[Closed] Books and Bandages

[Meraki]

“Aremu’s House”
Morning, 22 Dentis, 2719

Continued from here.

M

eraki hadn’t slept much. He simply couldn’t. The house wouldn’t stop whispering to him, teasing him about all the things that might be hidden in the many rooms, the many drawers, the many… many… things there was to look inside. So, the wick had started at the front of the main hall. He left Aremu’s room alone, to allow the injured man to rest, but otherwise he made a slow path through almost every other nook and cranny of the house.

…until he reached the back area. Meraki stopped at how the mona felt around a particular door. He didn’t know what was inside, but there was something magical going on and he decided that wasn’t worth the temptation. He left that room alone too.

He was shocked to find yet another hall with even more rooms and beds, an even nicer and larger bedroom too. How many clockin’ rooms and beds does a person need?

Meraki made do with his single room flat just fine. His whole apartment in the Stacks was about the size of a closet in this house, and that was still generous in description. So, for the wick, the house was quite something to look at. He decided that it must be rented out. That all the rooms he looked at, they were meant to be rented and Aremu was just one of the renters. He wondered how much he paid, but then he remembered the healthy amount of coins that he’d found beneath Aremu’s shirt. Meraki had placed them with the rest of the man’s belongings on the desk, but only after carefully counting each one.

There was even a dang cellar filled with way more wine than any house could ever need! It took a great deal of willpower on Meraki’s part to not swipe a few of the liquor bottles that he recognized as quite expensive. He was still recovering from his hang-over though, that'd landed him in the harbor, and the little bit he'd had to drink with the harlot a couple nights ago... that was more than enough to remind him that he shouldn't be drinking at all.

What a gig, he supposed if he’d been clever enough to plan something like this. It struck him as too thuggish though, getting mates to beat up on someone so that he could help them out and get into their home. Meraki didn’t like that style. Injury wasn’t needed to make proper coin.

He made use of the bathroom, to clean himself up and wash his clothes. He found some bandages, and bandaged his wrists, hands, and fingers to help with the swelling, but he didn’t need more than that.

There was a surprising lack of belongings within the various dressers and cabinets he found. Like the place had gotten picked apart already, or whoever had been here had moved out.

Meraki came across a safe, though, and he lingered at this. What was inside it? Gods, he wanted to know. He spent nearly an hour, wandering back from his self-led tour to figure out if he wanted to attempt breaking it open. The wick decided not to, eventually.

Around the approach of dawn, he returned to walk through the multiple studies with lots of books neatly organized on proper shelves. Here, he decided was where the true value of the house rested. The coins, the liquor, whatever was in the safe; none of that mattered so much to him. But something of true treasure? Something that someone, somewhere wouldn't want to be stolen, especially not by a wick.

He plucked one of the books off the shelf, cracked it open, and he nodded. These were it. Maybe not sentimental, but there was a similar energy to them or so he believed. He put aside poetry books, skimmed the ones about airships, and then he found them.

Books on practical magic as well as theory. Meraki gnawed on his lower lip, gathered an armful of these and hurried over to one of the plush chairs. He set the books down, and with his barefeet padding quietly on the floor, he ran to the other study and searched through the books.

He came back with a few more books. On the floor, he settled to sit between the two chairs. Meraki sorted the books out into three stacks:

Physical, Static, and Living Conversation.

This was far preferable over the coins, the safe, and the tempting liquor – combined. The young man turned on the study lamps so he could see, and then he picked up a book from the Physical Conversation stack. He took out his worn and tattered almanac, readied the tip of his trusty pen, and held it open to a blank page toward the back cover.

He opened the book and he started to read. Slowly, carefully, and he scribbled words down that he didn’t understand. There were some he’d heard before, in his eavesdropping of gollies, but he didn’t quite understand what they meant or how they were spelled. Still, this didn’t deter Meraki. Like a starving man, any food was better than none.

Meraki flipped through the books, reading them far quicker than he could understand them, and he muttered to the mona, “How’s this the shit y’ want to hear? Spoiled, you is, eh? Pampered little mona.”

His neck ached after a while and he stretched out with a yawn. He picked up a book on Static Conversation, and started into it at a random page. His eyes were growing heavy though. His body was starting to feel a bit hot. Which meant sleep was trying to take over. He drifted somewhat, dozing beside the books, then he forced himself back awake.

Meraki took out a cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a silver lighter he’d found in a drawer, and took to smoking to keep himself alert while he continued to make his way through the Conversation books.

