familiar stones of kzecka
so very early on the 30th of Achtus, 2720
Faithful are the wounds of a friend,
but deceitful are the kisses of an enemy.
Iron sharpens iron,
So one man sharpens another.
proverbs 27:6,17
In the winter months, without the sun for guidance through the houses, musical sounds were used to lead its humble, hardy inhabitants through the early daylight hours: bells marked the houses and chimes marked the hours, calling folks to prayer, to chores, to meals, to classes, to more chores, to exercise, to meals, and always to more prayer. It wouldn't be until the winter solstice in Ophus before the sun once again began to creep higher and higher in the stark sky, lending precious daylight as all of Hox crept toward the great thaw for a few fleeting months of relative warmth. Like the stars set so comfortably in their courses, so too was life in Kzecka made up mostly of a series of smooth, predictable motions nine days out of the week. Every tenth day was a day of freedom, with only bells and no chimes. Though much of the day of rest was still familiar because chores were still needed and meals were still eaten and prayers were still said, there was an open fluidity in contrast to the order that was otherwise imposed any other day.
While now used to his schedule as a student in Anaxas, it was very easy to fall into the rhythm of his childhood after a short time in his home. Long before when dawn would have crept through his dorm room window, Ezre was awake, slipping away to let his foreign guests continue sleeping, dressing in the pre-dawn darkness and padding silent and barefoot through the mostly silent space, built of the same dark stone as the mountains that pierced the thin-aired sky this far north. He took on the household duties his parents expected of him while under their roof: he woke the fires, warmed the floors, and filled the kettle. He prepared mixed grains, goats milk, and spices in the large cast iron pot to begin cooking porridge for breakfast, rummaging through the pantries for preserved fruits, pickled vegetables, fermented beans, and honey, leaving them on the table as various topping options with bowls and spoons. He set out teas and mugs, aware that he still needed to fetch water even while his stomach growled in anticipation of a meal.
Running water was a limited luxury in these isolated, frigid mountains, and nothing was quite done in the same way it was done in Frecks or Montack, larger cities with less disciplined populations of Hoxians. His family's block of thatch-roofed, volcanic stone-wrought houses shared a courtyard, a collection of greenhouses, a small tsvat, and a communal water pump, the water wells and pipes kept just warm enough to not freeze over by the same clever system that heated floors and kept the city's cobbled streets free of ice.
Tugging on boots in the foyer, fumbling in the dark, Ezre didn't bother bundling up under too many layers, even if he probably should have. Groping for Tuhir's heavy fur coat instead of his own, he wrapped himself in his otsur's warm garment, heavy dark lashes fluttering with a slow inhale, with appreciation of the familiar scents of family and well-cared for leather. He pulled up the hood, buttoning the coat up to cover half of his face like a scarf while bracing himself for the pre-dawn cold that waited for him outside once he unstuck the thick door from the fresh layer of snow and ice that held it in place. Wind clawed at his underdressed flesh, waking him further, stealing his breath, whipping at his face while he turned and slowly, quietly closed the door again behind him.
It was clear this morning, the stars twinkling in their own imitation of dawn as if shamelessly announcing how much they didn't miss the sun, as if admitting they were glad for a break in the lingering snow so that they could be seen. He saw them. Ezre always saw them, pausing for a moment to watch them while he acclimated to the cold that was not so bitter as it would have been in Intas or Bethas. Loshis would come soon enough, and at least one Hoxian looked forward to the day of their birth and the celebration of the sky. The young Guide finally pulled his dark gaze away from the heavens and glanced down over the walkway, covered though the square of communal housing was with a sort of hall around the courtyard; the snow still piled up without diligent shoveling, persistent and constant even in what other Kingdoms would celebrate as the rainy season before summer.
He would have to clear it, he knew, and if he waited until after breakfast, he was sure Lreya would have something to say about his priorities.
Ezre sighed, watching the cloud of his breath scattered by another gust, and shuffled to the narrow storage space between his home and the neighbor's. Water buckets, shovels, brooms, stacked bags of salt, gardening tools, and all sorts of nicknacks were all neatly stored and hung. He found which shovel he wanted, cold metal handle making his tattooed fingers ache beneath his gloves, and then he set to work searching for the hand-hewn stones of the front of his home, setting himself to clear a wide path from his home to the courtyard, making piles and falling into a rhythm that quickly dragged his thoughts inward.
