smile.
'Service, please! I don't have all day!'
'Do you want to sit down, Fab? You really don't look well,' Aina returned, looking anxious.
'No, I'm fine, Aina. Besides, this is the only night I'm on this week, and I desperately need a new dress. This one is just worn to rags … The ladies in the dress-shop look at me as if I'm some … common rat, or something.' Fabiola's pallid face flared with shame as she clashed the tankards together to bring them to the kitchens. She hated being spit upon by the privileged folk all around her. Sometimes she wished she had never known respectability, so that she wouldn't have to covet it.
Aina gave her a strange look as she followed her friend through the dank passage where no customers not bent on misdemeanors would venture.
'But love … you are a common rat. That's all you are. That's all you'll ever be. Like me. Like them. Like every poor creature that wanders into places like this, or who has to scrape a living in these streets. We are allcommon rats. Someone's got to be.'
Fabiola stared back, and shook herself, tried to take the comment as kindly as it had been meant. It was nothing less than the truth. Aina went on, gaily scrubbing at the plates.
'Besides, deary, you don't see me complaining!'
'That's because you never do. If you were respectable, you'd never get away with a bodice that racy.'
Aina laughed, splashing Fabiola with the dirty dish-water.
'True. Sometimes it's great being scum!'
oOo
A black eye was the least of Fabiola's worries.
With a sigh, she turned her head slightly to see better her reflection in the cracked glass and sighed again. Never much to look at, that as may be sure … but usually she was in a condition fit to be seen upon the streets without respectable women running screaming from her vile visage.
For pity's sake, Fabiola,she thought wryly to herself, raising a warm sodden rag to her eye, what would your mother say?
Nothing complimentary, that's for sure,she thought, as she gave another weary sigh, and moaned, throwing herself down on her bed, and swearing as she tugged a fork out of her back, tossing it across the room.
Fabiola didn't know how it had gotten there, and didn't particularly care. Whatever gods there were seemed to think her a worthy victim of their twisted humour. She never found it particularly funny.
With a tremendous effort, Fabiola pulled herself up to stow her dark cloak in her hanging closet, and scrubbed ineffectually with her nails at the stiff dried blood-stain across it, before shrugging mentally, wrapping it into a ball and drop-kicking it into the bottom of her press, before purposefully turning her back on it. If she couldn't see it, it didn't have to be there.
That selective vision was a luxury that she was only able to boast of here in Teirm – life was different back home.
She remoistened her rag, and pressed it again to her eye. She was well aware that what she was doing would by no means alleviate any damage suffered to her face, but at that moment in time, buying a steak to stick over her eye was a little beyond her means. Instead she grimaced, and gingerly felt the perforations in her back from the fork, sighing to herself.
It was just her luck. She had been born underneath the proverbial lucky star, she had. "Plain-sailing" as her middle name. Once you ignored the trail of disasters that followed her about continually.
She pulled the wad away from her eye, and blinked experimentally. One opened and closed in good time; the other dragged and blurred, rendering it quite useless. Fabiola pouted, and sat once again upon her bed, before leaning back to stare at the ceiling above her. It was cracked right across, an angry black pucker across the greying and chipped plasterwork. The ceiling of this decrepit hovel she had been bunking in for the guts of four years. She didn't know how she had survived.
At least there was no-one sharing with her. Small mercies were the only things that made her life bearable.
Still, though, she thought, she hadn't gotten where she was by being so negative. Fabiola stared about the cesspit she was trapped in, and wondered whether some rather fine negativity might be the exact thing she needed to kick-start her life again. Maybe, if she was particularly irate and irritating to be around, her miserable life would miraculously turn itself around.
Oh, mother, she suddenly thought desperately to herself, was I that bad a daughter? Did you lose a bet up there to the god of misfortune, and he smote me as a punishment upon you?
Brawls were common in the tavern, a regular occurrence, but usually the maids were able to scurry away before suffering any serious pain. She had been right in the middle of the room when it had started, though, with no escape, except through the fray.
