He tried to think: he should do something about that, he reckoned. He sat still, looking at his hands on the table in front of him. Thick with shadows, the lamplight glistening softly in the blood. He shut his eyes, swallowing and wincing at the scraping in his throat. He hadn’t thought to pour himself any water; that’d be the next order of business, if he could push himself up on his unsteady legs. After he found the bandages, maybe. An image came into his head, unbidden, of Ava perched on the couch beside him, binding his hand. He thought –
Godsdamn, he thought, frowning. He opened his eyes. Across the room, Niccolette stirred, taking another small sip of water; his eyes came into focus on her as best they could. He couldn’t see her too well from here, but he remembered the way her palms’d left mant smears of blood and dirt all over his glass. And whatever else kind of laoso shit you picked up from the street in Lossey.
Too many thoughts. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, as if he could contain the whirl, as if he was trying to keep his skull from shattering. Couldn’t – too many. Plastered, he thought. (Again.)
The room was warming up a pina, but he wasn’t ready to part with his coat, so he just took his arms out of the sleeves and wrapped it around him. Meanwhile, Niccolette was talking; she’d been talking for a bit. He forced himself to focus on her voice, watching her steadily from across the room.
A smile curled his lip, twitching; it would’ve almost been soft, on anyone else. He reached up to wipe a tiny glisten away from his eye. “Love was sharp and dry,” he quoted, “unquenchable – no – desire the… storm… damn.” Gritting his teeth, shaking his head, knotting his fingers in a tangle of hair ’til he could still his head enough to speak again. “The way pez Hirtka wrote of love – painful, almost. Powerfully, beautifully painful.”
Tom couldn’t think of love; he couldn’t think of a man, not now. There was too much else to think of, and if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. He pushed himself up from the table, finally, hobbled over to the cabinets. Fetched the jug and another dusty glass. There was another scattered tapping as he spilled more water, another curse as he nearly dropped it. Leaning on the back of the chair, he put the glass to his lips and drank deeply, almost greedily.
It didn’t help the ache in his head, but it seemed to give him the strength to go on. He pulled the coat tighter around him, reaching to set the glass on the table.
“I don’t regret the man I was.” He sucked at a tooth, sighing. “Not really. That’s the thing, eh? The things I did – I’ve done godsawful things, but they’re done, and with enough of them, my hand was forced. I keep reading about how I’m supposed to repent, but I can’t go to the mona begging for forgiveness for a whole life. One I lived how I could. I don’t know how to make amends for that.”
The temptation to drift was unbearable. The rickety chair popped under his weight, wobbled from short leg to shorter leg, and he had to keep reminding himself he was vertical. He didn’t know how much time’d passed since he lit the stove, but it was warm, now, benny warm. A low hum’d started up somewhere behind him, a hiss of steam.
Then, a squeal. Tom jolted awake, shaking his head, shaking off shivers. He creaked and fumbled the short distance to the stove, sweeping the kettle off the stove and hissing as he burnt his fingertip on the metal.
He brought it over to where he’d left the teapot and the mint, getting out two little metal mugs. Thinking, as he did so. It was strange, hearing Niccolette talk about her backlash like he hadn’t been there – oes, but like he’d understand anyway, like he was a stranger golly and not the mung human muscle that’d knelt beside Uzoji while she casted. That’d picked the two of them up, limp and small and strangely weak after all that blood, and carried them inside and laid them down and called for a healer. He made to avoid the subject out of politeness, but being honest, if he said anything about it, he was afraid he’d give away he knew too much.
For what it was worth, she hadn’t looked like she’d regretted it at the time. He remembered the way the air’d steamed around her, sending the water back up, pulling it back down, sending it back up again. The way she’d held Uzoji’s hand to her middle, the way she’d pushed through the monite, clear and articulate. It wasn’t a rushed, angry cast; she’d known what she was doing. Seeing Uzoji standing in the doorway a month later, taxed but breathing, he didn’t doubt it’d been worth it to her.
And now, ’course, Uzoji… Tom frowned. He realized he still didn’t know how Uzoji’d died. He realized he still didn’t want to know; something about it stung.
It was the funniest feeling, scooping the little mint leaves into the pot, pouring the boiling water over in a cloud of steam. He still remembered her face, drawn and pale, eyes shut. After a moment, he shot a glance at her over his shoulder, then poured tea into the cups.
Carrying both would’ve been too hard, so he didn’t try. He turned and set one on the table, quick-like – too quick; he had to grab onto the table for support as he did – then took the other and walked it shakily round, stepping over loops of chalk, round stacks of books. It took him awhile to amble back over to Niccolette, and he tried not to wince as his porven stirred in contact with the living mona around her. But he set the battered mug down on the end table beside the armchair, leaning for a moment on the back of it.
Turning to the window nearby, he used the last of his aching strength to shove it open; it rattled and grunted against the frame. A cool breeze wafted in, crisp with the smells of the city, and a cloud of mint and old parchment wafted out.
“It’s been a hell of a long night,” he finished, leaning back against it. A pause. “Would you let me see to your hand? That’ll get infected.”