The sound of his steady, careful scraping and soft, regular patting of snow must've caught the ears of his waking neighbors—uncles, aunts, cousins, and friends. Their responsibilities were no different from his on this tenth day, especially after such a thick snowfall the day before, but everyone moved at their own pace even as the bells rang out through the crisp air, off the black rock mountains, that the third house of the day, the morning, had finally arrived without the light of the sun.
He didn't notice when the slightly older Jsara—a Guide like Ezre, though they'd chosen to stay in Kzecka instead of attend Frecks—joined him across the courtyard or when much younger Zker bound out into the snow, bundled in so many layers by his umah, Tuhir's sister, that it was a wonder he could hold a shovel at all. The child of a raen's mind was far away, back over the sands of Mugroba, back in Anaxas, drifting already toward Bastia, tracing routes toward Florne. He thought of all the maps he and Lilanee had spread across the fur-lined floor upstairs, maps borrowed from one of the libraries they'd spent at least half a day in, delving deep for clues on how best to prepare for other journeys ahead. He thought of soft conversation by the ruddy glow of phosphor and the comfort of warm, spiced milk after dinner.
"You smile too much, Vks'gk." Jsara's voice pulled him back to the moment as he dumped another pile of snow. He blinked at the face across from his, the other cxîl's tattoos a mirror of his own, but two lines split the bow of their lips and disappeared into a thick wool scarf. Taller by almost half the span of Ezre's hand, the other Guide had led him in meditation in Roalis while new ink had been laid beneath his skin.
Had he been smiling just now, thinking himself alone?
His cheeks suddenly felt warm and he attempted to relax the muscles of his delicate features, ducking deeper into the fur-lined hood that had spent so many years pressed against Tuhir's well-hewn jawline instead of his own.
"I do what, cousin?"
"The fire-haired people of the west make them happy. It has lightened Ezre's countenance but not so much as to cause them to stumble." Zker replied with all the innocent wisdom of a child, his voice breaking over the Deftung as he'd barely come of age. His young expression was deadpan, but the edge in his tone was unmistakable. Instead of gently piling his shovel full of snow, the youth tossed it, spraying them both.
"They have all made Ezre too soft. I saw it in Roalis." There was a challenge in the caprise of his cousin's field, Jsara turning their back on the other Guide while moving to shovel another neat row through the courtyard, all three of them working to clear the square so that they could, most likely, also all draw water before breakfast. While they were no longer the youngest family members in their communal block of housing, they were the ones expected to do the hardest work.
"Travel has not eroded the mountainous foundations of who I am." Surely, even he believed that about himself, his words dissolving in steam against his face and his heart sinking into his chest. His hands had stopped aching now, burning instead, and his toes tingled from the cold,"But different winds have carved unfamiliar shapes in the cliffs I choose to climb."
The airy lightness of his stronger, more powerful field pressed back against the caprise while Ezre chose to shovel next to his cousin, both their faces as blank and unreadable as expected out here in public view even if it was only the three of them.
"I have seen the way you look at the Anaxi—"
"The Hessean—" Jsara corrected Zker firmly, tongue shaping another syllable—the younger Guide knew exactly the word that his peer wanted to use in its stead: heathen. He'd used it, he knew, but this time, he made sure to cut off his cousin before they could, too.
"—Kuleda'gk. Yes." He admonished them both, using the familiar, comfortable term of reference, making sure to bring the redhead they clearly knew as his lover into the conversation as an individual person with a name instead of a nationality burdened with an immeasurable weight of mistaken cultural assumptions. He already knew where such paths led, having wandered through them and weary of the sharp stones. Just the need to set someone else's feet on the better journey picked at scabs that had not yet fully healed and poked at bruises that still hurt, even after a handful of months,"That is who you say makes me smile too much? Because surely you would never speak in such a manner about a raen, Pjo'gk, outsider or not."
"No, I would never—I—" There was a sharp exhale of consonants through grit teeth, Jsara caught in Ezre's ever-vigilant, annoyingly clever snare. Some things never changed, they supposed. Their dark eyes narrowed and they hid more of their face behind their scarf, twisting their grip on their shovel to toss all of their snow in the younger cxîl's neatly carved row. They snorted, raising a challenge instead of coming up with a retort.
