Cliffs, to the South of the Rose
He had thought Lars would answer the question; he had tried to find one which would not ask too much of him, or at least not for more than he wanted to give. Aremu nodded slightly at the first part of the question. He, too, liked the sea and the warmth; it was cold in the Rose, very cold, in the worst parts of the year, but not nearly as bad as Vienda in the winter. He grinned a little at the comment about warmth in Mugroba, and half-readied himself to say something about it.
And then Lars kept going, offering a little more, and Aremu kept his eyes on the other passive’s face and did not look away. He hesitated, then, not quite sure what to say. Yes, he thought; here was all the confirmation he had not needed, and he was still not sure if he had wanted. But he had made the first inroads, in mentioning Brunnhold, and he did not mind –
He did not mind.
Aremu nodded. “Yes,” he said, softly, the last of his smile gone. To feel like a person.
He had no soul, they had told him, when he was found to be a passive. That was what it meant; that was why he would never feel the mona. He had no soul; he had no honor. He could never be a man, not as a galdor could; not, even, as a human could. He had been ten years old, and he had lived all his life believing that he was like the rest, and in a moment it was gone, and he knew himself for what he was.
The Mugrobi was quiet for a few moments, his chest rising and falling slowly. The warmth of the sun against his bare skin was pleasant; the heat soaked into him, and warmed him through. He took a deep breath, and he began. He did not want to force the knowing on Lars, but he thought – he thought it likely the other man did not know. He did not know if it would help or hurt him to hear about the imbala – about the Turtle – about Thul’Amat.
“It is different in Mugroba,” Aremu said, quietly. “I could tell you about it, if you like.” There was space between them, so much space, and Aremu felt the oddest desire to close it – to move closer to Lars. He did not; he thought perhaps it was better this way, to try and maintain the illusion of distance.
Aremu’s eyes fixed on Lars’s face, and he searched him for a moment, and he added, so soft that it was only a faint echo of words above the wind. “I cannot promise it will not hurt,” he said, as gently as he could. “I do not mind if you refuse.”