[Closed, Mature] What Kind of Man

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 28 Yaris 2719
Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua

Aremu stood, still, gathering himself. The adrenaline was wearing thin; he was growing tired once more. Tom was watching him, still and silent on the root, the gun in his hand.

Tom closed his eyes. Gathering himself? Aremu wondered. Could he close the distance in time? And if he did?

He knew the answer. He had known it for some time; he had known it much longer than he should have. Aremu didn’t move; he held onto the knife. He wondered, aching, if Tom had died bloody, with his knife in his hand. He did not know what he hoped for. He was grateful not to know.

The man at his feet was tangled in the roots, and his blood was washing through the trees.

Aremu watched as Tom put the pistol down, and took the ring off. A wedding ring, he realized, suddenly. He had not thought - in the grove, he had not worn it - he - Aremu felt a painful shock, wondering for the first time about Vauquelin - the owner, he thought, aching, of all those sneers, of the pale hands, of the wedding ring. Was he still there, somewhere? Was - who - he knew so little, he thought; he did not even know what to ask. He did not know even if he wanted to ask.

When Tom spoke again, Aremu did not understand. Not at first. It caught him slowly; it crept up on him, and yet still it took him by surprise, when the net closed. He stared at Tom across the dark gloom.

He felt hurt, at first. It was a deep, aching sort of hurt, somewhere inside him. He put his knife away behind his back, looking through the moonlight at Tom. There was fury, then, sudden and sharp, as if lacking the ability to act allowed him to feel.

”How dare you,” Aremu said, his voice harsh and bitter. “I am a liar - but - to save a life with one hand, and take it with the other,” he shook his head, his left hand clenched tight into the fabric of his pants. The hypocrisy was bitter on his tongue; he couldn’t sustain the anger, and it slid off his face like a mask. The liar’s mask, he thought, aching. He understood; he was sorry. Of course Tom could not trust him. He was a liar; he was empty inside. Did Tom think it all a lie? Did he think -

Of course he did, Aremu thought, aching. His hand relaxed. How could he think otherwise? How could anyone? He had bared himself to Tom; he had shown him the places deep inside. The anger flared again, hot and sustaining; it felt good.

But Aremu thought of the dream; he thought of Tom watching him shining through with stars. He couldn’t unsee it. Could a man lie in his dreams? Aremu didn’t think so. He knew too much; he did not want to understand. He thought perhaps he did regardless, and he could not unknow it. He thought perhaps -

He could not bear for Tom to feel this way. He could not bear it.

Aremu stepped forward once, twice, to cover the distance between them. He had thought them of a height; he realized now he was a little taller than Tom. A little taller than Vauquelin, Aremu thought. He didn’t know.

He came; he stepped close into Tom’s field, into the angry buzzing reminder of his death. Moonlight spilled over them both. Aremu met Tom’s gray gaze, and held - close enough to touch, he thought. Close enough to feel the warmth of Tom’s body.

Aremu waited, and let himself feel. “You think yourself a monster,” he said, quietly, not more than six inches from Tom. His lips pressed together, firm, then loosened; the tightness of his shoulders eased, and Aremu sighed, but didn’t pull away. He did not know if he would be believed; he knew that he had to speak regardless. “I should prefer to decide for myself.”

[Tom Cooke]

Festival Hall • Laus Oma

Evening on the 28th of Yaris, 2719

T
o save a life with one hand, and take it with the other.

How dare you, he wanted to hurl back, suddenly incensed. A life? What life? He knew it wasn’t fair, but he burned with it; it was like all the shame, all the stress, of the past two days — ever since the cliffs — had boiled to bubbling over. Aremu was framed in drifting blossoms, limned with moonlight. Tom couldn’t even begin to read him. The cliffs—!

Tom sat his jaw hard, but he didn’t move. For a half-second, spurred on by his anger, he wanted to believe that Aremu Ediwo was lying. Even as the imbala tucked the knife into its sheath at his back. Even with the natt sprawled out at their feet, rivulets of blood still playing between the mangrove roots.

It didn’t make sense, at this point. What did make sense?

Tom looked across at Aremu, the pistol still at his feet, his hands bare and empty. He felt bare. His lips were a thin, pale line, and one red eyebrow twitched. Slowly, the expression was replaced by one of fear. It wasn’t the fear of a man who thinks he’s about to die.

What did make sense?

