Re: [Closed] Whose Heart Would Not Take Flight
Posted: Wed Jun 24, 2020 10:32 pm
Serkaih • Eastern Erg
Morning on the 30th of Bethas, 2720
T
he smell here’s like nothing he knows; it’s not like the open sands – not exactly – but nothing like Thul Ka, nothing like anywhere else. Every breath of it seems to him new and strange, and he has to stay himself from breathing in overfull, has to remind himself that he’s time aplenty to grow used to it, to know it well, and eventually to remember it.
Nkemi beside him has settled into an ease he never knew from Vienda. He takes in her posture, straight but perhaps not prefect-straight, and the soft look on her face in the dawning light.
If he throws himself into it, throws his mind and all himself back, he might be able to imagine it: that first glimpse of her in the alleyway, the raised-hackles prickling all along his spine. He can still feel it, the disarming shock – more than if she’d taken a knife out of his hand – when she took his arm and spoke to him of the past. It feels like it was years ago; he feels like a different man.
An anchor, he thinks, looking over the tsan’ehew, his eyes bouncing from one to the next. With the wind breezing through the tall, curved walls, he has the strangest feeling of heaviness and lightness, like all of it is pressing down so hard it will pluck him up into the sky, or swallow him in color. He thinks about it, and thinks more.
He isn’t yet ready to speak when they hear the soft clack of a chisel on rock, just out of sight, growing louder and louder. He nearly doesn’t see him, for all he’s in the shade; he only finds him when he hears Nkemi’s whispered Mugrobi, and glances over at her only long enough to see her head bowed. He thinks the man looks familiar, but he can’t place him, and he doesn’t look long there, either.
He nods as they wind away, though there is something bitter in the set of his lips and at the back of his tongue. “Some of these must’ve been built by many hands indeed,” is all he can say, looking up at the tallest he’s ever seen.
He thinks of Niccolette, funny enough; he can’t imagine her here at all, but if he could, he doesn’t think she’d like help carving his tsan’ehew. And–? He realizes he doesn’t know if imbali are permitted here; he puts the thought away.
Would he’ve wanted to chisel one out alone? Whose? He’s seen much death, but not much grief; not many he’s loved have died, just drifted away. If he has his lass, his hama, even Dee no longer, it’s not because any of them died. He doesn’t know what to call what he feels, if not grief. But whose tsan’ehew would he chisel?
It’s dimmer, here, though not the dark two dozen paces distant, where the sunlight creeps on slow and the shadow swallows the tsan’ehew beyond it. He shivers under his light cloth; his eyes wander over the tsan’ehew here.
Another they pass is not quite as worn as the one from earlier; it catches his eye because, like more than a few here, there’s nothing in or around it, nothing but the colorful stone. Its only anchor is itself.
He blinks, looking down at it, when she speaks. They’ve stopped a few feet away; he couldn’t’ve said if that it was her or him that had done the stopping. It’s like a strange echo from his dream.
“No,” he says, soft, without thinking; “no, it wouldn’t feel right.” He can still feel it, crisper than a dream ought to be, the stone and glass and soft tangled hair underneath his fingertips.
Out of respect, he thinks, and doesn’t add. He hears some other undercurrent in her voice; still, he knows better than to ask. He looks at the worn house a moment longer, then at her, smiling.
Now, he disentangles his arm from hers. He wanders freely; he takes in the barrage of offerings on one sharp-carved tsan’ehew – this one looking very much like a house – and then another, and another… He wanders, and his steps take him just to the edge of the dark, where the sun doesn’t move fast enough to keep up with his feet. He stands on the edge of the dark, looking in, then turns and looks at Nkemi.
I think our souls are that large, he wants to say. He wonders what lives stretch out behind Nkemi pezre Nkese; he wonders what lives stretch ahead of her. He hopes very much that this one is long, but not so long as his will be.
He inclines his head as he comes back, still turning over what she said. “Do people come here often at night?” he asks.
he smell here’s like nothing he knows; it’s not like the open sands – not exactly – but nothing like Thul Ka, nothing like anywhere else. Every breath of it seems to him new and strange, and he has to stay himself from breathing in overfull, has to remind himself that he’s time aplenty to grow used to it, to know it well, and eventually to remember it.
Nkemi beside him has settled into an ease he never knew from Vienda. He takes in her posture, straight but perhaps not prefect-straight, and the soft look on her face in the dawning light.
If he throws himself into it, throws his mind and all himself back, he might be able to imagine it: that first glimpse of her in the alleyway, the raised-hackles prickling all along his spine. He can still feel it, the disarming shock – more than if she’d taken a knife out of his hand – when she took his arm and spoke to him of the past. It feels like it was years ago; he feels like a different man.
An anchor, he thinks, looking over the tsan’ehew, his eyes bouncing from one to the next. With the wind breezing through the tall, curved walls, he has the strangest feeling of heaviness and lightness, like all of it is pressing down so hard it will pluck him up into the sky, or swallow him in color. He thinks about it, and thinks more.
He isn’t yet ready to speak when they hear the soft clack of a chisel on rock, just out of sight, growing louder and louder. He nearly doesn’t see him, for all he’s in the shade; he only finds him when he hears Nkemi’s whispered Mugrobi, and glances over at her only long enough to see her head bowed. He thinks the man looks familiar, but he can’t place him, and he doesn’t look long there, either.
He nods as they wind away, though there is something bitter in the set of his lips and at the back of his tongue. “Some of these must’ve been built by many hands indeed,” is all he can say, looking up at the tallest he’s ever seen.
He thinks of Niccolette, funny enough; he can’t imagine her here at all, but if he could, he doesn’t think she’d like help carving his tsan’ehew. And–? He realizes he doesn’t know if imbali are permitted here; he puts the thought away.
Would he’ve wanted to chisel one out alone? Whose? He’s seen much death, but not much grief; not many he’s loved have died, just drifted away. If he has his lass, his hama, even Dee no longer, it’s not because any of them died. He doesn’t know what to call what he feels, if not grief. But whose tsan’ehew would he chisel?
It’s dimmer, here, though not the dark two dozen paces distant, where the sunlight creeps on slow and the shadow swallows the tsan’ehew beyond it. He shivers under his light cloth; his eyes wander over the tsan’ehew here.
Another they pass is not quite as worn as the one from earlier; it catches his eye because, like more than a few here, there’s nothing in or around it, nothing but the colorful stone. Its only anchor is itself.
He blinks, looking down at it, when she speaks. They’ve stopped a few feet away; he couldn’t’ve said if that it was her or him that had done the stopping. It’s like a strange echo from his dream.
“No,” he says, soft, without thinking; “no, it wouldn’t feel right.” He can still feel it, crisper than a dream ought to be, the stone and glass and soft tangled hair underneath his fingertips.
Out of respect, he thinks, and doesn’t add. He hears some other undercurrent in her voice; still, he knows better than to ask. He looks at the worn house a moment longer, then at her, smiling.
Now, he disentangles his arm from hers. He wanders freely; he takes in the barrage of offerings on one sharp-carved tsan’ehew – this one looking very much like a house – and then another, and another… He wanders, and his steps take him just to the edge of the dark, where the sun doesn’t move fast enough to keep up with his feet. He stands on the edge of the dark, looking in, then turns and looks at Nkemi.
I think our souls are that large, he wants to say. He wonders what lives stretch out behind Nkemi pezre Nkese; he wonders what lives stretch ahead of her. He hopes very much that this one is long, but not so long as his will be.
He inclines his head as he comes back, still turning over what she said. “Do people come here often at night?” he asks.