Ash fell on the carpet beside him, but he didn’t think to realize it. Eventually the cigarette was gone, and he still had more books to look through, and had three back-and-front pages of poorly scribbled words that he didn’t understand, and his head hurt and-

-he drifted to sleep, laying on the floor between the many books.

Until he heard a door shut. Meraki jolted awake from the sound. He breathed quietly. That had been the front door. He could tell by how heavy the closing sounded. In the distance, he heard the faint sound of a voice: a woman?

Meraki hurried to close the books and brush away the cigarette ash (though it only left an ashen smear behind on the carpet), and quickly rolled up his almanac to set it back where it belonged in his vest. Still dressed, but his boots and socks were left in the hall next to the room where Aremu had gone to sleep. He glanced at the nearby windows and saw it was light out.

How long had he been sleeping for? He didn’t know. He could only hope Aremu hadn’t died in the bed. How it would look, if that was the case... Shit, should have left last night. He didn’t know how he’d get out of that one. Who would believe the grungy wick had been acting respectable and helping the man? What a laughable notion. Maybe he should leave through the window, he considered. But he didn’t want to leave his boots behind and part of him wanted to make sure that Aremu hadn’t died.

His heart raced, while he hurriedly stacked the Conversation books into his arms and got up to put them back on the shelves. He listened, to try and hear if the woman was still out in the hall…

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Morning, 22 Dentis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Someone, somewhere must have been grateful for the Rose. Niccolette couldn’t quite imagine it, not even standing on the deck of the airship as it descended. It was long past the time when the waiters had announced that the passengers should come inside and secure themselves for the descent, not that many had been outside at such an hour. She was tucked into the edge of the front deck, her wrist wrapped through a loop of leather secured to the railing, and her hand holding the strap tight. The wind whipped through her hair and the lines of her warm wool dress.

The nose of the ship tilted down; the engnes hummed through all the walls. Niccolette breathed in deep the cold, chapped air, wiping her nose with a handkerchief and holding it tight in her free hand. She watched the Rose as they descended; she watched the distant horizon too, and the sun blooming pink and gold over the Tincta Basta. She felt it, the edge of the rays of warmth washing over her; she closed her eyes, and she lingered in the wind and the warmth, all the way until the ship leveled out at the docking bay.

Niccolette walked back inside, cool and calm, her hair a wild, tangled mess around her hair, all the lovely thick strands well-ruffled. There was a faint gasp from a woman sitting near the entrance, and the slow turning of heads, quiet murmurs. Niccolette smiled, then, slowly. Let them look, she thought. She did not care. She walked through it, chin raised, her field sharp and indectal around herself; she was the first one off the ship, small black boots steady beneath the swishing hem of her garnet-colored dress.

From the dock, Niccolette climbed into a cab. “Quarter Fords,” she said, crisply, and gave him the street as well. She sat back against the plush seat, and combed her fingers through her hair as they went. She had no illusions that it was tamed entirely, but she did not mind the pursuit. The carriage rumbled to a stop; Niccolette climbed out, her case held in some slim hand.

She unlocked the heavy door, and stepped inside. “Aremu?” Niccolette called. “Are you awake?” The Mugrobi was an early riser; if he didn’t answer, Niccolette thought, wryly, it would probably be because he had thought he could climb a cliff or two before she made it home.

Home.

It was a funny word, uncomfortable still. The time in Vienda had made it more real, Niccolette understood; this place was her home, still, or – well – part of it. Isla Dzum and the plantation there was a little too painful, still, for now. Niccolette did not know what would come in time. Some days she thought she could see a way away; some days she could lift her heads from the drowning swells of grief and see the shores. Others, it was only the deep dark blue all around her, filling her lungs.

The flight, Niccolette thought, amused, had made her maudlin.

There was a quiet noise from deeper in the house. Niccolette raised her eyebrows; she set her case down and went further inside. “Aremu?” She called again. No answer. The Bastian pursed her lips, faintly annoyed. The noise was coming, she thought, from Uzoji’s study and drawing room.

Niccolette went down the hall and to the open door.

A young man, with tousled blonde hair, his hands wrapped in bandages, a dirty vest, and bare feet was standing at the shelves in front of Uzoji’s books.

Niccolette did not hesitate; she was casting already the moment she saw him. Her voice was low and steady and even; monite dripped steadily from her tongue. She held, distant at the door, confident in her ability to weave in a leybridge to a push spell as necessary. She did not rush; there was no haste, but she spoke quickly and confidently, with no doubt as to where she was going.