You shunned me in horror, on the cliffs, he wanted to say. You’ve flinched at the sight of me for days, now, knowing who I am. I’m not a man to you; it’s no life to save or take. Why are you hurt? Aremu was stepping forward now, and Tom was more afraid to see the expression on his face than he’d been to feel the press of his knife. Aremu was stepping into the edges of his field, and Tom had to stay himself from stepping back. Keep your distance. You know what I am, he wanted to plead, almost angry.

But Aremu came right up to him, quiet as a shadow, stirring aside bloody blossoms. He wasn’t as close, Tom thought, as that night on the Eqe Aqawe, and he hated himself for the thought. He was still close enough to touch. Tom looked up at him, pained.

A monster, Aremu said. Tom’s brow knit, first, then his eyes widened a hair. “How,” he fumbled, softly, “where did you…”

Tom’s pulse rushed in his ears; the scent of blood and flowers in the air was suddenly heady like incense, and his stomach gave a jerk. The dream rushed up in his mind, all the shaky, shrouded pieces he couldn’t remember. No, he thought; he must’ve mentioned it, must’ve said — but he’d never used the word monster.

In front of him, Aremu’s dark eyes were thoughtful, and the set of his lips was grim. I should prefer to decide for myself, he said, sighing. Tom glanced from one eye to the other, terrified of what they saw. Aremu’s face blurred, and Tom bowed his head.

Nothing made sense. Every careful, ruthlessly practical explanation he’d concocted for the imbala’s tears was coming apart. What did make sense?

Hesitant, Tom reached up to lay a hand on his shoulder. It was warm underneath his hand, though they were both laoso with mud and blood and saltwater. He brushed a thin leather strap. He thought of the lines he’d seen on Aremu’s forearm, and swallowed a lump in his throat.

He held his hand there, feeling so much inside him that he couldn’t speak; he tried, once, all that came out was a small choked noise. He bowed his head and shut his eyes against the pressure, but he didn’t succeed. He wiped a tear from his eyes.

His breath evened out. Squeezing Aremu’s shoulder and then letting go, he managed to look up. “Very well,” he said hoarsely. “I trust your judgment.” Without moving away, he knelt to pick the revolver back up. He hesitated. “I am sorry, Aremu,” he said softly, the unfamiliar words sour in his mouth. “I don’t know what you see when you look at me. Not knowing weighs heavy, too.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 28 Yaris 2719
Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua

You know how, Aremu wanted to say. Not many do. He had known, as he spoke, what he revealed. He had not known another way. He did not think Tom would like it, when he let himself realize. It seemed somehow just to him, with what he had seen, that Tom know.

Aremu was conscious of wanting, too, to apologize; he was conscious of shame. He knew there were clairvoyant conversationalists who did such things willfully, purposefully, in accordance with the noble uses. He had no such luxury; he could not choose. I know your secret, Tom, he wanted to say, because I am not quite a man either.

Tom’s head was bent forward, his red hair tousled. Aremu had not looked for the gleam of tears in his eyes. He held still, standing in Tom’s field, feeling it scratch through him, whispering reminders. It was monstrous, he thought, and it was Tom beneath it. He knew that, now; perhaps he always had. He did not know what to make of it.

Tom’s hand settled on his shoulder. Once it would have covered the whole thing, cupped him. Now it was a thin line of flesh, a small slight hand. It was warm and soft, too, and Tom was trembling before him, still silent. Aremu didn’t look away from him, and he didn’t move either; he held still beneath Tom’s hand. Once - once, he almost lifted his hand to cup it, but he stilled the motion before it was more than a thought, and held still instead.

Tom squeezed and let go, and Aremu felt a little more alone than he had. He swallowed the feeling down. He was oddly, pricklingly conscious of Tom kneeling at his feet, and he looked down at the other man, and followed him with his gaze as he rose.

Tom did not ask him to answer, and for that Aremu was grateful. It was a startlingly intimate question, and he would not have known where to start. He could not, he knew, do it justice. He did not himself know what he saw; there were damp gray eyes in the still night air, and thin uncallused hands holding a pistol.

He offered something else instead, still keeping the same distance between them. Aremu bared himself in a different, more familiar way, one he knew how to explain. “I never know,” Aremu said quietly, looking at Tom, “what of me is seen.”

He knew it was not the same; it could not be. The mona stirred in the air around him, a reminder; he had no field to touch them. He was incomplete; Tom was a man who remembered his death, who walked alive in the skin of another. And yet he thought he understood; he was sorry for it, for the both of them.

“It is better,” Aremu’s voice was gentle, “not to linger here.” He took Tom’s hand in his, and squeezed once, lightly, his thumb tracing softly over the back of it, smearing something dark against him. Aremu was glad not to know what. He let go, not quickly, not hurriedly, but without lingering either.