Fabiola took a deep breath. As much as she wanted to wallow in her own misfortune, she knew in the back of her mind that things could be a lot worse. If she thought hard enough, she was convinced she could think up at least three other situations more desperate than hers … if only the effort didn't make her feel so sleepy …
oOo
'But I feel stupid!' Eragon protested in a mumble at Brom, as he was dragged forcibly through the streets. Who knew one old man could possess such an iron-like grip when called to? And he looked so harmless too …
'I really don't care,' Brom told him airily, turning a sharp corner down another street. Eragon stumbled, and blushed.
'A women's dress shop!' he hissed, as if it was a much less respectable establishment.
'Yes?' Brom replied innocently.
Eragon was stumped.
'But we're men! We can't just wander into a women's dress shop!'
Brom took another sharp turn, yanking Eragon after him, who swore colourfully.
'Well, my boy, I did believe that youhad not yet reached your sixteenth birthday yet, but in essence, yes, we are both men. And stop swearing, it's unbecoming.'
Eragon blushed a deeper shade of red, taking umbrage at Brom's comments, but had no time for retribution, or even a decent comeback, being thrown against Brom's side, as he changed directions again, faster than was remotely necessary, and chuckling malevolently at Eragon's clumsiness.
'Besides,' he cut in, 'we are not here to sample the latest fashion for ladies, lad. We are here to find our operative. And he'll likely be hefting boxes, or some other such manual task, so we might be lucky, and not have to enter the shop at all. So stop fretting, you sound like a woman yourself.'
And with that, and another sharp change of direction, Brom dragged Eragon to the front of a modest shop. It had wooden shutters painted an earthy brown colour covering the windows. It was a nice part of town, full of well-dressed people, making Eragon feel even more awkward. He couldn't read the sign painted above the shop in its swirling yellow runes, but he could tell it was something inherently feminine.
He sighed.
Brom strode ahead of him, striding along with his staff down the alley beside the shop, where a burly man stood pulling packages off a hand-cart standing beside the door in the back of the shop. As Eragon followed, the man walked into the shop, hefting a bundle. He reappeared a moment later and stood at the cart. Brom approached cautiously.
'Good day, good sir,' he said confidently, before lowering his voice.
'They say the Menoa blossoms truer now,' he said significantly, winking.
The man looked lost, and turned to Eragon.
'Right, sir … whatever you say,' he said, raising his eyebrows at Eragon and turning back to his work. Brom seemed put out.
'Oh. My apologies,' he said, before turning and trotting back to the main street. He looked disgruntled.
'Well. That's the easy solution gone,' he said, with a furrowed brow.
'And now?'
'And now, we enter within,' Brom told Eragon resolutely, grabbing his arm before the youth could make a run for it, and marching inside.
It was warm, and bustling and smelled like well-groomed women, powdered and rose-perfumed. Rich women.
Eragon sneezed; expensive scents catching in his throat. He blushed at the irritated and scandalised looks and mutters that were directed in their direction. Some women hurriedly gathered fabric up to preserve their modesty, while others shrieked, and toppled off stools. Eragon felt like he was glowing as he stared intently down at his boots, before realising that they were a shabby mess, and blushing redder.
Brom ignored this and drew up to the counter. The middle aged woman behind it glanced up and gave both males a quick once over, looking more than ready to grab each by the scruff of the neck and bodily remove them from the shop.
'Yes, gentlemen?' she said, hesitating, balling her impressive fists. Eragon wondered idly if there were such people as rebel-rousers in dress-shops.
'Ah, the . . . the Menoa blossoms truer now,' Brom tried again, but was met with the same blank expression. He sighed.
'I'm sorry, but might you be able to fetch me the manager of this establishment?'
'I amthe manageress,' the women said proudly, looking very ready to defend her claim, drawing herself up to her full height proudly. Brom cringed slightly.
'Ah … well, then, I – I need to … get a dress for my – daughter and her wedding. Collect it, I mean.'
Brom finished his halting explanation and threw an almost beseeching look at the woman, who pursed her lips disapprovingly.
'When did your daughter order her dress?'
The lies dripped effortlessly from Brom's lips.
'I believe sometime … in the time, last … you know … actually, mistress, I have no idea. You know these young brides …' he trailed off, and spied the book open on the counter with names and measurements written in a copper-plate hand-writing.
'Perhaps it would be in the register,' he suggested, and Eragon guessed he was trying to buy time.
'Ah. Well, in that case – Fabiola!' the woman turned and called someone on the floor.
