Languor clung like a thin, wet cloth.

Or maybe it pulled--dragged at him--urging him to relax. To crumble and rot away to bones.

Lisander wasn't certain how he resisted. His strength had run down to vapors and then to nothingness a long time ago. There were no hands to support him, or voices to cheer him onward.

So then, it was out of necessity. Yes. That sounded right.

He awoke in the mornings because he had to.

He awoke in the mornings because his little sister's hands tugged at the side of his bed, yanking away the blankets in a determined attempt to climb up. He awoke in the mornings because the air did not smell of sausage and bacon and eggs, and biscuits, pancakes, muffins, freshly-juiced oranges, and chilled maple syrup. He awoke in the mornings and accepted the baton because--well. . .who else was going to?

He was the breadwinner.

So why, then, were they still breadless?

"Li, can you run to the store for me? We need a spot of lard."

Lisander lifted his head to look at his mother, sun-worn and heavy-shouldered. Her hair was beginning to escape the topknot she always kept it trapped in. She lifted a hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead, smeared dust across the skin.

"Sure, mamae," he said, glazing the words with a cheerful overtone. She carried enough burdens. He couldn't make himself another of them--not any more than he already had.

He herded Elliah toward the other children and went inside to fetch his sandals--the last remnants of his father's wealth. The once-thick leather was now nearly as thin as papyrus, and the straps were in danger of snapping every time he laced them up. Still, somehow they clung on. He felt something of a kinship to them.

His mother handed him two copper pieces before he left--hardly enough to afford a palm's-weight. It'd have to work. Until he found work again, they would do as they always had--stretch to a breaking point. And when his mother was turned away, Lisander would scrape the food from his plate onto the others, and when she asked if he'd had enough to eat he would grin and nod and say 'let me do the dishes tonight, you go and rest'.

And while he stood and mechanically scrubbed the dishes, with the minutest amount of soap, he would hear Diana reading to their younger siblings and wonder when would it end.

When would it end?

His sandals hugged the cobbles like old friends, and he guessed by now that they were. He felt the grooves as clearly as if he hadn't bothered with the sandals at all. Pebbles caught at his heels and bounced free mid-step, leaving a trail of sorts behind him. Somewhere, bread was baking. His stomach drew into itself, but was quiet. It had stopped growling and groaning a long time ago.

The butcher was an old friend of his father's. They didn't talk very much these days, but Greinhunder still honored the bond with generosity. Though Lisander's two copper pieces were far less than enough, he was given a quart of lard. Lisander stayed long enough to heave up the sack of bones and refuse lying by the door. He could carry this to the farmer's place, at least. Mable might give him some of the leftover bran and germ from milling in exchange for the labor, as well, and they could use it for biscuits in the morning.

The heat of the late summer was bad this year. Lisander was used to the baking sun, but the rain hadn't come proper to cool the evenings. The result was sticky nights of half-sleep, a perpetual, inescapable fever. And in this moment, river-trails of sweat, beading up on his back and across his brow, wetting his clothes and bringing no relief on the windless day.

He believed in no god. No kind one, anyway. What kind god could do this to Their children?

He reached the farm. Mable was out on the porch, fanning her reddened, clammy face. When she saw Lisander, she smiled and lumbered to her feet. Though she was taller, and stronger, her shoulders broad enough to bear the weight, she let him carry the bone-sack over to the small millstone, the one they used for making the bone meal. He was grateful for that, and he knew she knew it.

"Here." Before he could form half a word, she stuffed his arms with little embroidered pouches, heavy with sweets. "For your kids. My mamae would tan my hide if she knew I made all this 'girly' stuff." She stuck her tongue out, in a funny face he was familiar with, and said, "Don't do that whole guilt-ridden bit either. You're doing me a favor, little buddy, so consider me the lacking party here. Go on then, wait by the letterbox. I'll bring down some of the crappy flour."

He did as directed. While he waited for Mable to come back out, he tied the hem of his shirt into a cradle for all the little pouches. Already he was thinking of how his siblings would light up when he doled out the candies--and how their faces would fall when he said there weren't any left.

He closed his eyes, and for a moment wished that the darkness inside them might swallow him whole.