[Closed, Mature] What Kind of Man

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 28 Yaris 2719
Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua

Aremu watched Tom as he spoke; he couldn’t look away. He felt empty, drained; he did not know what had gone from him, but he was not sorry for its loss. It felt as if it had slid from his eyes with the tears, had leaked from his pores with his sweat, and eddied into the brackish water below, swirled away out into the Tincta Basta and been carried far away.

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.

Rolls

Quantitative spell on Aremu: 6
Tracker’s attack 1: 4
Aremu vs tracker, attack 1: 2 v. 2
Tracker vs Aremu, attack 2: 3 v 2
Aremu vs Tracker, attack 2: 6 v 1

[Tom Cooke]

Among the Mangroves • Laus Oma

Nighttime on the 28th of Yaris, 2719

T
om thought he saw Aremu try to smile, though it wasn’t much of one, though it was hard to see much of anything in the meager moonlight through the branches. He could see the glistening trail down one cheek, the dark eyes fixed on him in the shadow of their brows. No more breath hitching; the sobbing had stopped. Some trapped spirit ached in Tom’s chest, and it was sharper than the wound at his side or the throb of his ankle. Did it help? he wanted to ask the shadowed face, the still, dark gaze. Did you hear me? Do you believe me, in this, if nothing else?

It was a different kind of map, but it was still a map — still a map with all the landmarks in a script he didn’t know, still a map he didn’t know if he was holding upside-down. He knew some of the letters, maybe. He might’ve been able to tell you what some of the landmarks were, by their shapes if not their colors. Even if Aremu had been scattered through with stars, Tom didn’t think he’d be able to find constellations.

Tom was tired; he was tired, and he was fair afraid, in a way that’d crept into his bones and turned everything in his head to mush. His heart’d beat fast, and now it was too tired to care. He imagined it lined up with the distant drums, slower now, but still insistent, like it didn’t know how to stop, even if it should’ve.

Still holding his gaze, Aremu nodded, once. Tom nodded back, sagging with weariness, wondering if his words had eased anything inside the imbala. Wondering —

He went wide round him, at his gesture. Tom felt grateful and sad, all at once. There was no point wondering, he reminded himself; he weighed the grip of the revolver in his hand, trying to narrow himself to the feel of the cool metal on his skin. Aremu was past him, moving over the roots. The light occasionally caught a stiff hand brushing branches and trunks, streaked with blood.

There was no point wondering, but he was too tired to dam the flow of each meandering tributary. He followed the imbala through the falling blossoms, keeping him just at the edge of his field. A reminder, he remembered saying, and looked down, watching his feet find tentative places among tangled roots and slush. A reminder of what?

To whom?

He was too tired to feel; the realization washed over him, and he wanted to fight it, knowing he’d feel it later, not knowing when. I missed you, Aremu had said. He mourned me, Tom thought. He didn’t know whether he should’ve felt touched or afraid. Dazed, he looked up at the imbala’s back. He felt like he’d given up something he hadn’t meant to give — had made a mark on the map of him, a mark he’d had to live with ever since.

I didn’t mean to, he wanted to offer. The moonlight picked out the muscles of his back, shifting underneath the straps of his prosthetic. Tom looked back down at his feet. I didn’t mean to, he wanted to protest. I’d never‘ve made you care about me. I’d never‘ve put that on you.

Was that why the diablerie had chosen him? The thought was almost unbearable. More tears budded behind his eyes. The wind shook more blossoms from the trees; he looked away from Aremu, across shadows and flowers and shifting branches.

He was looking away when he heard it. His head jerked, but he was too late. He stumbled back, caught himself on a tangle of branches; he lifted his gun, but it was a threadbare thought. Tom saw the whites of a man’s eyes, the flash of a man’s arm, a knife slick with blood.

Not yet, was all he could think. Not yet, not yet, not yet. Not again; not yet.

He couldn’t point the pistol; they were like dancers, and the grip trembled in his hand. He could scarce follow them with his eyes. He heard the knife go in with a familiar crack, and then a wet crunch as a hand tore it free. The two men staggered apart, but Tom hadn’t seen who’d made the blow. His wide eyes flicked from one to the other, until he could separate them — and by then, the tracker was slumping to the ground, blood darkening his lips, glistening wet in his beard.

Tom’s back was against a mangrove. He didn’t know when he’d got there. He remembered to lift the barrel of the gun, though it wavered in the air, and he wasn’t sure he’d need it. He could see blood at the tracker’s chest, glossy and dark against his bare skin. Tom looked at Aremu.

Then the tracker started to get up, and Tom heard the imbala’s knife hit the roots.

His hand tightened on the grip of the pistol; every muscle in him went stiff. Moonlight caught on bloody teeth.

It was a clear shot, but his fingers had turned to stone. Tom felt like he was tied up in a hundred invisible threads. He’d never felt like this, in life, as a man; he’d felt like this in dreams, paralyzed so he couldn’t scream, couldn’t run. He’d felt like this as a boy, when Marleigh raised a fist. As a man, as a waking man, he’d always fought back. He couldn’t squeeze the trigger. He couldn’t breathe.

The tracker laughed; blood bubbled at his lips. Then he crumpled back to the roots, his own knife slipping from his hand, clattering and rolling off a clump of roots to splash in the water. He was still.

Slowly, Tom lowered the gun, forcing himself to breathe. The cool air hurt his lungs. He stared at the dead man a moment longer, then looked at Aremu, standing still. Are you all right? He didn’t have the strength for the words; he couldn’t’ve heard himself over the pulse in his ears. His head ached. He didn’t have the strength for any words.