Aremu glanced around, through the half-moonlit clearing. They had been here much too long; he hurt, all through, but the worst pain now was his arm. Aremu had never let being tired stop him; he knew well his own will.

“I want -“ Aremu hesitated, then, losing his resolve, or perhaps finding it. He swallowed, hard, and he sighed again. “There are things it is best that men not know,” Aremu said, softly. “But I have never been good at forgetting and I...” Aremu shifted, hesitant. He wiped his hand on his pants; he brought it up, slowly, to Tom’s cheek. There was a smear of something foul on the pale, age-dragged skin. Aremu’s hand lingered, but he thought his pants as unpleasant as all the rest, and he did not try to wipe it away, in the end.

“I would like to understand,” Aremu said, softly, his hand lowering back to his side. “If it can be explained.”

Aremu did not think Tom would answer. He stepped back, then, and glanced around. He had never quite lost track of the clearing; he knew the way. He left behind the shoes, the jacket, the shirt; he did not look for the knife Tom had lost. He ducked beneath the branches, his hand settling on the trunk of a tree, and glanced back over his shoulder at Tom.

“This way,” Aremu said, and began to walk.

[Tom Cooke]

Festival Hall • Laus Oma

Evening on the 28th of Yaris, 2719

T
It was a familiar answer, and no less precious for it. More, maybe, in a funny way: it was familiar to him, and Aremu knew he knew. Like Aremu was addressing him in a language both of them’d used together a long time ago. His smile warmed, and if was sad, he nodded. Best not know that.

I don’t think you have to be afraid, said another Aremu, a long time ago.

Another gust rocked him; he turned his head away, holding back the tears. Maybe he’d bled himself dry of them, but he was more successful, this time. Next thing he knew, he felt a familiar hand in his, running a thumb gently across the back. With a shiver, he squeezed back; he didn’t have the time to — didn’t want to — ask himself how it felt. Not now.

The imbala was right. The clearing’d become a garden of blood and fallen blossoms and mud. The gun didn’t shake in his hand, but he wasn’t steady, either. He nodded again, then turned to look into the darkness between the trees.

Never been good at forgetting, Tom thought wistfully, and knew there was nothing he could say to express what he felt. It would all be a lie. He didn’t know what he felt; he was tired, and so godsdamn full of feeling, and they still might die before the end of the evening.

Tom looked at him just in time to see the imbala’s hand raised, almost close enough — as if to brush his cheek. Tom watched him as he lowered his hand instead and turned, moving off into the trees.

He was more grateful for the imbala’s hesitant words, in that moment, than he should’ve been. He couldn’t bring himself to ask what dangers lay in understanding. You shouldn’t, he wanted to say; you shouldn’t, but I’m grateful.

Tom touched his face, wondering, despite himself, what it would’ve felt like. He felt a smear of something like dried sap and grimaced. Dusting his hand off on his trousers, he moved after Aremu, and they walked in quiet.

The thought of Aremu sitting at the foot of the tree, crowned with dzum’úlúsa, struck him again. He didn’t know where to place it, how to explain it — does it hurt, when you die — until he thought; and he kept thinking, brushing aside low hanging tangles, wincing as his twisted ankle took his weight.

It was a while before Tom could speak. “Some of it can be explained,” he said, in a low voice, “and some of it can’t.” He dislodged a flower, and a few came tumbling down. He brushed petals haphazardly out of his hair.

He paused, then looked over and ahead at Aremu, frowning. “Thank you,” he said softly. “It’s new to me, too, but we get out of this, and I’ll do my damnedest. No masks but the one I’m wearing now.”

There was another period of near-silence. There was only the occasional footstep to break it up, and most often it was Tom’s swollen ankle dragging him through the mud, or making him stumble and catch himself. He knew there were flower-bits caught in his hair and clothes; there was worse, too, and he didn’t much care.

He had no holster, so he held the gun down at his side, hidden best as he could against the dark fabric of his slacks. The weight of it was unfamiliar in his hand.

Had Aremu thought he meant to—? Tom felt a sour pang, but he held his tongue.

Even having seen—? There, again: don’t think of it, he told himself. It wasn’t; don’t be another mung Anaxi, assuming anyone that can go off will. It wasn’t.

If, Tom thought. He tasted bile, thinking of the way Aremu had looked at him on the couch, after — it. The way he’d edged around him for days. He hadn’t thought you could make yourself privy to a man’s dreams, even with clairvoyant magic, but this was different. He was afraid to look back too closely at the dream, afraid of what he’d find. He couldn’t help his sleeping thoughts. What would Aremu think of whatever had crawled into his head at his most vulnerable? He tried to shake it away, but it kept coming back. He felt ashamed and unsettled. That hadn’t been it, he told himself. The word was just a coincidence.

