[Ramifications for a Working Girl -The Scales Part Eight]
That evening's shift was not so much like others - Aya usually found work pleasant, if not enjoyable. She shared in the fun, sometimes commiserated with the sorrows, and just did her best to spread good cheer. But tonight's cheerful smiles were met with an altogether less welcome response. The regulars were as they usually were, to them she was not just staff but friend, but among the routine local customers things were not as well.
Leers were simply part of the job description, but they had never felt so malicious. She could hear the murmurs as they conferred among themselves, casting averse glances. It was a wonder with what rapidity and speed word and rumor spread through the Jewel of the Desert.Â
Tips were light, at best - some customers declined service just to place their orders directly at the bar, bypassing the barmaid and her livelihood. Others looked askance, "Better double-check your change..." suggested one to another. Even merchants, with their regular contact with foreigners of all sorts, were not immune to the sudden air of anti-Ishgardian distrust and paranoia.
The worst came from a group of laborers—she approached their table with the same bright, cheerful smile she usually carried as she bounced between the bar and tables during her shift. She hadn't let the energy in her step diminish, or the brightness of her smile fade: it was the only confrontation she could manage. "Good evening, and welcome to the Quick Sand! What can I get for you?" she asked in her light, Ishgardian tone.
One of them looked up to her, with displeased eyes. "We know you; why don't you just hurry up and go back home? Leave us alone—we don't want you and your dragons." He shook his head with an air of great frustration, "Look, we want the Miqo'te lass. Send her over."
The corners of Aya's smiling lips relaxed; the cheer in her eyes barley disguised the up swell of tears behind them. She offered a quick, energetic little nod and turned on her heel. She walked quickly back to the bar, leaning over it to draw closer to Momodi, "They'd like M'areesa to serve them, please." Â
Momodi's little eyes flashed fierce. She had watched all evening, and she knew what was happening. Aya could almost see half-her-mind at work with the desire to send the offending patrons tumbling into the street, but the other-half knew only happy customers were good gil. Aya seemed to be handling things well - Momodi nodded and waved toward the Miqo'te barmaid to hurry on up.
As the kitchen door swung shut, Aya threw her hips against the wall. She was out of sight at last. She pushed her head back. She wanted to scream; instead she squirmed, fingers gripping inconsolately against the wooden texture. The first few words of an Ishgardian curse slipped from her lips, but it was not in her to finish them. For a moment she thought what a wonder it was how quickly poison of the mind took hold.
"Just go back home."
The words rung in her ears. What, did they really think it was that easy? Did they realize that Ishgard was a veritable prison city? Passport required for exit was strictly controlled: those with military, political, or trade purposes could come and go under watchful eyes. Those with influence could concoct a purpose. The masses without simply suffered beneath towers of stone and ice so tall they blocked out the sun. Within walls of stone and ice so thick they blocked out hope. That was life in Ishgard.
That night had been the most frightful of her life; one filled with a full measure of them. Cloak-clad, she carried almost nothing: but all that she would have to start a new life. It was a new moon, the world was dark outside of torchlight. At first the walls had seemed the most insurmountable obstacle, but once they had been scaled, the bridge looked more fearsome yet.  That bridge, that lone standing connection to the outside world, bore the fitting name: "The Steps of Faith".  Each and every step would require faith, but not of the sort intended.  To avoid the watchful gaze of patrolling guards she would soon find herself clinging to the sheer stone face, blasted by howling winter winds. How many others had fallen through the unseeable distance of the Sea of Clouds to their death? How long until she joined them?
Every patrol that approached was yet another occasion to stare death in the face. Each time the calculation grew more difficult: face once more that desperate fear, to cling and hold for dear life just out-of-sight. To pray to whatever gods may be for solace, for strength, for life itself. Or to surrender and pray for mercy. A mercy she knew would not be delivered, but in desperate straits the mind could convince itself of anything just to avoid that return to terror. Again, and again, she chose the struggle for freedom. To prefer the risk of the frigid cold waste, over fear in a holding cell. Better for her bones to succumb to frost amongst others who yearned to breath free, than within the walls of the city.Â
Yet, crossing the bridge had not yet been the end - like the walls before, the danger of the bridge would fade as she faced that of Coerthas' frigid chill. The manner of escape had not allowed for heavy winter travel gear, had she even been able to acquire it. Settlements tempted with their beckoning firelight that teased at ever fainter memories of warmth. She would never know from where she had summoned the perseverance. Perhaps no one really knew in moments like those: frozen night upon frozen night. Days of blowing snow so thick you could barely see the next tree before you, while watching desperately for the lights of settlement to guide the way south, and downward through the frigid highland locked under its permanent shell of frost. A frost that drained warmth, life, and hope in equal measure. Threatening each day, each hour, to end her escape, until the broken expanse of the Northern Shroud opened before her. That sight she had spied so often from afar. That distant clarion call of birdsong that sang of freedom and sunshine. She remembered stumbling into Fallgourd Float. She remembered having made it. She remembered why her parents had so long thought her dead.Â
"Just go back home."
In the kitchen, her cut-off curse still hung in the air. The Ala Mhigan cook turned to look at her, a blade of lemon grass hanging loosely from his lips. "Aya, you okay?" he asked with concern. Aya opened her eyes and looked up, she hadn't even noticed him there, brushing marinade onto sets of Aldgoat ribs. She summoned a faint, difficult smile. "I'm alright Jericho, thank you."
"They giving you trouble out there?" he asked, eyes narrowing slightly as he gestured with his brush-holding hand toward the door. She hesitated for a moment - she never liked to admit trouble, especially publicly. She nodded.
"I'm sorry to hear that. You're a good girl, you know? They shouldn't hassle ya." She smiled a little more, with a little less difficulty. Suddenly she felt the tears that were wet upon her cheeks.Â
"You know, I know you're not like them other Ishgardians. You just keep doing your thing. Them slow ones will remember soon enough."
Her expression softened, but her heart wanted once more to cry. The two of them had been born just several years, and just several miles apart. But she was still the foreigner to him—what hope did she ever have?
"You just come back 'ere if they give you any more trouble. We won't let 'em do not'in, we've got your back." He gave a nod, lips pulled into a confident smirk. that much, was true at least. The kitchen was always refuge. She nodded again, a quiet, "Thank you." escaping her lips.
She pushed the kitchen door open with her hips. Normally when she did so her hands were filled with drinks ready to serve: sweet water, juices, or Champion Chachans she had just mixed, all chilled in the ice-shard boxes in the kitchen. But tonight her hands were filled with something entirely different: concerns and troubles no fruity, fizzy drink would easily dispel.
She slipped behind Momodi, "Madame..." she said so quietly.
Momodi looked back over her shoulder. She was so difficult to gauge. Those fierce little eyes, equally capable of warmth and rebuke. "Aya." she said, a hint of tenderness in her tone. "May I have a break?" she asked, very quietly.Â
"Take as much time as you need." nodded the Lalafel.
Aya slipped back to the kitchen. She put on her long coat, and then tucked her hair once more into her cap. She exited through the back door in the kitchen to escape the patrons in front. As she stepped into the alley that lead to Pearl Lane she wondered for a moment why Momodi had been so quick to let her go. The Lalafel Patroness was ever-sharp for business. Did she prefer her Ishgardian barmaid to disappear to avoid trouble? How long could this last, really? She had been kind to Aya too... she wouldn't let such business get between them would she? Would she?
At least Aya knew where she was going: she had news to deliver to C'kayah. She wondered if, perhaps, she should just throw herself upon him. Forget everything for the evening. It was a day worth forgetting...