#|stories

He was woken from his shallow dream by a knock on the door. It was almost so timid at first that he wasn’t certain he had heard it but after a pause–checking that this was the correct place?--it sounded a couple more times and heftier. Rising to his feet, he stole a glance at the pair of bowls waiting dutifully beside his pot of freshly brewed tea–a reminder of home. And now another had arrived. Subtly, the barest smile gathered upon his lips as he went to greet his visitor.

Millet sizzled softly over the flame, its fragrance intermingling with milky butter and fat. In the quiet, this was accompanied only by the scrape of the small wooden spatula in Jikhüüngerel’s hand. Time passed unnoticed as he prepared the mixture at leisure, his patience easily lent by the comfort of such smells and motion; he could nigh taste it all already. With each passing moment did he savour the near future. He reached for water first, then milk, stirring now with a ladle, morsels of dried meat, and finally the tea itself to become a greater sum. Slowly, it was as though the warmth was expanding from this pot before him, and if he closed his eyes, he could be anywhere he wished. With anyone.

From the same windows–and sometimes rooftops–Jikhaa perceived the comings and goings of residents and officials alike. It had been many years since he began his watch here. Often now he could discern them by the way they carried themselves, regulars from occasional visitors, locals from foreigners. It was the wealthy egos who stood out the most, they who did much standing or brisk walking. They reminded him of a land far from Hingashi, and frequently were they the ones with targets on their backs, he the one who sought them.

He didn’t much like hail the way he didn’t like the rain. It was as though the clouds were pelting them with rocks rather than water, except they also then rolled into unexpected places and melted. But safely indoors, merely observing from behind closed windows, whether it rained or hailed made little difference to him. Sometimes he would reach out and catch tiny orbs of ice in his palm or pluck than from the tiles. They rattled together like beads, fragments of a sky out of reach, and slowly they dissolved in his warmth.

All it had taken was a twist of his body, lance an extension of his arm, a wide arc of heavy metal, muscle, and momentum. The sound of his opponent collapsing to the ground followed a sickening crunch and a yelp. An accident. He immediately retreated, mindful of retaliation but more so wary of the situation. Harm he meant but not quite like this. For a few long seconds silence fell between them. Then footsteps. Casually he made to simply pass as though no one at all lay in his path, his weapon at rest along his arm. “That’s it?” He glanced back at the source of the voice, meeting a wrathful eye for only a moment before nonetheless taking his leave.

On the steps outside, Jikhüüngerel’s gaze fell upon a commotion unusually underfoot. It took him the barest moment to realise that there were gold coins scattered in every direction, presumably belonging to the smartly-dressed gentleman scrambling to scoop them back into a large purse–as well as the strangers doing the very same alongside him. Jikhaa hardly paused to watch. He picked up one of the coins and slipped away into the afternoon light.

Intermission. Half the audience remained in their seats while the rest meandered through the aisles to the doors. Merchants hawked their wares from the concourse, their voices miniscule amidst the bustle and echo. He remained in shadow by the back wall, content to visit only story, not people who were people. After all, he could have his fill of fantasy elsewhere and there was but one person of import here.