Aurelie's Room, The Tsuqeqachye’ki
The question caught him like a blow, and Aremu’s eyebrows snapped together. He went very still, himself, watching her. You know what it means, he wanted to say; I told you myself. You know what passive means, now, too, if you didn’t before. I didn’t say it, he wanted to protest; perhaps it’s right – it’s fair – that I not speak in court. Perhaps I would pollute – profane – he had believed it, once, that even to listen to him speak might be to invite dishonor.
He couldn’t believe it now; he couldn’t find it in himself, anymore, for all he knew he was as empty as he had ever been, in the way which mattered.
His breath came a little unevenly. Aurelie apologized; red swept over her face. Aremu’s nostrils flared, and he looked away, back towards the window. She asked if it was normal; she apologized again. He saw a blur of movement in the corner of his eye, and she went on; her voice was very small.
Aremu closed his eyes for a moment.
More than anything, he thought, he wanted to go; he wanted to apologize for it, but he wanted to go out on the deck, perhaps, and to climb the rigging, and lose himself in the physicality of it, the patterns of the climb. The sun would be bright at this hour; the chainmail would be hot enough to sting his hands and feet, in the thick of it. He could find the cooler side of the balloon, and tangle himself up in chains of his choosing, and watched the ground beneath go by, until some of the weight of it had drained out of him, and he could be as a man once more.
And Aurelie? What would she do? She would sit here, Aremu thought, forcing himself to look at it, alone. All she had asked of him was that he not leave her alone.
He found that he was shaking, just a little. He took a deep breath. His left hand was tight, very tight, on his right wrist, and the scar that had run along his forearm since last Yaris was throbbing beneath it. He unclenched his fingers, slowly, one by one, and tugged at the fabric of his shirt, as if to smooth out of the wrinkles he’d left.
You’re a little what? He wanted to ask. Is what normal? Of course it’s normal that I’m a liar; I’m soulless, aren’t I?
You are too –
You are too.
He couldn’t say it; he couldn’t go there. It was true, but he didn't want to hurt her. Didn't some things matter more than truth? Shouldn't they? He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, and it was warm beneath his fingers and palm. He looked at her again; it had only been a few moments, he knew, for all that the silence seemed to have stretched for a house. She was very small, sort of curled up against the bed, her pale blue skirt spread out over her legs, and her face was glowing red, her eyes wide, and something tight in the set of her mouth.
Aremu softened; he didn’t know what it was that he had held so tight, but he let it go. His face ached, a little. “I’m, um, not sure what you’re asking,” he said, quietly, after a moment. He couldn’t manage to smile. “What is it you think imbali means?”