There were many ways to paralyze a man. Some were simple; others were harder. Some were faster; others were slower. Some were temporary; others were permanent. There were trade-offs, always. Spells which were faster to cast were often less effective, requiring more skill and strength from the caster. Niccolette was very skilled, and very well-practiced, and she had long since learned those spells which she liked. This one had taken her years to find, and when she had first tried it it had nearly been too difficult for her. These days, it was not.

The man was fumbling with the books; he dropped them, turning and charging towards her.

She was eight feet away when he would first feel it; the wash of her etheric field was all living mona, bright and sharp in the air around her. It bore down on him; it wove itself into his field, and dominated it, effortlessly. It caprised him, deeply, and seemed almost to thrust the field away from him, as if to say it had no place against the strength of her own. Niccolette did not so much as flinch, nor pause even a moment in her steady recitation.

Hazy energy rose in the air around the Bastian; it flooded forward and seeped into the wick’s neck. It would hurt, as it touched him; it prickled, against his skin, and then it burned, all down through him – and then he would ease, slowly, into an odd and unpleasant numbness.

The wick dropped before he could reach her, as well he should have; Niccolette had cut off his ability to move anything below the neck, a precisely targeted spell which blocked the nervous pathways. He had fallen – crumpled, really – with no ability even to catch himself, lying in a heap on the floor.

Niccolette curled the spell, and held the upkeep. She stepped forward, slowly, cool and steady, her gaze fixed down on the wick. He was facing towards her; good, she thought, she was glad of it. He could see and hear; he could even speak, if he so wished.

Niccolette knelt, looking at the wick; the hem of her dress revealed black laced boots beneath the warm, expensive fabric. She smiled, but there was nothing kind or friendly about it; her head tilted, gently, to the side.

“What the fuck,” Niccolette asked, coolly, “are you doing in my house?”

Rolls

Paralysis spell: 5

[Meraki]

Definitely Not Aremu’s House
Morning, 22 Dentis, 2719

There was a moment. Only about a second’s worth of time. A moment in which Meraki had placed the first book onto a space in the shelves, where he’d hoped it was meant to go, and glanced over to see that he was no longer alone. A woman stood in the doorway of the study. A petite and fine lady, with tousled dark hair and all the beauty of a proper Galdor…

…then her painted lips moved. Meraki knew it wasn’t to say hello. He let go of the stacked books. They fell around him, but he started toward her. He had to. There was only one way for him to stop whatever spell it was. The wick had to move fast, if he wanted a chance. He brushed past the still falling books. In quick approach, the Anaxi placed a finger over his lips in a shushing gesture.

“Wait-wait-wait-” he quickly said, in a desperate attempt to interrupt the woman’s low, steady rhythm of monite.

He kept forward, if only in the hope that he might reach her fast enough before the spell concluded. If he could cover those pretty lips of her’s, then he might be able to explain… or… he’d figure it out then! The spell was the priority as he could only hope it wasn’t one intended for a fatal end.

Yet he’d barely gotten close to her, when he felt her field. Gods, he didn’t think he’d ever felt a field with that much range while being so organized. It felt sharp, like a sea of pins. The wick’s field gave way, easily, in complete submission without even an attempt to fight against it – both by choice and by force. Meraki didn’t slow, despite his surprise. Whatever she was casting, it couldn't be good for him. Knowing the galdor possessed such a relation with the mona caused him to want to move even faster to try and interrupt the spell. He didn’t need his field to place a hand over a woman’s mouth.

The air between them had started to change though. He felt it, now, as it sharply went to his skin like needles to every pore. Meraki’s steps slowed, involuntarily, and he grimaced. His dark green eyes locked onto the petite woman and he tried a last time, “Wait, stop…”

His head hurt again. His bruises hurt. The aches in his sore muscles hurt. Everything hurt. A searing pain drove through him, then dissipated into a sort of terrifying numbness. The sort of numbness that you didn’t want to feel because it meant you couldn’t feel the actual pain any longer. Meraki wanted to feel the pain. Pain meant he was still alive. Numbness, though, that wasn’t so obvious.

He fell to the ground, unable to keep himself up any longer. The wick realized it as the numbness had sunk in, having dropped to his knee, then awkwardly forward onto his shoulder in the last attempt before he found himself unable to move. He swore lowly and felt a sense of relief that he could hear his own voice and still speak.

But he wanted to move. He wanted to move, whether to defend or otherwise, or whatever. The rebellion of his body, caused by the woman’s casting, felt like a betrayal from the flesh he wore. Meraki struggled against it, but that struggle could not even be seen for his limbs did not respond. He stopped trying, when he heard the click of heels, and a pair of small black boots appeared beside him. The fashionable hem of garnet wool drifted around the boots.