But then what must he think of him, wearing another man like — a mask? He thought of Yesufu and shivered. He thought of Aremu introducing him to Tsadha at the festival, an hour or two earlier, a hundred years ago. He’d been in such a rush, he’d nearly spoken over — the realization was like a bucket of cold water.

“I won’t stop you from telling Niccolette,” he added, softer. “I don’t relish in — even if I knew it was safe, nobody would believe me. People see my face, no matter how much I — I don’t see what choice there is. But it’s damned rotten of me, putting that on you, too. If I’d known...” Swallowing thickly, he fell silent.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 28 Yaris 2719
Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua

They walked for a long time, the only sound the soft stumble of feet, the ache of too-heavy breathe. Aremu made no pretense at silence; it did not matter, with Tom behind him, and he could not spare the energy. He walked, and the flowers swayed in the breeze. There was no more distant singing, but the drums went on and on, and the waves too.

There were stars above them, Aremu knew; if he climbed to the top of the mangroves and lay in a tangle of branches he would be able to see them, above; he would be able to find their light, and let it shine through him. Once, they came so close to the ocean that he could look out over the waves, the shining moonlight and the small white caps, but he could not linger.

Tom spoke, in time. A face like a mask, Aremu thought; the wearing of another skin. It was cold, suddenly; the wind whisked over his bare flesh and sent goosebumps along his spine, and the prickle of Tom’s field was unbearable. A half step faster and Aremu could edge away from it - could walk just out of range.

For a few moments, he did.

And then he slowed again; it lapped at the edges of him, grating, bristling. Aremu brushed through a patch of flowers with his shoulder.

He stopped, hesitant; there was silvery moonlight, ahead where it shouldn’t be, two paths; one close to the shore, one to the ocean. Aremu looked between them, slowly; he could not know, he thought. There was no way to tell where they led, if one or the other was a dead end. There was only the choice before him.

Aremu made it; he kept going, wide towards the ocean, pulling himself through the trees and roots and the brackish water below, bare callused toes gripping the roots.

When Tom spoke again, Aremu glanced back over his shoulder. His hand was flat against the trunk of the tree; his fingers pressed against it, just a moment, and then his arm lowered. He kept walking.

“I am a liar,” Aremu said, gently, honestly. He was tired; he was so tired. He kept walking. “It is nothing to me,” he lied, softly, and found another truth. “There is nothing in me which can be stained.” You know that, now, he thought. Perhaps you always did.

Aremu ducked beneath a branch, quiet, thinking through Tom’s offer. In the festival hall, he had been unable to bear the lie on Niccolette’s lips. Now, he was not so sure. He understood; what could Tom do? It was beyond belief. He had been afraid, for himself and for her. He had been hurt and angry. Perhaps he still was.

“I don’t know what good it would do, to tell her,” Aremu said, slowly. “Perhaps it is not a lie. A man can have many names, and not lie when he chooses only one.” Whatever is left of Vauquelin, Aremu thought, it walks through the roots behind me. You have taken his face, Tom; why not his name?

He could not imagine what Niccolette would make of it. She had not liked Tom; he had known that always. He understood it. He had felt the shame of Uzoji’s injury, the shame of knowing that he might have passed with Aremu helpless. Now, he knew it all too well.

A dead man in the skin of another dead man, wearing him like a mask. Let her have her honesty, Aremu thought; let her believe in it. He would take what lies he could upon himself; this, at least, he could do for her. He did not need her to know of this; he did not need to burden her with this horror.

“Does the name feel like yours?” Aremu asked, softly. He brushed aside another branch; he held it softly out of the way for Tom, a dark shape against the red flowers. The moon was hidden behind a cloud, and they were colored only by contrast, lighter than Aremu.

He wondered when Tom would ask; he wondered if he would ever ask. He had never told, Aremu thought uneasily. He knew it for the violation it was. Would Tom? Would he want to know the extent of it, to know how he had been - to know what he had seen? He couldn’t imagine any man would want him to see such sights; even the most open deserved the privacy of his own mind. He was sorry; he was ashamed. He said nothing. If Tom wished to put it aside, Aremu would, and he would be grateful for it.