He huffed, pressing on, listening to Zker hide a giggle beneath his thick layers of coats and sweaters before tossing snow back,
"I did not think so. I smile because the walk is hard, not because I have become weak." Ezre had to be honest, looking up toward his older cousin who he trusted, whose teasing he couldn't even veil endurance for.
The other Guide balked at the harshness of honesty, staggering in snow that was up to their youngest cousin's knees, leaning against their shovel to return the lingering gaze the better-traveled Hoxian had suddenly weighed them down with. The Hexxos sighed, using the back of an icy, gloved hand to wipe red cheeks, bitten by the cold. Ezre was admitting something, here in the morning dark, instead of simply playing along with their otherwise obviously immature banter.
"You smile because the summer's honey is sweet, despite how much sting of the taiga violet bee lingers with its pain." Jsara offered a brief smile, not without a heart of their own, and their tone was chagrined, immediately shamed now by how harsh they had been in their admittedly jealous joking. The older Guide would not reveal here in front of Zker how sad it had made them to hear of Ezre's time in Brunnhold and Frecks, aware that while they'd made the right choice for themselves to remain in Kzecka, there was so much they'd not seen or experienced. Living vicariously through their family's stories, they'd not realized that resentment had grown where admiration had not.
"Yes." Ezre didn't return the smile, the younger Guide catching his breath instead, dark eyes drifting from his cousin's face to the youth with them as the bundled thing kept shoveling past them, not entirely capable of following along with the sudden depth the two Guide’s conversation had delved into. They'd had a habit of twisting favorite proverbs into their speech, though usually it was to make subtle jokes. This time, however, he hoped his cousin would feel all that lay beneath the humor.
"I can only imagine how sharing yourself with outsiders must be a strange struggle, Ez'ia. " Jsara practically whispered, biting their tattooed lip for a moment before they returned to shoveling with a grunt, unable to keep from assuaging the moment with a bit of Hex'en humor, "I always assumed you'd end up in Xerxes, tending Vessels—"
"—what? And follow in Tuhir's footsteps?" Ezre dumped his freshly shoveled load of heavy white stuff in his older cousin's way, this time returning the favor with the flicker of a smirk.
Zker giggled again, still listening, but mostly making a mess with their shovel, carving curved paths instead of being helpful.
"Maybe. Your heart is clearly warm and strong enough to keep company with raen—"
"—is it now? Well, all the better for foreigners who I have kept company with instead." He couldn't help himself, chuckling and shifting his footing with a crunch of hard, wet snow. Hip-checking the unsuspecting other Guide, Ezre tossed the older Guide right into their pile, playfully mocking offense, uncaring of the breach in expected demeanor since Jsara had clearly no interest in keeping composure, either. It was so early, and they were good friends in addition to being close family. The older galdor squeaked, sinking into the cold depths while the better-traveled Hoxian set their shovel down, taunting them with an insincere offer of his hands to help them back up again, pulling away at the last moment so he dropped them back in the snow one more time, "You cannot possibly be jealous—"
Ezre would have finished, would have pursued the possibilities of his cousin's envy and curiosity, but something thunked against the back of his head, crunchy but wet.
"I did not come out here before breakfast to be bored." Their youngest companion replied, already forming another ball of snow in his gloved hands, "I do not want to shovel either, but ttssschhh, you are not going to talk of these things now."
"I am—I was. I may still be. But, you will tell me of the shape of stones in your path later—alone—so that I may walk them with you instead of standing in your way." Jsara spoke quietly, earnestly, not returning their hands to their shovel, but reaching for a handful of snow as well. Watching Zker attempt to choose a target, they began to quickly form their own snowball. Raising their voice, the older Guide added, "Besides, I am also hungry!"
Serious conversation dissolved quickly into much-needed childish games, the three relatives tossing more hard-packed snow and wrestling in the thick, crunchy blanket that covered much of the courtyard until they were red-faced and wet, laughing and expressing themselves with all the freedom afforded by the privacy of living in a family unit. There was far too much fun had in the morning darkness under the stars, but eventually their stomachs reminded them that breakfast would only be served to those who'd honored their responsibilities. Soaked and still smiling, the youthful Hexxos dusted themselves off and returned to their work, too full of enthusiasm to shiver in the below freezing temperatures, even with the sharp bite of the wind,
"I am sure you have both just missed my superior speed at moving snow. I understand. Your housework has been hard without me." Ezre was nodding in agreement, still teasing them both, wiping his cold-burned face with a numb, wet-gloved hand.