He glanced up and blinked slowly and attempted to calm himself. If his body wasn’t going to respond… then he would adapt. And he would adapt quick, even if he felt anger that tensed his jaw and made his head painfully ache. Survival was the priority, and it was a good sign that the woman hadn’t already killed him, or so he could only hope.

Meraki watched as she knelt beside him and smiled in a way that no smile was meant to be used for.

“What the fuck, are you doing in my house?”

The wick cleared his throat. He blinked a few more times, tried to regain a steady breath, and said, “Right. Your house. ‘course. Aremu.”

He blinked again, taking a few more breaths, then gathered his thoughts and added, “Please, tell me y' know him. Aremu? He had a key, so. I- look, lady, I’m not here for trouble or ill deeds or- this is a mis-un-der-stan-ding, it is. Right?”

“I’m right harmless, I am. Promise,” he frowned slightly, then tried a different tact, He spoke in a defeated tone of voice, “Can't even wiggle a toe, I can't. Not no more. Roll me out to the street, yeh? I will find my way from there. Y' just tell Aremu I'll miss 'im.”

He rested his head against the floor as his numbed body slumped from gravity. Meraki glanced between the ceiling and the woman, then he added in a far calmer voice, “You- uh- you’ve got a lovely home, ma’am.”

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Morning, 22 Dentis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette’s eyebrows lifted at Aremu’s name. The wick was limp on the floor, naturally; he claimed to know Aremu, and then claimed, albeit rather indirectly, that Aremu had brought him here. Niccolette snorted, faintly, her lips pressed together. There was a flicker of something like amusement across her face.

Rather rude, she thought, of a guest to go snooping through books. She glanced down at the wick, studying him. She did not quite think him Aremu’s type, but then, Aremu had surprised her before, with what he was willing to tolerate.

Niccolette snorted audibly when the wick asked her to tell Aremu he’d miss him. Her lips pursed again, and she rolled her eyes, slightly, at the compliment to her home. “I am sure you have seen all of it, by now,” Niccolette said, coolly. She reached out, and patted the wick’s cheek with one hand; her nails dragged, lightly, for the briefest moment, against his skin. “You shall wait here.”

Niccolette rose; she turned, and she walked back the way she had gone. She held the upkeep as she went; she left the wick curled up on the floor behind her. She went out the door, and down the hall to the room where Aremu usually slept. He had arrived to the Rose before her by several days, but she thought he would have taken his usual room.

Niccolette shrieked.

Aremu was sitting up on the edge of his bed, cradling his swollen, bruised face in his hand. He looked a mess; one eye was swollen half shut, and there were the remnants of cuts on his cheek and lips. His nose was swollen too, and the side of his face. His side was a mass of bruises, with a few splits in the tender skin over his ribs. His right shoulder was swollen as well. He was clad only in his underwear, and not bloodied, or not so much as she would have expected.

“I’m fine,” Aremu said, looking at her, his voice aching and rough. “Just tender.” He made a face, and winced, running his tongue over dry, cracked lips.

“You are –” Niccolette choked out a bitter laugh. She had held the spell through the sudden pulse of surprise, the shock of fear and worry all through her, although it had been a near thing. She held it firmer still, her jaw clenched. “You call this fine?” Niccolette’s voice raised, faintly. “You have only just finished healing – ” Her whole body jerked, and Niccolette could only think furiously of the wick lying on the study floor. Suddenly his words of being harmless and the goodbye he had offered Aremu seemed the bitterest of taunts. Niccolette shuddered, holding the red back from her field.

“Did that wick have any hand in this?” Niccolette asked through gritted teeth. “By Her deadly terrors, I shall rip him limb from limb,” She spun, marching back out of the room.

“What…” Aremu’s voice trailed behind then, and she heard his shuffling footsteps against the floor, the Tincta Basta away from his usual light step. “Meraki? No! No – he saved my erse, Niccolette. Did you –“

Niccolette paused.

“What did you do?” Aremu asked, tentatively. She felt him just behind her, in the still-etheric space of her field.

Niccolette shrugged. “He was touching Uzoji’s books,” she said, glancing away. “Nothing permanent.”

Aremu groaned.

The wick was still where Niccolette had left him.

“Meraki,” Aremu said. He went across the room, and knelt, eyes wide, and then glanced back up at Niccolette, raising his eyebrows.

“Fine,” Niccolette released the upkeep, making a little face. She went past the two of them, her heels clicking on the floor, and picked up Uzoji’s books, one by one. There was one already on the shelf, in entirely the wrong place; there were some of her books there as well.

“Your feeling will return,” Niccolette told the wick, sharply. She put the first of the books back into place, glancing back over her shoulder at him. “In a few moments.”