[Tom Cooke]

Among the Mangroves • Laus Oma

Evening on the 28th of Yaris, 2719

O
nce, after he’d spoken, Aremu quickened his pace. Tom knew not to follow suit; he watched the imbala’s back, drifting in and out of shadow and patches of glinting moonlight, just outside where he knew the edge of his field fizzed. Tom felt faintly grateful. They crept on over the waterlogged roots, and Tom looked to the side instead, between the trunks and through the branches — out wide, over the Tincta.

It was ridged in glittering moonlight, distant white-cap foam. No lights on the water, not here, but they filled up the sky. The view didn’t stay for long. Tom felt grateful for that, too, though he couldn’t’ve said why. Big enough to get lost in; best stick to a path.

Aremu’d chosen a good enough one, Tom trusted. It wasn’t long before he slowed again. Not to Tom’s tired pace, of course, but slow enough to know him by the messy tug of his field. And Tom followed, still, pushing away the raw red scrape of pain on his feet, the ache in his hip, the faint sharp twist of the ankle. Aremu wasn’t pretending at silence, and he was grateful for that.

All the same, he wondered when it’d come. He kept bright-eyed; the smell of blood gave him no choice. He squinted into the dark tangle of foliage, the dropping, drifting flowers, the petals on the subtle-stirring water. Everything was movement, so nothing was movement. He thought of the tracker, barefoot-quiet, dropping from the tree. With all the shadows, with Aremu’s right arm tucked close again, it was hard to see the wound, but Tom knew it was there. He felt it like an ache.

The ache was named guilt. He conceded; when a man takes a knife in the arm for you, you shouldn’t accuse him of aiming to turn round and put a knife back in you. Especially not when he hands you the sharp the kov used to poke a hole in you.

But Aremu had thought it, too.

Tom kept his teeth grit when Aremu spoke again. He didn’t have much room in his lungs for words; otherwise, he didn’t know what he’d’ve said. You keep fucking saying that, maybe. Or just, chroveshit. The breath ached in his thin chest. He realized he’d never spoken coarse to Aremu; he’d never been but gentle, in life. Had he ever wanted to shout at him? He reckoned he hadn’t understood enough to be angry.

(He’d never understood why anyone’d be troubled by It, neither. He’d never even liked the word for it; he didn’t know it in Mugrobi, but in Estuan, it sounded — evil. He’d never understood why Aremu laid it at his feet in shame; but now, what the knowing meant —)

Aremu went on, anyway, and Tom nodded slowly. That answer pleased him more. He supposed it wasn’t much of a lie. He didn’t much like thinking about it, but depending on how you reasoned it out, it wasn’t a lie at all.

The imbala’s question caught him off guard. So did Aremu pausing in his step, holding aside a branch with a rustle of flowers. Tom came closer, looking at him. His voice had been soft; his face was in shadow, and Tom didn’t try to read more into it. “No,” he said, honestly. He’d thought of lying, but Aremu deserved better. “It doesn’t.”

He moved past, bowing his head. He thought his voice had sounded harsh; he brushed Aremu’s shoulder gently as he ducked through.

“I was a kenser’s erse in your orchard, and I should’ve known better than to put you in that position,” he went on. He heard the branches rustle back; he waited, hand shaky against the trunk of a tree, for Aremu to lead him again. “But that’s why. You’re probably right, in the end; a man with many faces should have many names. I still just feel like Tom.”

Frowning, he shifted his weight again, braced himself, and kept walking. He felt like they were weaving further from the coast, but the breeze was still cool and salty, and he shivered. He didn’t know if he wanted to see the Tincta again, or if it frightened him.

He looked sidelong at Aremu. “Can a person lie, without intent? Niccolette, ada’xa Temidire, ada’xa Sade and ada’na Kebe — if they believe it’s him, they can’t have lied, can they?” He tried to keep his voice even, but there was something earnest, something aching, in it. “I want to understand.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 28 Yaris 2719
Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua

Aremu felt the brush of Tom against his shoulder, unexpected, warm. He hadn’t expected it; he had only meant to - Aremu was not sure what he had meant. It was a moment before the words caught up with him.

Many faces, Aremu thought, first. Many. Not two; many. He knew Tom well. He wasn’t a careless man with with his words, not where they counted. He picked and choose, carefully; he said what he meant. It was one of the things Aremu had - that had drawn him to Tom. Many faces. His shoulder burned where Tom had brushed him; revulsion flooded through him.

And then the rest of what Tom had said caught up with him. Aremu held at the branch, still and silent and suddenly furious again. Yes, he thought. A kenser’s erse didn’t half cover it. That’s why? That’s why? I felt sorry for you, Aremu thought; he burned with the remembering. I felt sorry and you - you selfish bastard -

Tom was waiting for him. Aremu shifted away from the tree and kept walking, silent. He stopped cold when Tom spoke again, and he was shaking, now, faintly.