It was Jsara's turn to chuckle, rolling their dark eyes and getting back to work. The three fell into a comfortable rhythm again, clearing the courtyard and covered walkway, making paths and lighter banter, singing songs. By the time they were through, everyone was both sweaty and numb at the same time, having peeled off their outermost layer before fetching their buckets, taking turns at the pump for each other, coaxing slush and actual water from beneath dark volcanic stone.
Everyone parted ways, finally tired and shivering, and Ezre entered his home to the smells of his umah in the kitchen and the low tones of his otsur helping. Two heavy buckets full of water were hefted, one in each of his hands, and he lugged them with well-practiced effort inside. Hanging back up what few protective layers he'd chosen to wear, watching them drip with a curl of his delicate lips, he welcomed the touch of warm wooden floors against bare feet once up the steps from the foyer, shuffling quietly toward the spacious kitchen, peering hungrily into the pantry.
"Do not touch a thing, Ez'ia—" She knew him, of course, and she knew his intentions, plucking a fresh steamed bun from its place and waving it in his direction, drawing him closer. The raen's voice was chiding, but her mark was true. His attention wandered over jars and other containers, tattooed lower lip between his teeth, but he obeyed, looking over his shoulder to meet the dark gaze of his mother, staring from over a basket and the oven. Her eyes flicked to the hammered metal buckets, asking for their liquid contents without asking.
She waited for empty, inked hands held out to hers before depositing the cooled bun in palms she noted were traced with scars, "—wake our company, but then you have two more trips outside, do you not?"
The young Guide was quite aware of how many buckets it took to fill the reservoir in the kitchen, just like he knew how many buckets it took to fill the bath, to do the washing, to do the dishes—
"I will get the rest, mhoen." Tuhir offered, Estuan drawn out over a rocky Deftung accent, purposefully brushing gently past Lreya with amusement in his tone and the hint of a private smile, "My coat is warm already, anyway."
"It is wet." Ezre spoke through a mouthful of bîjzan, the fluffy steamed bun full of spicy vegetables still hot on the inside and causing him to wince, "Wear mine instead."
His otsur arched an eyebrow and shook his head, disappearing back into the foyer while suppressing a soft chuckle.
The young Guide would have hovered in the kitchen, picking at food, watching his umah finish preparing porridge and dumplings, brewing tea, and frying some eggs, but the flex of her powerful, strange field was a reminder that he'd been told what to do. Cheeks flushed and burning from the change in temperature—definitely just the change in temperature—Ezre made his way through his humble home and back upstairs, quietly sneaking through the dark to the bedroom of his childhood and the sleeping Hessean still tucked beneath layers of blankets and furs, fully intent on crawling back under it all so he could rudely awaken the hapless redhead with frozen hands and chilled nose, recklessly unconcerned about the consequences of such mischievous cruelty.
Their path had been—was still—difficult, but it was worthwhile, after all.
While now used to his schedule as a student in Anaxas, it was very easy to fall into the rhythm of his childhood after a short time in his home. Long before when dawn would have crept through his dorm room window, Ezre was awake, slipping away to let his foreign guests continue sleeping, dressing in the pre-dawn darkness and padding silent and barefoot through the mostly silent space, built of the same dark stone as the mountains that pierced the thin-aired sky this far north. He took on the household duties his parents expected of him while under their roof: he woke the fires, warmed the floors, and filled the kettle. He prepared mixed grains, goats milk, and spices in the large cast iron pot to begin cooking porridge for breakfast, rummaging through the pantries for preserved fruits, pickled vegetables, fermented beans, and honey, leaving them on the table as various topping options with bowls and spoons. He set out teas and mugs, aware that he still needed to fetch water even while his stomach growled in anticipation of a meal.
Running water was a limited luxury in these isolated, frigid mountains, and nothing was quite done in the same way it was done in Frecks or Montack, larger cities with less disciplined populations of Hoxians. His family's block of thatch-roofed, volcanic stone-wrought houses shared a courtyard, a collection of greenhouses, a small tsvat, and a communal water pump, the water wells and pipes kept just warm enough to not freeze over by the same clever system that heated floors and kept the city's cobbled streets free of ice.
