Chapter Text
No, not under the vault of alien skies,
And not under the shelter of alien wings
— I was with my people then,
There, where my people, unfortunately, were.
--Anna Akhmatova, Requiem
They’d taken his name. In truth, they had taken everything, but his name was the bitterest loss. Had he been considering the scenario academically, as a thought exercise in his mother’s war room perhaps, he would have guessed that it would be his sword. They showed him his sword sometimes, as a taunt he guesses, but their ugly grind of a language is still so incomprehensible that his ignorance shields him from what he supposes is the worst of it.
It still pains him; seeing his mother’s father’s sword carted around by these barbarians - at one juncture he had seen one of them idly using the flat of it to provoke one of the mules into moving more quickly. He seldom lets his temper rise from between his teeth, but he’d bellowed in rage at the indignity of his family legacy being used to provoke a beast of burden. They’d learned early, however, to secure him thoroughly and consequently he wasn’t able to do more than writhe in his constraints. They’d laughed at him, of course.
But no, the sword wasn’t the worst loss. He wasn’t sure if it was that their tongues couldn’t wrap around Shin - the inelegance of their language unable to parse the delicacies of pronunciation - or merely that they thought to own him better by changing his name and sending him careening even further from everything he had known. But they didn’t shy from using their whips or the ends of their spears when he did not rise to or acknowledge their name for him. So he was Shane. He found the name horribly liquid in the centre; missed the sound of Shin; concise, concrete.Sometimes he tried to say it as they did, but it always sat on his tongue like spoiled natto.
“Shane” says one of them to him, then a string of mostly incomprehensibility, but he picks up the word he’s begun to recognise as ‘come.’ It’s the giant one, tall and thick with muscle, the one who they use to wrestle him down when they need to. Shane can barely sort through the way these men name themselves, but this one is called, he thinks, Marlow.
Marlow is adjusting the ropes which have kept him bound to the back of the cart, untying them so that he is holding the end of Shane’s leash in his hands instead. They have been travelling for weeks through this forest - it could possibly even have been a month since they made Shane turn his back to the sea and the last slim hope of fighting his way back home, and made him walk behind their supply wagon, tethered like a badly bred dog.
Shane hadn’t been paying attention to his surroundings; interest dulled by endless days of unchanging dark and clustered trees, or staring tiredly at the back of the wagon, but now that Marlow is pulling him firmly behind him he can see that they have come to a fortress of sorts - or perhaps a small compound. It’s even more primitive than he had come to expect from the people of this land - some of the walls of the compound seem to be nothing but firmly stacked earth. Shane aches, suddenly, with longing for the clean lines of his family’s courtyard and the blossoms in spring, even as he is tugged through the jagged wooden gates; feet sticking slightly in the mud that is always present.
Some of the other soldiers who had been accompanying the group jostle past and around him, but aside from differing hair colours he can tell few of them apart with their strange thin faces and towering builds. Marlow he could pick out only as he was a head again taller than the rest, and primarily in charge of his care, such as it was.
Shane’s skin prickles as he tries to avoid the eyes of people within the compound; from the corner of his vision he can see glimpses of women and children. Even without meeting their eyes he can feel them staring; the weight of their attention glazing over him like honey. He hates this; hates them. With their too pale eyes and hair they look like ghosts, all of them. Like something that could crawl out of a grave and snatch you into the underworld. Inhuman.
He will not give them his regard. He’s a warrior, not a kabuki dancer. They aren’t owed his attention and he would probably get beaten if he met their eyes with the defiance and anger he’s unable to convincingly keep out of his expression. Instead he fixes his gaze on Marlow’s back as the man strides towards the tallest building in the centre of the complex. It is stone and towering, put together with more care and precision than he has seen in this land previously, and seems to be where the majority of the strangers gravitate to.
Marlow slows, and Shane would only have adjusted his gait in compliance and stayed slightly hunched in on himself, hiding every thought that threatened to roil across his face like a typhoon, if he hadn’t caught a glimpse of the legs of a horse with the cleanest lines he has ever seen. His preferred mount back home was well bred for stamina, but unflashy compared even to his contemporaries - he was fond of her, small and squat and almost as stubborn as he was. He has seen some of the mounts here; taller and longer than the squat horses he was used to, and much more than their architecture, or food, or language, they impressed him despite himself.
He doesn’t really register the voice that caused Marlow to stop, but he can’t help but lift his gaze to look at the horse. It’s beautiful; black and sleek as calligraphy ink. The perfect amount of muscle, the frame more slender than he’s used to seeing, but undeniably powerful. This horse would make his little Loon look like a mountain pony. He’d heard that sometimes the natives of this land would trade with the Mongols for their horses, and he is sure that this horse must have some of that ancestry. This is what he’s thinking when he raises his eyes to glimpse the horse’s face, but instead he encounters the eyes of its rider.
