[PM to Join] Give up on the Light

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Morning, 67 Roalis, 2719
Cliffs, to the South of the Rose

I can feel yours, Lars said.

Aremu felt as if he could not breathe, but he knew he was breathing. He could feel himself breathing; he knew that he was inhaling and exhaling, but his head felt light. He shuddered. A nexus – measurable – not empty. He kept his hand firmly against his face, his thumb and fingers splayed across his temples and forehead, digging ever so lightly into the skin. He could feel his breath against his own skin, so he had to be breathing.

Lars did not press too far; Aremu heard him sigh, only just audible, even with how close they had become. He closed his eyes again, and tried to make sense of it.

What did it mean? If it even meant anything – if it – Lars did not think that he was empty. Lars could – feel him. Aremu shuddered. No, he thought, suddenly. No – no, it was – moony. He did not much care for the Anaxi slang. Cracked in the water barrel, he thought, weakly. Cracked in the water barrel. Lars had – some galdor had –

He hadn’t felt it, Aremu told himself. He hadn’t felt anything. It was his imagination; he was as cracked as Lars. And if he had, it didn’t mean – anything. It didn’t change anything.

“I don’t know,” Aremu said, lowering his hand back to the ground. He took a deep breath, and it came a little easier than it had. “I –” he looked slowly at Lars, his gaze searching the other passive’s face. “I don’t know.”

“I didn’t feel it,” Aremu lied again, and he shuddered. The breeze off the ocean felt cold again, despite the warmth of the sun. He looked up, slowly, lifting his gaze back to the horizon, and focused on his breathing; he seemed to need to think about it, in and out, as if his body had forgotten all of its old rhythms.

He shuddered again, slowly. It wasn’t real, Aremu told himself; just some cracked galdor’s fantasy, something he’d told Lars to make him feel… better. Easy enough for the mind to play tricks on you. On him. He showed me, Lars had said, with a tool used to measure fields. A tool used to – his hand tightened on his pant leg, gripping the fabric hard.

He wished, Aremu thought bitterly, that he had not asked. He should have let Lars leave, he should have – a nexus. Something inside him – not empty, after all, but – it was cracked. He was cracked, if he believed it. He wondered what Uzoji would have said – Aremu knew better, but he missed him, desperately, and he wished – Uzoji would have –

He didn’t know, Aremu realized. It was too new, too different; he didn’t know what Uzoji would have said. He would never know –

Aremu buried his face against his legs again, and his breath caught in his throat. He was too good a liar to repeat himself again, but he told it to himself, as if he might think it true this time. I didn’t feel it. I didn’t feel anything.

“What does it mean?” Aremu whispered, and gave himself away.

[Lars]

cliffs, south of the rose
roalis 67, 2719 ❁ late morning

Aremu's reaction wasn't exactly anticipated, but not entirely surprising either. It was a worse one than his had been, to finding out about nexi, perhaps worse than Fionn's, who'd only seemed angered by the notion of having one. He had felt little else but curiosity, himself, and some sense of disbelief, but maybe it was only because Professor Moore had explained it better. Maybe he just hadn't said the right words, and Aremu wasn't receptive to them coming from him; maybe if Harper was with them, he could help him understand. That must be it.

Along with the... numerous differences in thinking and belief. Aremu might not be willing to receive the information no matter how he offered it, or at least that was how it appeared - the imbala refused having felt anything, again, and Lars' only response was a quiet hum. If he really didn't, then he wouldn't push him any farther. He could see how the idea was affecting him, and didn't appreciate having caused it; he felt himself missing the warm smile he'd seen before, accompanied by vivid and fondly-remembered descriptions of his home.

It was difficult to watch someone curl in on themselves like Aremu had taken to doing, but he reminded himself of the numerous times he'd tried to comfort someone and been shut down, sometimes with force - and took care to remind himself, as well, of the fact that this man could probably still turn on him anytime. It didn't feel likely, admittedly, and he certainly didn't wish for it, but it was a possibility. So he swallowed any ideas of helping with the lump in his throat, only looking back to the other when he heard his whisper.

What did it mean? So he had felt it, after all?

Lars blinked, fought the empty stare that so often threatened his eyes, and took another breath.

"It means... we're not quite what they say we are. Not lacking, just... different," he tried to remember Harper's words, the way he'd rambled on yet sounded so graceful at the same time, so passionate about his work, "and, we aren't exactly magicless either, are we?"

A somber note entered his words, "ours is uncontrolled, chaotic, but powerful. They're not afraid of us because of what we don't have, it's because of what we do."

