[Closed] I Never Dream of You

[Tom Cooke]

The Ibutatu Estate • Muluku Islands

Morning on the 27th of Yaris, 2719

I
f there was nothing wrong?

We will wait, Ahura had said; he will come back. Soon as he’d given Niccolette the steaming cup of mint tea, the glass of water he’d filled for Aremu, he retreated to a seat just out of field range. He had a hunch she’d want to cast again, and he was right.

Monite wove through the air again, and Tom listened to it. Quantitative again. He picked out words, here and there, he knew from quantitative clauses he’d heard Ezre speak. Mostly prepositions, conjunctions; Niccolette was asking, he thought wryly, fair different questions, and Tom’s quantitative vocabulary was a pina metaphysical at best. This time, he felt the spell come off again, but she sighed into her tea as if it’d done nothing for her.

If there was nothing wrong? Tom kept himself from wringing his hands as Niccolette launched into what must’ve been a repair spell. He’d been too distracted to make himself anything, and now he was regretting it, if only because he wanted something to hold onto.

He will come back, Tom thought grimly, the sluggish wheels in his head turning. He looked over at Ahura, though he didn’t catch her eye; she was watching Aremu, concerned, the older imbala’s hand on her shoulder. Husband, he thought idly. He didn’t let his gaze linger.

He thought of how disoriented Aremu’d been when he’d woken for the first time. He remembered holding the imbala close in a haze of incense, his face in his hands. Holding him until he stopped trembling. If, Tom thought.

He wasn’t sure when Ahura and her husband had left the room, but now there were smells, warmer smells, wafting out of the kitchen. His stomach ached; he should’ve been hungry, but he was frightened to hope.

When the imbala stirred on the couch, he stiffened in his seat, shifting to its edge despite himself. It was a long moment, tsuter long, with Niccolette suddenly kneeling by his side, with Aremu’s voice thick and groggy – awful, he said, honestly, and Tom couldn’t help the faintest flicker of a smile – with Niccolette helping him take a few labored sips of water.

Aremu’s gaze traveled round the room, met his eye, then – jolted away abruptly.

Embarrassed, maybe. Tom followed suit, casual as he could; he hoped he hadn’t been staring fit to make the imbala uncomfortable. They’d been laoso, those moments on the cliff. It was kind of him, at least, to say nothing of how it must’ve startled him, waking up with the mona wild and scattered and unsettled all around him. If he even remembered. Tom wished there’d been another way.

“No, ada’xa,” he put in quietly, meeting Aremu’s brief glance. “Just glad to see you up again.” He realized he’d been twisting his hands again in his lap; he forced them apart, rigid, flexed the fingers.

He half-winced when Niccolette pressed on. If, he thought, if, if – and at Aremu’s reply, he looked down at the floor, frowning slightly. You don’t remember climbing the cliff-face? Or did the waves pull you in and spit you all the way back up? If. He tried to remember if there was any water, anything slick, reflective, around Aremu; there’d only been sun-baked rock. That would explain it, he thought grimly. And he’d stumbled in afterward, Anaxi of Anaxi, and – he thought of the engine room, of Aremu’s low pleading voice. He thought of Aremu’s voice as he scrambled back against the cliff’s edge: no, no, no.

The shame returned, after all, sinking through him, leaving no room for the worry or the anger or the care. He felt only deflated. Sorry, sir. The care had nowhere to go; he stuffed it back under his heart, where it hurt, and he knew in time it’d hurt less. Emotional memories, Tom heard, in Ezre’s voice.

Regardless of what had happened, he didn’t think him and his red hair were making Aremu any more comfortable, and after that vodundun, he didn’t think there was a single chance he’d get comfortable with Their Anaxi Majesties’ councilman in the room. He remembered the shadow of a smile Ahura’d given him and looked toward the kitchen, but then he remembered her husband’s wary look, and didn’t think on it for long.