Aremu’s breath caught in his chest, and he bowed his head. He knew they had to keep walking; he knew it. He turned to Tom instead, anyway, looking at him through the moonlight, his jaw clenched tight.

“And what should I have called you?” Aremu asked, bitter and furious. Anger hummed low in his voice; it ached tight in his chest. He knew Tom had asked another question; he was not ready for it. He could not take another step; he could not think of anything else.

“And to tell me it’s easy to get lost in the Rose!” Aremu’s voice stayed low, cold and angry. His jaw was tight; his whole body was shaking. “What did you want, Tom? You know what Yesufu must have thought, don’t you? Coming to my room, all that flooding poetry -“ he pressed his hand to his face, taking a deep breath.

“Because you miss being called Tom,” Aremu said, quietly. He swallowed, hard, and he shook his head; he looked away. He understood, then, what he had been to Tom. How little he must have been. Perhaps he had always known. He understood. It was, he thought, angry, as good a reason as any, to hurt a man who was nothing to you. He could not think of himself shot through with stars; he couldn’t bear it.

It was not the first; Tom was not the first. It did not matter, Aremu thought; he should be used to it. He should have known better. He had understood, hadn’t he, then? Hadn’t he understood? He thought of Tom holding him close; he could not bear it. The memory of the other man’s touch burned him; it tingled over his skin and mixed with the feeling of Tom’s field and Aremu clenched his mouth against the bitter-sharp taste of vomit. He thought of himself sitting and thinking of Tom, sorrowful, and he felt the worst kind of fool.

“Fine. So be it,” Aremu said, bitterly. He began to walk again; he did not make it far.

“It is still a lie,” Aremu added with vicious honesty, turning back to look at Tom. He stood, perched on a root at the edge of the range of Tom’s field; the touch of it made him feel as if he would be sick. Aremu was shaking again; he had stopped, but he had not been able to maintain it. There were tears in his eyes again, and he hated them with a desperate, aching fury. He scrubbed them away, roughly, looking at Tom. “And so if it is not your name - then yes, with my silence, with my lies, I have caused Niccolette to stain her honor. I hope you enjoy it.”

He knew he had given away his lie. He did care, Aremu thought. He should not; he should not. There was nothing inside him; he was empty of the light he should have had. So why did it hurt? He scrubbed at his eyes again, shaking, and he could not look at Tom.

[Tom Cooke]

Festival Hall • Laus Oma

Evening on the 28th of Yaris, 2719

T
om flinched at those soft words, same as if he’d been struck. He didn’t say anything. What did you want, Tom? Aremu asked, and at the sound of his name on the imbala’s lips, he shut his eyes; he bowed his head. His lip twitched, and a line between his eyebrows darkened. It would’ve been hard to tell whether he was smiling or grimacing. He was still as stone as Aremu turned and began to walk, and when the imbala stopped again, he couldn’t look at him. He couldn’t look at anything above his feet.

Flooding poetry.

He felt the tears building up, messy and hot. He was helpless to the tide; he felt them on his cheeks almost before he could know he was crying. The knowing of it made it worse, made it more shameful. What Yesufu must have thought. His lips were pressed even thinner and paler.

“Enjoy,” he breathed. “I don’t — if you think I was — you think so little of me.” He was stumbling over his words. He tried to slow down; he stopped, opening his eyes to look at the roots underneath them. He watched the watery slurry round.

They needed to move; everything in him screamed they needed to go. But Aremu had stopped and turned back, and suddenly the whole world had narrowed to the man in front of him, standing on mangrove roots and crimson petals. What was inside Tom’s head felt more tangled than irukewi.

Because you miss being called Tom. He heard the just, the just because; he felt the sting of it. You don’t understand, he didn’t want to say. You don’t understand. It’s not hard, when Niccolette doesn’t call me Tom, when Basil flooding Shrikeweed doesn’t call me Tom. They didn’t know who Tom was. It’s because I —

“I miss you,” he said quietly, angry. His voice was thick with pain. He still couldn’t look at Aremu; his face was blotched with deep red.

That’s the problem, he thought. Flooding poetry. It wasn’t just shame; he was embarrassed, embarrassed of everything he was. Coming to my room, Tom heard, echoing in his head, and squeezed his eyes shut. The blood rushed in his ears.

“I miss — you.” His voice was even quieter, the word rasping with emphasis. “I missed the way you talked about the Rose, and stars. Before I died, I wanted to know you better, but I didn’t know how to ask — I didn’t have the words — and you wouldn’t flooding let me. And then you never came back, and I thought I must’ve hurt you terribly, and you let me go on thinking that.”