He hadn't simply woken up with white hair one morning, after all. The color had vanished from root to stem, along with enough of his eyesight to make a difference in the earliest hours of the morning, and who knows what else it could have taken from within. It had been his diablerie, his magic, because that's what it was, right? Sudden and powerful magic.

But perhaps that was an argument to make only with himself. His hands moved to rest in his lap, fingers entwining once more to keep them from tapping against each other, or worse, reaching out to Aremu.

"....Is it hard for you to think that maybe, you're not as bad as they've led you to believe? That... that maybe they're just afraid of what we can do, if we stop believing it?"

Lars pulled his own knees up to his chest then, letting his fingers fall apart so that his arms could wrap about his legs, "...all it means, right now, is that you're not empty. I don't believe so, at least, and I don't believe you're without honor. An honorless man would've let me die."

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Morning, 67 Roalis, 2719
Cliffs, to the South of the Rose

Not lacking, just different. Aremu swallowed, hard, and shook his head slightly. He glanced at Lars, at the sudden strength in his voice when he mentioned what we do, and wondered. His own magic… uncontrolled, chaotic and powerful. From what Aremu knew of clairvoyant spells, that was entirely accurate. The times he had manifested were burnt into him, seared into his mind like Lars’s scars into the man’s pale skin; he had spent years trying to make sense of them, and he doubted he ever would.

Weren’t they right to be afraid? Not of him, Aremu told himself. Not of him, but there were others, and he – he looked at Lars, and he wondered. He had spent too long around imbala himself to be afraid. One faced death every day in an airship, crossing the road in Vienda, being a Bad Brother; sitting close to another passive had never scared him. All the same, he wondered.

“I believe – “ Aremu felt his voice break, as it had not for more than a decade, since he was a boy, raw and aching and trying desperately to grow into a man. He cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. “I believe you mean to be kind,” he said, quietly. It was all he could say, in response to Lars’s words about his honor. Not empty, and not without honor. He pushed his shaking hand back against his face, and dragged his fingers down over his skin, curling them softly against his lips.

“I was not born in the Turtle,” Aremu said, quietly. “In Mugroba we – ” he swallowed, hard. “Galdori take their father’s names. Aremu pez Akanmu, when I was born, and I – I didn’t know I was any different. I suppose it’s the same here,” he closed his eyes for a long moment. He had spoken of Mugroba, before, of Thul Ka and the Turtle and Thul’Amat, and he had done his best to excise himself from all of it, to carefully talk around himself. He was not sure what Lars had assumed, but he knew he had not said.

“He cast me out,” Aremu said, softly. “I – ” he rose, abruptly, unable to stay sitting, and locked his arms behind his back, left hand squeezing his right wrist tightly. He paced, back and forth, through the gently waving grass, and stopped, a little way away from Lars, looking back at him. He shuddered, and let his arm go, and brought both wrists up to his chin, one hand and one nothing, there against his face. Three years, he thought, and he could not unlearn a lifetime of –

Eighteen years, Aremu thought, tiredly, lowering his arms and looking at the white-haired passive sitting in the grass.

Slowly, he approached Lars again. Slowly, he sat, and eased himself back down into the grass, breathing hard still. “It doesn’t change anything,” Aremu said, softly, but he sat close enough to touch the other man all the same, and this time he did not hunch in on himself, but stayed upright, sitting cross-legged, each bare foot tucked beneath the opposite knee, trousers straining against the curve of his legs.

[Lars]

cliffs, south of the rose
roalis 67, 2719 ❁ late morning

Lars forced himself into silence again; cursed himself yet again for opening his mouth - did he ever learn? Clearly not, as evidenced by the entire morning and its conversations, and he felt it unlikely he'd stay quiet for much longer now anyway, based on the trends. It wasn't usually difficult to resign himself to silence. He'd long ago learned to fade out of one's peripheral, and remain unseen and unheard in the majority of situations; things had changed a bit since he'd come to the Rose, but all the things that had been drilled into his skull were still there, waiting to be needed again.

Everyone had thought him moony then, when he'd not given them much reason to - Aremu surely thought him moony now.

When Aremu began to speak, this time offering something more personal rather than the simple facts of life for imbali in Mugroba, Lars listened. Not because he wanted something to respond to, to convince him, but because he wanted to know. And what he was told wasn't that far off from what he had experienced himself - he was a little shocked to hear that the matter of names and being cast out was still the same in the more accepting kingdom, but he understood the pain. He felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, sorry that another person had went through that pain.