It would come back to him as a tingling first, all through; he could feel every inch of himself, again, although movement would be sluggish a little longer.

Aremu, Niccolette was annoyed to see, was kneeling next to the wick, and already offering him a hand as if to help him rise. She made a face, and turned her attention back to the shelves, setting the next book on living conversation aside, and crouching to return one on static to its rightful shelves. She hated the idea of the filthy wick touching Uzoji’s books; she hated it all the more at the sight of Aremu’s bruised face.

“Are you all right?” Aremu asked the wick, his voice still decidedly hoarse.

Rolls

Upkeep: SidekickBOTToday at 6:53 PM
@moralhazard: 1d6 = (6) = 6

[Meraki]

Terrifying Galdor Lady's House
Morning, 22 Dentis, 2719

The galdor lady lightly scraped her delicate nails against his cheek, and informed him that he would be waiting. Meraki cleared his throat and called after her, “Oh, I guess so. If you insist, ma’am. Who am I to deny!”

He sighed as he heard her heels fade into the distance of the hall. Meraki stared at the ceiling. Well, the house made a ton more sense now if it was owned by a galdor. The woman had looked smartly put together also, so she was likely well-moneyed as most galdori were (least how he saw it). Meraki wondered where Aremu fit in, though. He’d suspect he was a servant, if it weren’t for the missing hand and the knife. No, that didn’t seem right. It had to be some other sort of connection.

So, he briefly thought about that some. Then he thought about some of what he’d read before he’d fallen asleep. Meraki didn’t want to forget what he’d been able to look through in the books. He gradually started to hum while he waited. Couldn’t move, still could hum and whistle, which was odd, but it passed the time until he heard a shriek. The woman must’ve found Aremu. Meraki wasn’t the praying sort, but he prayed then that the man was alive. Because if he wasn’t, he suspected he’d be joining the Mugrobi in the afterlife very soon.

He stopped humming and tried to listen as he heard voices, but he couldn’t make out what was being said.

The heels returned in swift clicks, followed by…

“Aremu!” greeted Meraki with a smile when he saw the Mugrobi enter his limited vision and the man knelt beside him. “You live! How ‘bout that. Ooh, that eye of yer’s, mate. Should put a warm cloth back on that.”

He looked up, though he couldn’t quite see the woman until she walked past and then out of his vision again. Meraki glanced at Aremu, then raised his eyebrows while he listened to the woman’s sharp words. He whispered in a hushed voice that was fully intended to be heard, “I think I spooked yer golly lady.”

“My fault,” he added, letting his voice return to an ordinary volume as if they were just sitting about and having tea. “Many ‘pologies. I shoulda known to scoot on out o’ here. Didn’t want to leave y’ all alone, being like you was, Aremu. Didn’t know y’ had a lady comin’ around, why’d you never mention her last night?”

He felt tingling sensations through his body and that was such a relief to actually feel connected to his body again. Meraki wiggled his fingers some, testing the motion. When Aremu offered a hand, he accepted the help and made his way first to his knees and then to standing. The Anaxi stretched his arms out with a slight wince, then popped his back.

Meraki dryly laughed, in slight disbelief, when Aremu asked if he was alright. He replied, “O’ course I’m all right, kov.”

It was a lie that he said plainly. Meraki wasn't about to admit that the woman had unnerved him (more than in just the literal sense). Nor that he felt concerned about whether he might have any lasting consequence to whatever she'd used the mona to do to his body and field in the unknown spell. He shook out his legs, to try and rid them of the tingling sensation, and he stumbled slightly. It wasn’t too far from feeling like all his body had fallen asleep. Which was to say, it felt strange.

The wick shook his head, then looked over Aremu, who was... he belatedly realized... not dressed. Sure, he'd washed the other man to clean the wounds but now, he saw the battered muscular body and smooth dark skin in the good light of morning, without the immediate concern of checking for any fatal injuries. He cleared his throat, and said, “Y’ uh-… right…”

He seemed to forget what he was about to say. Meraki shook his head then and he quickly looked over to the woman instead. He spoke to her, “Thank y’ kindly for not killing me, ma’am.”

“I'll get goin'.” Meraki headed for the hall, trying his best to walk normally despite the tingling sensations that rode through his nerves. He placed a hand on the frame, and glanced over his shoulder, and said in a clearer Brunnhold-esque pronunciation so his gutter accent wasn't so noticeable, “I’m… sorry for the trouble I caused.”

