Hunger Pangs
Spring 52 512 AV
‘So, Jonathan here tells us you have been teaching him personally how to blow glass, is that correct Mister Redsun?’
The room was ornate. It was the only word to describe it. The coving stretched round the edge of the ceiling and inwards, curving and curling and twisting and turning and meeting finally at the great chandelier in the centre. There was a grand fireplace reaching across much of the far wall but the heart was empty tonight, the blackened grate covered in the soot of fires past. Even the great, wooden dining table fitted the aesthetic to a tee, its grandiose legs bending in and curving out to end at sturdy, carved paws. Montaine could see his face reflected in its varnished surface. The Foglehorn family was old blood. They claimed heritage from pre-Valterrian aristocracy, though the truth to that claim could doubtfully be proven, yet they still held some substantial political sway. Their house sat among the foothills, isolated as many of the higher class homes were in the city. However, the many fripperies and fineries that graced their dining hall spoke little of their financial situation. These were signs of status, not wealth. Indeed, most of their monetary value was tied up in physical possessions, to the detriment of their wallets.
But status brought advantages that mere wealth could not. The Foglehorn manor even possessed a sizeable chunk of land, a quarter acre at least, upon which they usually grew a small selection of crops. The garden was barren today. When he had been led up the path to the old front doors he had been able to glimpse the yellowed grass. Compton, the sole servant to the house of Foglehorn, had looked so sadly then.
‘Yes, Fo-Jonathan’s a right talent and no mistake Missus Foglehorn,’
Fogle’s parents chuckled quietly. They had called his manner and speech quaint upon his arrival, much to his chagrin. He didn’t feel at home in this cold, cavernous house, so cut off from the city proper. But Fogle had insisted, his family had little food but compared to the starving that were now so common a sight on the streets they were positively inundated with it. Montaine felt guilty sitting on their antique furniture, waiting for a meal that would probably be larger and fancier than anything he normally consumed, knowing full well that his countrymen were dying outside for lack of nourishment.
Elizabetta Foglehorn, lady of the house, took a delicate sip from her glass, ‘I do so apologise, Mister Redsun, about the quantity of our dinner this evening, but I am sure you are aware of this frightful famine that has taken a hold of our fair city. Indeed, I fear we shall have to do away with the dessert altogether!’ the woman laughed as if she had made a joke, ‘And I am so very sorry that your father could not make it. He works at the stables, you say? Compton’s nephew has a friend that makes saddles in Syliras,’
Monty raised an eyebrow, unsure what to do with this new information. The concept of small-talk with people whose world he had barely even scratched in all his years was a tad daunting. Thankfully he was saved by the arrival of the first course. Compton briefly struggled with opening the heavy oaken doors with his four plates in hand but managed to slip inside with the sacrifice of a single salad leaf that fluttered gently down to the floor. The starter was ceremoniously placed on the table before the glassworker. He looked down. It was a modest platter of kelp and thinly sliced fish, accompanied by an arrangement of colourful vegetables, many of which Montaine failed to identify.
‘D’you eat like this every day?’
Gulliver Foglehorn, lord of the house, guffawed, ‘Oh gods no! So meagre a meal is only ever reserved for the bleakest of times. You shall have to return in Zeltiva’s prosperity and witness this table at full feasting capacity, dear boy,’
Montaine was horrified. The food in front of him wasn’t much, but in times like these to eat it would have been sheer gluttony. This was just the first course. How could people live like this when their fellows starved and died and decomposed on the streets outside? Though really they weren’t the fellows of people like the Foglehorns, they didn’t die on the road that led up to the manor house. They lived in solitude, away from the city centre, away from the citizens. The craftsman’s stomach growled loudly. The lord and lady Foglehorn chuckled again. Monty scowled and stood to his feet. Fogle looked panicked, unsure of what to do, as his superior began to speak, first quietly but very quickly verging on yelling.
‘How can you laugh at a time like this? People’re dyin’ for want of a meal and you sit here, stuffing your faces day in day out! What? You too high ‘n’ mighty to starve like the rest of us? Too fancy up in your petchin’ manor house to share around? You’re nothin’ but shyking, helioc petchers ‘n’ you don’t even care!’
Elizabetta and Gulliver looked shocked, struck dumb. Compton stood beside them with a smirk spread across his pale features and the young Jonathan Foglehorn, Fogle the novice, sat, staring wide eyed at Monty, awe and admiration twinkling in his gaze. The glassworker looked down at the meal and his stomach rumbled again. It was so painful. But he couldn’t eat the food. It made no sense, but he couldn’t eat it. Instead, he stormed out and didn’t look back.
He made half way to his apartment before he started to feel faint. He collapsed against the wall of a moderately expensive residence and slid down to the ground. He felt as though he wanted to throw up, to retch and heave, but his stomach was empty, devoid of anything it could bring up to lessen the pain. The glassworker’s vision was blurred but he could just make out in the darkness the shape of something lying in the gutter.
It was an apple. Well, part of one. The half consumed core, brown and mucky and with a distinct fuzz. It wasn’t food. No one would, could class that as food.
But it was all there was left in Zeltiva.
Monty opened his mouth, and gratefully accepted it.
by Satevis on May 19th, 2012, 12:50 am 
*hugs* )