He didn't offer his own experience, his own story of once having a name and having it stripped away, because it didn't really matter. As vain as he could be, as willing as he was to share his family name and heritage and worth with anyone that would listen, he didn't want to. Not out of fear that it would be taken and warped into something useful for the other man, like some weapon against him. He just didn't feel the need.

Lars didn't move to stop him or get up himself when Aremu rose, taking a moment to pace and probably trying to calm himself, or maybe just to distract himself - the white-haired passive just looked back to his hands, clinging onto one another where they met, loosely draped around his legs. He thought of what he could have said instead, if he should've kept it all to himself and not have bothered with the wording, anyway, if he'd just ruined whatever measure of friendship he could've developed with the other passive in time.

Then Aremu returned, sitting down right beside him again, and he was relieved with the closeness. He at least wasn't repulsed by his presence, then. The Hessean could only nod in response to the notion that this new information changed nothing, could only allow himself to sit still, and silent, for another few moments until he could build up the courage to let himself speak again.

"Maybe it doesn't," he moved an arm, slightly, reached out to set a hand gently on Aremu's knee - no no, stop that - before picking it back up again, almost just as soon, fingers curling into a loose fist as he pulled it away from the other passive and back to himself. No, no trying to be comforting, or reassuring - that was awkward, wasn't it? That was why he had to keep track of his hands, keep them locked together lest they start tapping against things and reaching out to things they shouldn't touch. They rested atop his own knees, his elbows pulled almost awkwardly between his legs and chest as he looked out again into the distance.

"You can forget about it, if you like," tried Lars, in some attempt to make up for causing the man stress, "I should've have said anything. I'm -" and he paused, "- still learning how to talk to others."

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Morning, 67 Roalis, 2719
Cliffs, to the South of the Rose

It did not escape Aremu that Lars must have had a similar story of his own – one with a worse ending, Aremu thought, because he had never risked being gated. Because he had had Uzoji who had made himself into a new family; because he had been given the choice to learn at Thul’Amat, because he had not been marked, because he had still been able to fly. He didn’t quite know why he’d shared so much of himself, but the words had risen in him like vomit, and come spilling all with all the same unstoppable force.

Lars had sat, quietly, and watched him with gray eyes, and had not said a word, and whatever he felt, he kept locked behind his expressionless face. Lars didn’t get up and chase him either, but looked back down, curled up against his own legs, and even in the middle of his own pain, Aremu wondered what the other man was thinking. Funny, he thought distantly, that he had worried so about hurting Lars with his truth, only to find that -

All of them, Aremu thought; all the passive children, born to galdori across Mugroba, Anaxas, Bastia, Hesse – he could not be sure about Hox and Gior – all of them had similar stories, and almost all of them had ended worse than his. He knew he should be grateful, but those memories still hurt, a burning ache somewhere deep down that he had never quite been able to quench. He thought he could imagine their pain, all of them –

And they were none of them empty…

Aremu shook the thoughts away. He could not; he could not. He knew his limits, and there were no handholds for him, not on this cliff.

He had settled back down close to Lars. The other man’s hand rested lightly on his knee for a moment, then pulled away. Aremu did not lean into Lars, but he didn’t pull away either. His left hand rested gently on his own leg, and his right arm held again at his side, wrist gently brushing the grass beneath his right thigh. It had been - comforting, he thought, that contact, and the memory of it still tingled faintly through him.

Aremu looked at Lars, when the passive suggested he forget about it. No, he thought; he would not be able to forget about it, even if he liked. But that was all right; it didn’t change anything. It didn’t matter. He didn’t quite know what to say to the other man’s comment about learning to talk to people, but he nodded, slightly, nonetheless, and he tried, because he thought he owed Lars at least that.

“It must be difficult,” Aremu said, his low voice still soft and quiet. “Learning to be free again.” He tried a smile, and he knew it stuck, a little, and he felt it twist at the edges, but it came easier than he had expected it would. After a few moments, it felt right enough.

[Lars]

cliffs, south of the rose
roalis 67, 2719 ❁ late morning

The oddest sensation rose up his spine, his nerves buzzing at his shoulders, his elbows, his back. It was odd for the reason of existing at all; it followed up his frame to his face, bringing to it some uncomfortable warmth even as he felt like he might suddenly shiver. It was pure discomfort, that's what it was, and he would've thought it embarrassment if he didn't know well the distinction, but it was close to it. Then, he would've thought it the next most logical thing - that he was simply blushing in the close proximity to Aremu, unaccustomed to honesty and a warm smile on an attractive face - but that wasn't quite it either, not completely, and he looked away for a few long moments, not yet responding.