With the apology said, he made his way down the hall. He found his boots and socks, sat on the floor and pulled them on. Meraki didn't bother with the laces. The wick got himself back up and headed for the front door.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Early Morning, 22 Dentis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Aremu had woken to the sound of distant raised voices, half-remembered, like a dream. He had woken to a sharp ache all through him; his face worst of all, but his chest too, and his shoulder. He had woken to the thin trickle of light through the window, and shut his eyes tighter against it, and then grunted in pain at the ache that lanced through the bad one.

He had woken, too, conscious of the cool press of cloth against his bare skin. It was not unusual for him, but neither did he remember taking his clothing off; neither did he remember the washing that must have been done, because there wasn’t much feeling of dried blood against his skin. He knew that well enough, after so many years.

If he had dreamt, he did not remember it, not clearly. He thought he could find the scent of blood in his memory, but he thought it was only the night before, and nothing more. He thought he could find, too, the thrusting ache of a blade that had struck home, but again he did not think it only a dream.

Aremu had managed a slow levering of himself to sit upright by the time Niccolette made it into the room. The feeling of her sharp, tight field would stay with him, Aremu thought, aching. He did not know quite what to do with the memory.

Now, he knelt next to Meraki. The wick’s smile had surprised him, and his enthusiastic greeting even more. Aremu’s face twitched at a smile when Meraki called Niccolette his golly lady, and nodded his head lightly in agreement at the wick’s stage whisper.

“I’m sorry,” Aremu said, regretfully. “I was a bit out of it, I’m afraid.” He clasped Meraki’s hand, and helped pull the shaky wick to his feet. Aremu was a liar, and he knew lies well enough; he let Meraki’s pass unchallenged. He saw little enough to be gained by calling him in it.

Niccolette was still furiously reshelving books, her back tight and stiff. She’s afraid, Aremu wanted to say. The polished gold ring on her finger caught the first faint glint of morning light. She did not look at them, and did not do anything even to acknowledge Meraki’s apology.

Meraki went, lingering a moment on shaky legs in the doorway and making his way into the hall.

“I owe him,” Aremu said quietly into the stillness of the small room. He knew the words were painful; he saw Niccolette give her head the faintest, tiniest of shakes.

Aremu went out into the hallway. He was finding his stride; some of the aches and pains in his ribs were not as bad as he had feared, and at least he could move through them. Meraki was shoving his feet into his shoes as quickly as he could.

“Wait,” Aremu said, slightly hesitant, “kov.” He added after a moment, knowing enough to use the Tek properly, at least. “Are you - is there anything you need? You don’t have to go.” I am sure you want to, Aremu didn’t say. He was abruptly aware of how cold it was in the cool fall morning, and the ache of the floor against his feet; he shivered, goosebumps rippling against bare skin.

Aremu glanced back over his shoulder at the door to Uzoji’s study. He felt the space where the other man should have stood; he felt it sharply and keenly, with an ache he did not expect. “You startled her,” he said, quietly enough that he did not think Niccolette would hear. He owed Meraki, but not enough to offer up any of Niccolette’s secrets; he could not think of any debt that would be worth such, not even for his life. It was the best he could manage; he doubted it was enough.

[Meraki]

Galdor Lady's House
Morning, 22 Dentis, 2719

From threatening and furious to cold and furious, the lady had made her attitude known without a single further word. Meraki had tried the apology, but it hadn’t seemed to do much but land flat on the floor between them all. The wick retreated from the powerful galdor, fleeing from her field.

He glanced once, when he heard Aremu request for him to wait. Meraki didn’t hesitate, though, as he continued to pull his boots on. The wick looked down, while he heard the question and the… offer for him to stay? He frowned, confused and trying his best to keep his upset at bay.

“Yeh, I do,” he told Aremu in a flat toneless voice. He got to his feet and fixed his vest. “I got to leave ‘cause I can’t stay.”

Meraki raised a hand to show the bandages he had wrapped around his otherwise swollen knuckles. He added, “I took some bandages. Didn’t patch y’ up the best I could have, don’t know a whole lot about how to do that. Usually better that I don’t try.”

He tried not to look at the other man’s physique because the battered bruises looked painful but also… because. The Anaxi blond scratched the back of his head when he heard the quiet agreement that Meraki had in fact spooked the woman.

“Yeh, I know,” he muttered quietly. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, kov, I get it. I know gollies well ‘nough to know I’m gettin' away lucky.”

Lucky, for now, and he didn’t want to press that luck by overstaying his non-welcome from the lady of the house. Meraki ran his hands over his vest to smooth it out, then he glanced over to look at the other man. A faint forced smile twitched at the corner of his lips. He said, “I gotta go lookin’ for work anyway, can’t waste the daylight… y’ gonna be all right, Aremu?”

