Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua
Aremu could not smile, no more than Tom could. He tried, when the other man did, but it was a faint, trembling thing, and it flickered on his lips and died. The sobs had eased, calmed. Aremu knew there were still tears on his face, but he had not wanted to look away to wipe them. Each word was precious; they needed all he could give.
When Tom came closer, Aremu didn’t know what to expect. For a moment, he had thought - it was not only revulsion he had felt. He did not know what to make of it; he did not know. He thought he might have wept again, and he was grateful to be spared that, and unsure if gratitude was the right way to feel.
I shouldn’t have said that, about the poetry, Aremu wanted to say. He couldn’t; he didn’t know if it was a lie. He had meant those words, when he said them; he had been furious, but he had meant everything he said. To take them back now felt as if it would cheapen them and him both. Even to apologize - he was not sure he was sorry. It had needed to be said, he thought, aching, looking at the mottled red splotches on Tom’s face. I needed to say it.
Tom’s arm was wide, gesturing him around distant. Too late for some things, Aremu thought. He understood; he had understood all along, he knew, and the shame burned in him. He had flung whatever weapons he had at Tom, and now he was surprised the other man bled.
He would make it right, Aremu told himself. Later, he would - he would make it right. And if there was no later? There was a tracker, somewhere, out there in the forest, and they did not know how many men Yesufu had sent. If there was no later, Aremu thought, then this too would weigh him down. He accepted that; he made his peace with it. He could not, not now; he was only a man, and he was too tired to find the words.
Aremu met Tom’s gaze with his, held it firmly, and he nodded. He followed the course the other man had offered, shifting wide around him, and began to walk once more.
It was well into night now, but the drums had not calmed. They beat their distant rhythms from the shore; the mangroves were lit only by the light of the distant moons overhead and all the stars. Aremu kept walking. He did not know if he had chosen the right path, but the only he was on never stopped. He picked his way through the trees, slow and careful, and kept Tom close enough to feel the awful ache of his field. Aremu drew his knife, and he kept it in his hand. He used the wooden one to balance against the trees; he could not hold, but he could rest the weight of it against the branches, against the vines and flowers, and steady himself. There was no hesitation in him; he did not shy from the sight of bloody wood in the moonlight. It was a part of him, tonight; there could be no putting it away.
There was no warning, when the attack came. One moment the world was shifting breezes and brackish water; the next it was all pain. There was a line of fire on his side,
ripping through him. Aremu could not even scream; it was too painful for that, too sudden. He heard the jerk of a grunt in his voice, and there was a creeping darkness at the edge of his vision, and a blood-wet knife glinting in the midst of it.
Aremu thrust his knife out, turning, his whole body shifting into the attack. The other man parried it, dark eyes glinting over his beard. He struck back, and Aremu felt the scrape of the blade against his upper arm, felt more blood flowing alongside the sweat and grime.
Another blow, and another; they were tangled together, balanced on the roots in the moonlight. There was an ebb and flow to the fight, a pattern, and Aremu found it and he knew it. He was nothing else; he lost himself to it, all that he was given over.
The tracker slipped, on the roots, and Aremu lunged in close, and buried his knife to the hilt in his chest. He twisted the blade as he pulled it out, and came back, away, staggering faintly with weakness.
The tracker dropped; he was a slight man, and there was blood bubbling up from his lips and straining through his beard. He grunted, a distant, awful sound; he coughed, and splattered the flowers with blood. Aremu held, distant; his whole world had narrowed to the man kneeling before him, and all the rest was black.
Aremu swayed, awfully; he could smell the blood in the air, taste it. He sagged against a cushion of flowers, and tried to keep his knife towards the tracker. The galdor was watching him, dark eyes glittering, and he grinned, blood staining all his white teeth. Aremu saw him gather himself, start to rise; he watched, because he wanted to meet it as a man. His knife clattered to the roots at his feet; his hand was too weak to hold it any longer.