He felt guilty, but that wasn't the whole of it either. That made up some fraction of it, resting at the bottom of his chest and burning, slightly, with regret for dragging Aremu into the topic.

No, it was...

He could feel it then, at the edges of his eyes, suddenly forcing to make itself known, and thankfully when he felt a tear escape and reach his cheek, it was the one opposite Aremu.

So that's what it was - he was sad. He wasn't sure for what. It was unwise. It was useless, unnecessary, redundant, it was nothing, nothing. Nothing. It wasn't there. Like his nexus in Aremu's mind - he didn't feel it, and it wasn't there.

"Yes," Lars said with a slight nod, "I think that it is," but the passive didn't seem quite as inclined to share more of himself, now, returned to whatever isolated version of himself he'd managed to disregard before. It was almost soundlessly that he cleared his throat, patting his hands against his knees as if preparing to stand.

"I think I've definitely taken too much of your time, now, if I hadn't before," he rocked himself onto his feet, afterward straightening up and lightly dusting the dirt from his trousers, "it was... nice speaking with you, Aremu. Thank you for telling me about Thul Ka - maybe sometime I'll have better things to tell you in return, but - I'll let you get back to your climbing, for now."

[Aremu Ediwo]

Late Morning, 67 Roalis, 2719
Cliffs, to the South of the Rose

Twice, Aremu thought, and now a third time. When he had first sat down, Lars had made to leave. Then, again, before he had - Lars had tried to leave again, to spare him, but perhaps it had already been too late. Now a third time, but this time Aremu would not stop him. He would not press further; perhaps he had learned.

Aremu rose with Lars, although he did not bother to brush the dirt from his trousers. He was frowning lightly again, and he did not quite know what to say to Lars’s pleasantries, his thanks, his awkward edging around the words that had come between them. “Yes,” Aremu said, finally, a little uncertainly. He glanced over the other man again.

Then, slowly, Aremu reached out with his left hand and touched Lars’s upper arm - a moment, a brief squeeze that did not linger, and he thought perhaps it had been a mistake, but it had been over and done with before he could shy away. “May you find smooth waters,” the Mugrobi said, his low voice even softer than before. He met Lars’s eyes for a last moment, and then looked down and away, as if he could not quite bear it.

Aremu turned back to the cliffside then, and frowned down at the rocks beneath his bare feet. For a moment, he considered walking back down to the beach below; for a moment, he thought perhaps he asked more of himself than he had to give.

But it was easy to find the spot he had emerged at - only a few steps away, in the end. He thought it could have been a mile, for how distant it felt. But he eased himself down to sitting on the edge of it, facing out to look at the ocean beyond, and his heels found holds in the rock.

And so Aremu propped his left hand on the cliffside and eased himself off of the grass, and began to descend. He did not rush, but neither did he hesitate; if at first, here and there, he found himself trembling, it was only a matter of a slow exhale to break the tension, and to continue down.

He had long ago promised himself that he would not climb anything he did not think he could descend. Here he used his wrist, freely; it did not hurt to rest his weight on it or his elbow, when he needed to steady himself against the cliffside. Sometimes he faced out, sometimes sideways, sometimes in; he had no preference between them, but moved as the cliff demanded of him.

The sun was warm on his bare skin, and the lower he climbed, the more the salty sea spray arched up to brush him. The climb drove out all the rest; there was no space to think about anything except where to put his hands and feet, anything except the route that led him downward towards the ground below. And in time, as he went slowly and steadily onward, the tightness in his chest eased, and if he was short of breath, it was from the strain of honest labor and nothing else.

And then - Aremu’s bare feet brushed the sand below, and he eased himself down the last few feet, and stood on the beach once more. He tilted his head back, looking up at the cliff before him, and traced his fingers over the rock one last time.

Aremu folded his shirt over his shoulder, and took his shoes back in his hands, one finger tucked against the heel of each, the soles clapping lightly together. He made his way back along the soft dry sand, to the edges of the cliff where it grew wet beneath his feet, and walked without fear through the inches of water where the tide had crept in, cuffs wet against his ankles, and up along the second stretch of sandy beach back towards the Rose, heedless of the bits of dry sand that cling to his feet and ankles. He walked, and he left his footprints behind him in the sand, just like any man would, and once he was gone, he thought, one would never know the difference.