Meraki took out a cigarette from his vest pocket and set it between his lips. He tried his walk a little bit more, now that feeling had recovered almost entirely, as he stepped toward the front door. He paused to wait for an answer that sounded certain and glanced at the luggage case that had been set there. If there was something going on that he wasn’t aware of... he didn’t think there was, because it seemed like the lady cared for the Mugrobi man, but he offered anyway. He added with a slightly amused tone, “Might want to put some clothes on. Lest y’ like walking ‘bout next to naked? Daring fashion choice, ent it? So-fistic-ahtion, de-fined.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Early Morning, 22 Dentis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Aremu nodded; he understood. He remembered reaching the house only vaguely; he was glad not to know more of the long walk, and not to remember too well the pain of dragging himself step by step against Meraki’s arm. He should have told the wick to be gone early, or at least not to touch the books.

They were her husband’s, Aremu wanted to say. He’s gone now; she is trying to learn how to hold on to his memory.

And otherwise? Aremu knew he was frowning, slightly, thinking of it. They had never discussed it, he thought, uneasily. If he went and looked through the books - if she found him, reading about physical or static conversation - Aremu could feel the faint brush of the wick’s glamour against his skin. He thought of Meraki living his whole life in Brunnhold, and never entering the campus.

Aremu hadn’t made much of Meraki saying he hadn’t patched him up; he had shaken his head, faintly. He felt better than he had expected, in the morning. Not much that can be done for a bruised eye, Aremu wanted to say, so long after it’s hit. It’ll heal, and my shoulder, and my ribs too; it’ll heal quickly, if Niccolette has her way.

If you hadn’t come along, he might have said. He didn’t.

Aremu nodded his understanding again when Meraki said he needed to look for work. True or not, Aremu would let it stand. “Yes, I’ll be fine.” He wasn’t sure if Meraki meant his injuries or the angry galdor still picking up her husband’s books. Either way, Aremu knew he would be.

The wick put a cigarette between his lips and wandered towards the door. He stopped, looking back, a little amused.

“You’re the one who undressed me,” Aremu said. He couldn’t help it; the faintest of grins flickered over his face. If caught, and strengthened unexpectedly. He couldn’t have said why; standing in Niccolette’s hall he felt comfortable, relaxed, even though there was no hiding the arm that ended in a soft, smooth stump. He had his fair share of scars to go with the bruises and cuts; he knew the one down his right arm must be visible, jagged and rough still from a recent stabbing, and the one tucked against his side. There were other lines, too, from knife fights, and burns from quick work on a still hot engine. Aremu did not begrudge the scars; he was not proud of them either, not quite. They were his; they were a part of him. They marked his choices, and he should, he thought, no more look away from them than he should himself. He could not look down at his arm just then, all the same.

“You Anaxi are such prudes,” Aremu said instead with a wider grin, looking at the wick once more. It was easier, he thought, than thinking too deeply on himself. “Although it is a bit cold.” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, and shrugged.

“Thank you, Meraki,” Aremu said, quietly, then. He lowered his hand, looking at the wick, and exhaled out a long breath. “I’m grateful.”

[Meraki]

Morning, 22 Dentis, 2719

Meraki lightly scoffed when the other man stated the very true fact that he’d been the one to undress Aremu. He replied in a quick whip of his tongue, “Mate, yer not supposed to stay that way. Y’ got a lady in the house!”

He didn’t mind the other’s grin, nor the scars, nor the bruises. All part of life, scars and bruises were. Aremu’s scars were fairly interesting, he noted. They didn’t look like his own, but then Aremu didn’t look like him in any specific regard. He had to admire how comfortable the other man seemed to be, in the bare skin despite the light of morning. Meraki didn’t know if he would have managed the same. He would have least found some trousers to pull on.

When the response about Anaxi being prudes came, that conjured an actual laugh from the wick. He scratched the side of his head and ruffled his copper-blond hair. Meraki wanted to respond with something, but he didn’t know enough about Mugroba to even attempt something like that. The best he knew was that it was a distant land that had a lot of exports that came to Anaxas… and trivial other things here and there.

He lingered at the door, not quite leaving yet, as it seemed safe enough. The galdor hadn’t followed out to the hall. Meraki remained ready though, just in case, on the heel of his foot to pivot and take off.

“Don’t mention it,” he replied to the expressed gratitude of the other man. He looked at the dark eyes, then averted his gaze quickly. “I’m… I’m just glad I came ‘round when I did. Y’… Y’ take care of yerself, Aremu. Tell yer golly I’m sorry again, for me.”