“I’ll – let the two of you be,” he said gently, rising with a creak. “Unless you need anything else. I think I’ll go upstairs awhile longer; I didn’t sleep so well.” It was as good an excuse as any, and it was honest.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Mid-Morning, 27 Yaris, 2719
The Ibutatu Estate

Aremu’s breathing had grown strained, a little shallower, and Niccolette knew better than to ask anything else just then. She patted his hand, lightly, and tugged the blanket up to cover him a little more; his hand was clammy, colder than it should have been, and she was oddly, keenly, aware of it.

Vauquelin rose, and Niccolette glanced back at him. He looked tired, she thought. She nodded, and she rose as well, her hand lingering on Aremu’s for a moment before letting go.

“Of course,” Niccolette said, the slight frown on her face lingering. She hesitated, then, looking at Vauquelin, and it smoothed out, slowly. “Thank you,” Niccolette said, and offered him a soft smile.

Vauquelin was gone by the time Niccolette returned from the kitchen with Ahura. Aremu looked clammy and tired, but he was still sitting upright.

“Aremu!” Ahura cried out. She rushed to him, Ulofo trailing behind her, his solemn, lined face brightening in a rare smile.

Niccolette smiled, and hung behind for a moment. Ahura was murmuring to Aremu in Mugrobi, something soft and soothing. Niccolette didn’t try to listen, but went back into the kitchen instead. She filled a pot with water, and added sugar, spoonful after spoonful, and about half a spoonful of salt. She stirred with a larger spoon, carefully, again and again, until the last of the grains had dissolved, and the liquid was nearly clear once more. Niccolette carried it out with a cup, and set it down on a small table by Aremu with a smile.

Ahura had gotten up, and was standing with Ulofo, his hands on her arms. He let go of her when Niccolette entered, his eyes following her carefully.

Niccolette ignored the imbala, poured a glass for Aremu, and held it out to him. “The water is staying down?” She asked, raising her eyebrows.

Aremu looked back up at her. She thought he would have been grumpy; she had expected an argument, perhaps, something – at the look on his face instead, Niccolette frowned, softly, and sat beside him once more.

Aremu took the cup, and drank it in a few long swallows, grimacing. He set it down without another word, and eased himself against the back of the couch again. Niccolette was quiet; she was not quite sure what to say.

“Rest, I think. More liquid,” The living conversationalist said after a moment. She glanced not at Aremu, but at Ahura, who nodded as well.

“I shall bring you úqikedisiq later,” Ahura said, firmly. Aremu’s face twitched at a smile, and lost it, and his eyes scarcely opened.

It was Ulofo, in the end, who tucked Aremu’s arm over his shoulder, and eased him up the stairs, slowly and carefully. Niccolette watched him go, her arms crossed over her chest, something she couldn’t name tight in her throat. She glanced at Ahura, and she said nothing. What was there to say? I think he is lying – I think something is wrong – I cannot help him. None of them would do any good, Niccolette thought, bitterly. They all might do harm.

She sat down on one of the small chairs, and buried her face in her hands.

“You should rest too,” Ahura said, gently. “I shall bring you úqikedisiq as well. Where is ada’xa?”

“He has gone to rest,” Niccolette said. “I do not think I can sleep. I shall meditate.” She was quiet, her hands tightening in her shift; her right hand settled on her side, squeezing tightly. “Tell Ulofo to keep away from the master bedroom,” she said, after a moment, looking back up at Ahura. “I do not think he shall enjoy it.”

Niccolette rose, then. She sighed, and left Ahura to carry the pot and the water up the stairs after her husband; she left Aremu to rest, and Vauquelin too. She carried herself and the ache in her chest down the hall with slow, even steps, and found the small room lit with candles she had prepared a lifetime ago. She knelt down in the center of it, and focused on her breathing, careful and steady, in and out.

I miss you, Niccolette thought, and it had the strength of a prayer. I miss you. She bowed her head then, and let her breathing slip into a familiar rhythm, and that thought, like all the rest, eased slowly away, put aside. She heard, distant, the faint creak of footsteps on the stairs, up and down, and then those too faded from her knowing, and, in time, there was only the mona, and the only bad dreams were those that made been long since made real.