Terribly slithered through the space between them on Anatole’s tongue; Tom thought it sounded so unlike himself. Flooding poetry.

And with what Aremu had seen? Aremu must have seen? What had been in the dream? He throttled his brain to remember, now. Nothing. Kofi leaves, stained with gold. Aremu in the grove. Braiding his hair.

He’d been right; he’d been right about the tsug grove, right about how all of it looked, right from the start. Flooding poetry. He heard the bitter anger in Aremu’s voice. He was embarrassed, now, of what he’d just said. The imbala’s reputation was at stake, and what had he done?

His hand burned where the imbala had run his thumb over it, squeezed it gently. Had he felt compelled to do it? How? Had he done it to be cruel? In the corner of his eye, Aremu was wiping away more tears, rough and angry. Why? Why? He forced himself to unclench his jaw; clearing his throat, he shook his head. His breath still hitched. He shuddered.

“I don’t know what I wanted.” He looked, slowly, up at Aremu. He forced himself to meet the other man’s eye. The imbala’s eyes were glistening, too. He’d heard what was in his voice when he’d spoken of Niccolette’s honor. Nothing in him to stain. Chroveshit.

Suddenly, he felt a surge of boiling anger. “Fine. So be it,” he spat back. “I already apologized for compromising you, and I won’t do a damned thing more to make you uncomfortable. But don’t you dare pretend there’s nothing inside you, you — thoughtful, beautiful man.” His voice shook. “I should prefer to decide that for myself.” Gritting his jaw hard, he took a few steps forward, moving past Aremu, not caring whether he felt the porven or not.

He stopped short a step or two past, wobbling uncertainly on a root. His ankle ached. He could still smell dried blood. He snorted an angry breath and looked down.

“I don’t know the way to the fucking warehouse,” he muttered.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 28 Yaris 2719
Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua

You don’t understand, Aremu wanted to say. I am empty. I don’t want to be; I didn’t know I was. As a boy, as a child, I thought myself like other men; I thought I would grow to be like other men.

I would give anything, Aremu wanted to say. It’s not the mona. I don’t mind not knowing them; I have made my peace with it. But I would give anything to have a soul. I would give anything to be able to know honor and truth. I am not pretending, not about this. It doesn’t matter if I am beautiful or if I am thoughtful; it doesn’t change what I lack. There is no question of deciding. You don’t understand. You can’t. Even now, you can’t, no more than I can you.

His eyes were closed; there were tears streaking down his cheeks. He had seen them on Tom’s cheeks too. He had heard the anger in his voice; he had known that he hurt him, that the words he had fumbled out in rage and pain had struck true. He had been glad of it, fiercely glad, and then glad and sorry, and then only sorry.

Aremu wanted to say it, all of it. He wanted to be honest. Lies weren’t the only thing that built a wall; silence did too. He felt terribly alone, standing there on the root with Tom grumbling past him, locked in place by his silence.

Aremu took a shuddering breath. He could not; he could not. Not here, injured and aching in the cold damp dark; not here, with bloody fighting still to come. But there were other truths, and they were not so easy to stifle.

“I missed you too,” Aremu whispered. He sniffled; he squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them with his fingers. He squinted through the tears, and held facing away from Tom, fixing his gaze on flowers the color of fresh blood, feeling the other man’s field scrape against him.

Aremu shuddered, and tried another aching breath. It came a little easier.he was afraid, suddenly, so afraid, and he tried to ease back.“We have to go,” he said. “It’s - it’s not safe to -“ his voice cracked, as it hadn’t since he was a boy at Thul’Amat, and he lost it entirely in a tight, aching sob. He sniffled again, and took a deep breath, and he turned to look at Tom, or at least whatever was left of him.

It was enough, Aremu thought; it was enough for this. He was enough. Aremu had wanted to offer these words for so long; he had known he would never get the chance. Another lie, he thought, unknowing. Life must be full of them, full of so many uncertainties that a man who loved his honor most could never speak anything at all.

“No,” Aremu said, then. “I need to - just - let me -“ he closed his eyes, sniffled again, then lifted his gaze to face Tom as squarely as he could. He took the moment he needed to gather himself, to find the words properly. He wanted to say them right.