Instead, he lowered the gun and moved to the fallen knife, kneeling to pick it up. The blade smeared his fingers with blood; it was warm, he noticed numbly. Hot. Rasping a strained breath, he climbed back to his feet.

He extended the knife to Aremu. The handle shook in the air between them, then steadied. Tom looked up and into Aremu’s eyes.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 28 Yaris 2719
Laus Oma, Mere Tauthua

Aremu sagged against the mangrove. His vision was blurred; his whole body ached, shot through with adrenaline, unbearable. His hand was shaking, and the tracker’s laugh rang in his ears. His breath came choked and uneven, and he could feel the beat of his pulse through every inch of him. He felt the scrape of Tom’s field against him; he couldn’t move as the other man knelt at his feet again, and picked up his knife.

Aremu watched, numb and silent; the moonlight was glinting through the mangroves on red hair crowned with dzum’ulusa petals, on pale slight fingers stained back with blood. Tom offered him the knife, and met his gaze with flat gray eyes. Aremu swallowed, hard, and took it. His breath choked, and caught, and choked again, and steadied out, slowly.

Slowly, stumbling, the imbala walked to the tracker. He was not moving; he was face down against the roots, and he was already still. Aremu took no chances; he knelt, his knee on the man’s back, and slit his throat. His hand was steady for that at least, although it began to shake again once he was done. Aremu tried to speak; he didn’t know what to say. He wanted to speak, but there were no words left to him, and no strength left to find them. He shuddered, instead, still kneeling, and fumbled the blade back into its sheath. It nicked his back, as it went in, with only one hand to guide it, but it was only a pinprick, compared to all the rest.

Aremu could not look at his side; he could not bear to know. He tried to rise; he sagged, and grunted with pain, and grabbed hold of the branches with his bloody hand, leaving a smear of blood against a grayish root and sending a cascade of flowers to the ground. He levered himself to his feet, slowly, with a choked gasp he could scarcely hear above his pulse.

Slowly, Aremu looked back at Tom. There was so much he wanted to say; it was a tangled mess in him. He was glad he did not have the strength to weep; he was not sure, anymore, what he wept for. The imbala took the deepest breath he could, and then the next, and the next again. His side ached, and his arm too, but he could breathe, and in a few moments he found that he could let go of the branch, that he could turn and begin to walk through the mangroves once more.

The world narrowed, as he went; he could scarcely see anything around him, nothing but a blur of dark branches and bright red blossoms, and, if he focused, just the next step. He could hear nothing but the rasp of his own breath, steady and uneven, but if he listened to it, he could keep breathing. Occasionally, there was a scrape of Tom’s field behind him; he could not think about it beyond that, could not even remember what it had meant to him. His world was the next step, and only then the one beyond, and the constant, unending pain.

The roots ended, and what was beneath his feet was the dock, soft wood left warped and wet by the sea. Aremu stumbled; the change was more than he could bear. After so long in the close forest the brush of the air on his skin felt like unfamiliar, strange, like a half-remembered nightmare. He dropped to his knees, and bent forward, shaking. His left hand pressed firm to the ground, but even the prothestic could not bear his weight; the touch of it sent pain streaking through his forearm, and Aremu crumbled, his right arm tucked beneath himself, until his forehead rested on the boards.

He breathed, then; he breathed, and he held, alone. He didn’t know if Tom spoke; he couldn’t feel the rasp of his field. Aremu shuddered, and dug the fingers of his left hand into the board, and lurched up, slowly; he staggered, once, but he stayed on the dock, and he stayed upright. He took a deep breath, and lifted his chin, and began to walk once more. There were no more trees to hold, nothing to keep him upright but his own will. I can, Aremu thought; he was conscious of so few thoughts, but this one blazed through. I will.

The dock ended, and they were on the wharf; there were distant drumbeats thrumming through the town, rattling the ground beneath his feet. Aremu sagged against a wall at the end of the passage; he felt Tom’s field brush him just behind, and he pulled himself upright once more, glancing around through blurred, bleary eyes. He knew the way, even like this; he began to walk. His fingers dragged against the wall, leaving bloody smears behind, and then pulled away, slowly.

Down one street, there was a bright bonfire, loud, laughing voices, raised roughly together in song. There were empty bottles, too, here and there. No one drew near; the drums were less distant than they had been, powerful, the beating heart of Laus Oma. Aremu dragged his feet to it, bare against the uneven stone ground, and he did not fall again.

He shuddered the door of the warehouse open, and at first, awfully, he felt nothing inside. He was silhouetted in the light of the town; the long rays fell past him, and he could see his own shape, stretched long and strange against them, and another behind it, small and distant.

He felt it, then, the sharp, bright brush of Niccolette’s field. Aremu shuddered, and stumbled a little further in. He could not make out what she said, but he felt her hands catch him, and he knew she spoke.

“Aremu,” Niccolette said. “Aremu!”

He sagged; he crumpled. Niccolette shrieked; the force of him brought her down to her knees, and they were crouched together on the ground. Aremu looked up at her, her pale face streaked golden by the lantern. He glanced back over at the door, back towards Tom, lingering distant. Aremu tried to nod; he was not sure whether he made it. He felt the etheric pulse of Niccolette’s field around him; he heard her chanting, and he knew he was smearing blood against the pale gold of her dress. But her arms were around him, and if she did not have the strength to lift him, she at least had the strength to hold.

Aremu let himself slip away, then; he knew she would bring him back. He did not have to fear.