Meraki opened the front door, waved once without looking back, and left the house.

He shut the door behind him, and then quickly started down the path toward the gate. The wick’s hands smoothed over his vest, checking that he had all his belongings… and the little silver lighter that he’d pilfered along with the stolen words from the galdori books. The further away he could get from that house, the better. He smiled despite himself and decided he had plenty of tasks ahead of him in the harbor today.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Early Morning, 22 Dentis, 2719
The Ibutatu Residence, Quarter Fords

Niccolette came out from the study, her arms full of books. Aremu stood at the door, still, quiet, looking at it as it closed.

“Done, then?” The Bastian asked, sharply. Her lips pressed together, and softened, and she looked away. “Go put some pants on, unless you have hurt your legs as well.”

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Aremu offered, with a little smile. He went back into his room, closing the door.

Niccolette walked back to her study, clutching the books against her chest. She put them away, one by one, and stopped for only a moment to lean with both hands against the desk, her eyes tightly shut. How dare he, she thought, aching and furious, and she could not have said who it was she was angry with. She did not see why she should be forced to choose.

Niccolette shuddered, and put it aside, running her fingers through her hair and pushing it back off her face. She went to the kitchen then.

Aremu looked up at the sound of her shoes; he was wearing pants now, and a loose, open top. He was at the stove; it was glowing warm already, and a kettle sitting on the top rumbling softly.

“Go sit,” Niccolette snapped. “Anything broken?”

Aremu sat himself at the heavy table with a wince. “Hard to say,” he glanced down at his ribs with a grimace. “I don’t think so.”

Niccolette huffed. She came over, studying him intently. She pursed her lips, and began to cast, steady and intent. The quantitative cast to check for broken bones was familiar by now; it swept through Aremu. He held still against it, taut, and relaxed only when she finished.

“No,” Niccolette murmured. “Fractures, only,” she reached out, eyes half-focused, comparing his chest to what the mona had shown her. She pressed her fingers against one of the bruises on his ribs.

Aremu grunted, his body tightening.

“There, I think,” Niccolette said crisply. “The worst of them, anyway.”

“If it’s going to hurt,” Aremu said, “I could just rest, instead.”

“If you are careless enough to get jumped,” Niccolette snapped, “you can bear a little discomfort.”

Aremu was quiet, looking at her.

“Shut up,” Niccolette said, into the silence. She took a deep breath, looking away at the shaded light trickling in through the kitchen window.

The kettle was whistling on the stove. Aremu rose from the seat, and slipped past her. She heard the quiet sounds of grinding behind her, and then the fragrant smell of kofi rising in the air of the small kitchen.

Niccolette wrapped her right hand across her body, holding her side. She closed her eyes, tightly, standing still for a long moment.

It was several minutes before she heard the click of a cup on the table. When she opened her eyes there was kofi before her, and Aremu was going back to the counter to fetch his own cup.

Niccolette took a deep breath, picking up the cup and taking a small sip of the bitter liquid. Aremu was sitting again, holding the cup in his hand and watching her through the soft plumes of steam.

“Your ribs, at least, I should heal,” Niccolette said quietly. “You are not easy on your body.”

“I suppose not,” Aremu said with a faint shrug.

Niccolette sighed. She took another sip of kofi, and sat on the chair next to him. “What happened?”

“I was jumped,” Aremu said. He was grinning, though, crookedly, and Niccolette found she was too. She snorted, and cradled the cup in both hands. “A robbery.”

“Who?” Niccolette asked, quiet and intent. She did not look at him, but rather across the kitchen, at the light trickling in through the window. She relaxed, consciously, the flex through her field, and saw Aremu relax next to her, out of the corner of her eye.

“That is my business,” Aremu said.

Niccolette’s jaw tightened; she unclenched it, exhaling. “Your -“ the words still emerged angry, and she clamped her jaw shut again.

They sat in silence a little longer.

Niccolette drank another sip of her kofi. “Fine,” she said. “May I heal you?”

Aremu glanced at her then; she felt it, the edge of his glance, and then his smile. “Please,” he said quietly.

Niccolette sighed. She turned back to him, looking him over. Her field shifted etheric, and she began to cast, her eyes fixed on the bruise on his ribs. She wove gentleness into it; she went to the mona, and she asked, rather than demanded, with the skill she had learned these last few long years. She saw Aremu sigh as the spell sank into him; she saw him shudder, and then relax.

Niccolette kept casting; she found she could smile through it, well enough.

Rolls

Quantitative cast for broken bones: 3
Spell to heal ribs: 5