”When I first lost my hand...” Aremu grimaced, remembered pain twisting his face. “I knew what I thought of myself.” His voice was taut, but it steadied as he spoke, slowly, gained strength, although it was never more than quiet. “I thought it would unmake me if I saw it reflected in your eyes, and I was too close already to...” he looked down, studying the wrist and the hand before him; he ran his fingers over the wooden hand, gently, feeling the soft smoothness of it. I have come a long way, he wanted to offer. It isn’t so hard, now; I know what I still have, instead of only what I lack, at least in some ways. But that was about him, and Tom deserved better.

“I was a coward,” Aremu said, honestly, looking up again. He ached; he ached all through, and his arm ached too, and shame hurt so much less by comparison. “By the time I knew what I had done I thought it too late, and then it really was too late. But I’m so - I’m so sorry, Tom,” Aremu shuddered, and a fresh wave of tears spilled down his cheeks. He sobbed, pressing his bloody fist against his mouth to stifle the noise, closing his eyes again.

[Tom Cooke]

Among the Mangroves • Laus Oma

Evening on the 28th of Yaris, 2719

I
missed you, too.

Tom half-turned to look at Aremu. The other man was looking down, away; Tom didn’t see at what. He could still feel something wet on one cheek, but his eyes were dry, and his chest ached, and his breath didn’t hitch; he barely breathed. He lost his balance, just a pina, and had to look down and find his footing among the roots again. He held onto a branch tightly, trying to squeeze some thought, some feeling, out of his frozen mind.

It’s not safe, Aremu said. Tom swallowed; he found his throat tight and painful, like swallowing glass. Aremu sniffed, and Tom sniffed, too. He nodded once, firm. That was one thing he could bring himself to think about. He heard a choked sob, and it struck him like a lance through the chest, and his head emptied again.

But when he looked back up, his eyes met Aremu’s. They couldn’t not. They couldn’t go anywhere else but those familiar, dark eyes. Something was trying to find its way out of them, Tom thought. He stood still and attentive.

Tom listened to him, his face slack and pale, his eyes fixed. He knew he was smeared with dirt and dried blood; he knew bits of bark and soiled dzum’ulusa petals were in his clothes and hair. He felt tired, like his skin could’ve sloughed off his bones, hollow-eyed and bruised. As he watched Aremu and listened, his lips parted slightly, and his brows drew slowly together.

The moonlight gleamed in the contours of Aremu’s wooden hand. Tom dragged his eyes away from the imbala’s face long enough to watch him run his fingertips over it, smooth and expert-carved. His heart gave a lurch. He let himself wonder, for just that moment, what it would feel like. More than just to brush, in passing; to hold.

I would’ve held it, he wanted to say. I would’ve kissed it. He didn’t know if that was true. He didn’t know how he’d’ve felt, when he was alive; he was afraid to wonder. He thought how he’d felt the first time he’d seen it, on the Uccello di Hurte, and shied away. But he wanted to say it anyway, with a pulse of anger, even though it was pointless, even though it would only hurt. I would now, he thought, and wished he hadn’t, because it only made him angrier — and not at Aremu, not anymore.

The sight of the blood on his arm, glistening between the straps, banished the anger. I’m so sorry, Tom, said Aremu. His eyes trailed back up to the imbala’s face.

For a long moment, he couldn’t speak. Another sob tore its way out of Aremu, and he buried his face in his fist. Tom still watched him. Everything else slid away, down underneath the roots and the brackish slurry; everything else leaked out into the ocean, for that moment.

“Not too late,” he said, gently. He hesitated, took a step closer, lifting the hems of his trousers; hesitated again, and hung still a couple of steps from Aremu. “Too late for some things,” he added, tears budding in his eyes again, “but it’s me, and I hear you. I promise I hear you, even if that’s all I can do.”

This time, he didn’t move any closer, or lift a hand, though he ached to. He wondered about the months Aremu must have spent adjusting; he wondered at the pain he’d seen on his face, old pain.

“I can’t say how things would’ve been,” he said honestly. “I’m only sorry I wasn’t there for you. Maybe I was a coward, and I should’ve pushed harder; maybe you just needed the time. I don’t know I’d’ve understood that then, but I do now.” He tried a smile, but it was wan. He thought achingly of an empty house in Quarter Fords. Some things were too late.

He caught his breath in his throat, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, felt more tears prickling their way out. He regained himself quick; he took a sharp breath in through his nose and raised his chin.

And he took another small step toward Aremu. He reached out an arm — he didn’t so much as graze him — it was a familiar motion, the way a big kov would gesture someone round him in a cluttered space without bumping or brushing. “You need a healer. And no more flooding poetry from me.” He’d meant it lightly, but his face was still mottled with shame, and his voice shook. “I’m sorry, Aremu.”