The palest eyes he has ever seen, even in this land. The stranger’s attention is sharp and immediate, and Shane can’t look away. The man is young, he thinks, although it is hard to judge as unused as he is to the look of these people. His hair, too, is light; it’s a silvery blonde that glints in contrast to his horse's coat. He looks almost as though he is a statue made of porcelain, but the expression crowding his face makes Shane think of steel instead.
Marlow had been speaking, and this man too, but the stranger stops and Marlow’s words stutter off into nothing as Shane is pinioned under the weight of this man’s gaze. He is studied for moments longer, moments which feel frozen in time, and something snaps out of the man’s mouth as he looks at Shane. Marlow says nothing and the man’s gaze does not stray from Shane, so he guesses that the question or common is meant for him, but it’s nothing he has any hope of understanding.
The few words he has picked up out of necessity and self defence are limited to simple things barked at him that are to be complied with; stop, come, eat, and other orders of the like. Whatever this man had said did not contain them, he thinks, so Shane says nothing. The man does not repeat himself, but scowls down at him. Shane doesn't move, or attempt any of the barbarian words, or drop his stare. After a small amount of time he can hear Marlow start shifting on his feet; nervously he thinks. The man’s eyes narrow fractionally before he smiles suddenly. It is not a kind smile. Shane thinks he is amused, but cannot fathom what has entertained him about this exchange. The man laughs quietly and finally shifts his attention back to Marlow. Another sentence, brief this time, slips from the stranger’s lips and Marlow makes a low noise before simply saying “Shane.”
Shane looks at him, waiting for a command, or a gesture to offer him direction, but Marlow isn’t looking at him. Instead, the man leans down and grasps Shane by the chin firmly; forcing his gaze back to his face.
“Shane.”
The way the man says this name, while gripping his jaw, feels like lightning. Shane isn't sure why it sounds a little more like his name than when the others have parroted it at him, but it does. He does not know what compels him, but he opens his mouth and firmly says to the man.
”Shin.”
The man’s smile grows wider, and wetter, and he laughs again.
“Shane”
He says again, and Shane moves to correct him again, but barely exhales before the man adjusts his grip on his face.He doesn’t quite touch Shane’s mouth, but lifts a finger to sit just under his lip. It feels like a warning, albeit a more gentle one than Shane expects this man usually would offer. So, Shane closes his mouth. The man hums - in approval?- and removes his hand from Shane to swing back to himself. He puts the hand to his chest and says a single word. It’s nothing that he recognises. When Shane doesn’t respond, the man frowns. He pats his chest and repeats the word. It’s a slick sounding word, crowding in the back of the man’s throat. When Shane does not react, the man points at Marlow and says only
“Marlow.”
He then points at Shane and says “Shane.”
Brings his hand back to his chest and says the slippery word again.
A name, Shane thinks, feeling slow. Perhaps a title, but he thinks it is a name.The man seems to be waiting and Marlow's nervous shifting gets louder, so with some trepidation Shane licks his lips and does his best to repeat it back.
“Eeleeya”
It’s alien; nothing remotely like a proper name.It falls off his tongue like a drunkard into a river. He’s not surprised when Marlow snorts at the attempt, but the man doesn’t laugh. Just says it again, softer and more slowly. Ah, Two syllables, not three then, Shane thinks. So he tries again.
“Ilya?”
The expression on the man…. on Ilya’s face is almost celestial. He makes a noise which is a cross between a hum and a purr. Regards Shane a moment longer. Then turns back to Marlow who has been watching them worriedly and unspools a long torrent of words at him.
Marlow scowls blackly, starts to shake his head, raise some kind of a protest, but Ilya presses on until Marlow’s anger turns into defeat. He looks between Ilya and Shane, meeting Shane’s eyes in a rare instant of connection, before groaning and handing the end of the rope to Ilya. Ilya instantly winds it around his fist, drawing Shane closer to him out of necessity. Marlow throws his now empty hands above his head and mutters darkly before stalking away from them. Ilya laughs again and Shane watches the last wisp of familiarity he has in this place disappears into the press of humanity.
Ilya had dominated his attention so thoroughly that he had not realised that a small crowd had formed, staring at the tableau that they had staged. As soon as he notices, hears the quiet smatterings of what he thinks must be commentary, Shane flinches. It must be obvious as Ilya says his name sharply, pulling Shane’s attention from the audience and back to him. Whatever Ilya sees in his face must displease him as he looks suddenly thunderous. He snaps something low and harsh,and people startle and start moving.
With the same hand that is gripping Shane’s restraints, Ilya reaches down slowly and deliberately, and gently pats Shane’s hair; tousling it slightly. Shane wonders if Ilya pets his horse like this, and scowls ferociously up at Ilya, jerking away. The man doesn’t backhand him for his insolence but, maddeningly, laughs again, high and bright and wild. He drops his hand, smiling, and directs his horse with his knees. The horse gently starts moving and Shane is forced to follow them both deeper into the compound.