'She's not here, madam,' a small blonde girl with large blue eyes and a suspicious expression curtsied, pausing in pinning a long gown.
'Well, where is she? Go find her? Why are you not gone? AINA! You're supposed to take care of these things!' the woman shouted behind her and began berating a bored, pale looking redheaded girl.Eragon paid no heed to her shouted instructions.
'What do we do now, Brom?' he asked in a quiet voice. Brom looked skittish.
'He's here, he mustbe here … I need to find him …'
Brom looked about himself in a slightly wild fashion, as the bell over the door rang gaily, and a stooped figure crossed the threshold, led by the little blonde girl, and the imposing woman stopped yelling and looked just mildly cross.
'Fabiola – to your post,' she said, coldly, and the stooping figure, who appeared to be a tall girl skulked forth into the light, her long hair hanging over her face in what must be a thoroughly awkward fashion.
'Look for – what did you say your daughter's name was?' the woman turned, harried to Brom, who smiled.
'I didn't. Her name is … Merlyn,' he decided.
The girl bowed her head obediently as she read the small print looking, futilely, as Eragon knew, for the fabled Merlyn.
A bell sounded, and a whoosh of cold air stung Eragon's neck as the door opening. A large man, dressed in violent colours and carrying several swatches of bright material, entered. While the rest of the women in the shop shrieked again, the formidable manageress' face immediately softened to a smile, and Eragon felt slightly sickened.
'Mistress Goldra!' the merchant boomed. The woman positively beamed.
Brom seized his chance, seeing the girl turning back now a page to check even later dates.
'The Menoa blossoms truer now,' he said, as if to no-one in particular. The merchant frowned at him, and sashayed in front of him to address the manageress, who glared heavily at Brom. Eragon blushed. He didn't hear the sale-girl gasp, so intent was he on his humiliation. She cleared her throat, as Brom turned around to fruitlessly search the faces in the crowded shop.
'Ah, but sweeter still run the waters of the Gaena,' she said quietly. Brom didn't hear. Eragon didn't notice. She sighed, stood up and repeated even louder still.
Eragon didn't even notice what she was saying, as her hair slipped off her face, and the dark shiner around her eye was suddenly visible. He couldn't stop staring at it, even when her mouth puckered with distaste, and her chin tilted proudly upwards, even through her cringe.
Brom stared at her distrustfully for a moment, before she shrugged.
'I merely state a fact, sir,' she said, evenly, and shrugged, but there was a silent plea in her face that Eragon could see clearly, and a fear lurking there too, in the tightness of her grip on the book in her hand, and in the set of her lips.
Whois this? Is this who Brom was looking for? And if so, why?
'Well, my lady, there is no doubt indeed that it does … my lady,' Brom said, courteously, turning to the manageress, who looked stunned, and resentful, 'the price of my lady's absence for the day. She shall be returned to you in no time, in good order, too, I do declare,' he said, and bowed, placing the coins in the greedy palm, and offering the girl his arm. She smiled uncertainly at him, as they swept from the shop, Eragon trotting after them, feeling very confused, little knowing his confusion was but a drop in the ocean to the unassuming seamstress.
oOo
And somewhere, in a castle, a baby cried. A church-bell knelled dolefully in a village, though no-one was there to ring it. In the Varden, a boy coughed feebly, and a nurse shook her head at his older brother, a sad look on her kindly lined face. A glass smashed, a sword clanged, a red egg stirred restlessly …
And miles away, upon his knees, the son of Morzan spat out a mouthful of blood and grimaced, cursing his own bad luck, little knowing how much was in store for the poor, ill-fated tailor of the Varden he would soon meet.
xXx
A/N: First off - Beta read by the lovely DrownedHopes, who is amazing, and we love her. ;)
Second: Hope you like it. It's better now, folks, I promise, because I have !plot! and Daph. Who, as we have said before, is amazing. So, it's all good. I am having a crazy time of life at the moment (e.g: Antigone ... Timpeallacht ... Twilight ... Wesley bag-packing ... Tim Burton ... LAMDA ... Crimbo) but I do hope you enjoy, especially everyone who favourited or reviewed, orwhat-have-you. Tell me what you think of the improved version, loves! -Wraithlike
Updated: 30-5-11