Tugging on boots in the foyer, fumbling in the dark, Ezre didn't bother bundling up under too many layers, even if he probably should have. Groping for Tuhir's heavy fur coat instead of his own, he wrapped himself in his otsur's warm garment, heavy dark lashes fluttering with a slow inhale, with appreciation of the familiar scents of family and well-cared for leather. He pulled up the hood, buttoning the coat up to cover half of his face like a scarf while bracing himself for the pre-dawn cold that waited for him outside once he unstuck the thick door from the fresh layer of snow and ice that held it in place. Wind clawed at his underdressed flesh, waking him further, stealing his breath, whipping at his face while he turned and slowly, quietly closed the door again behind him.
It was clear this morning, the stars twinkling in their own imitation of dawn as if shamelessly announcing how much they didn't miss the sun, as if admitting they were glad for a break in the lingering snow so that they could be seen. He saw them. Ezre always saw them, pausing for a moment to watch them while he acclimated to the cold that was not so bitter as it would have been in Intas or Bethas. Loshis would come soon enough, and at least one Hoxian looked forward to the day of their birth and the celebration of the sky. The young Guide finally pulled his dark gaze away from the heavens and glanced down over the walkway, covered though the square of communal housing was with a sort of hall around the courtyard; the snow still piled up without diligent shoveling, persistent and constant even in what other Kingdoms would celebrate as the rainy season before summer.
He would have to clear it, he knew, and if he waited until after breakfast, he was sure Lreya would have something to say about his priorities.
Ezre sighed, watching the cloud of his breath scattered by another gust, and shuffled to the narrow storage space between his home and the neighbor's. Water buckets, shovels, brooms, stacked bags of salt, gardening tools, and all sorts of nicknacks were all neatly stored and hung. He found which shovel he wanted, cold metal handle making his tattooed fingers ache beneath his gloves, and then he set to work searching for the hand-hewn stones of the front of his home, setting himself to clear a wide path from his home to the courtyard, making piles and falling into a rhythm that quickly dragged his thoughts inward.
The sound of his steady, careful scraping and soft, regular patting of snow must've caught the ears of his waking neighbors—uncles, aunts, cousins, and friends. Their responsibilities were no different from his on this tenth day, especially after such a thick snowfall the day before, but everyone moved at their own pace even as the bells rang out through the crisp air, off the black rock mountains, that the third house of the day, the morning, had finally arrived without the light of the sun.
He didn't notice when the slightly older Jsara—a Guide like Ezre, though they'd chosen to stay in Kzecka instead of attend Frecks—joined him across the courtyard or when much younger Zker bound out into the snow, bundled in so many layers by his umah, Tuhir's sister, that it was a wonder he could hold a shovel at all. The child of a raen's mind was far away, back over the sands of Mugroba, back in Anaxas, drifting already toward Bastia, tracing routes toward Florne. He thought of all the maps he and Lilanee had spread across the fur-lined floor upstairs, maps borrowed from one of the libraries they'd spent at least half a day in, delving deep for clues on how best to prepare for other journeys ahead. He thought of soft conversation by the ruddy glow of phosphor and the comfort of warm, spiced milk after dinner.
"You smile too much, Vks'gk." Jsara's voice pulled him back to the moment as he dumped another pile of snow. He blinked at the face across from his, the other cxîl's tattoos a mirror of his own, but two lines split the bow of their lips and disappeared into a thick wool scarf. Taller by almost half the span of Ezre's hand, the other Guide had led him in meditation in Roalis while new ink had been laid beneath his skin.
Had he been smiling just now, thinking himself alone?
His cheeks suddenly felt warm and he attempted to relax the muscles of his delicate features, ducking deeper into the fur-lined hood that had spent so many years pressed against Tuhir's well-hewn jawline instead of his own.
"I do what, cousin?"
"The fire-haired people of the west make them happy. It has lightened Ezre's countenance but not so much as to cause them to stumble." Zker replied with all the innocent wisdom of a child, his voice breaking over the Deftung as he'd barely come of age. His young expression was deadpan, but the edge in his tone was unmistakable. Instead of gently piling his shovel full of snow, the youth tossed it, spraying them both.
"They have all made Ezre too soft. I saw it in Roalis." There was a challenge in the caprise of his cousin's field, Jsara turning their back on the other Guide while moving to shovel another neat row through the courtyard, all three of them working to clear the square so that they could, most likely, also all draw water before breakfast. While they were no longer the youngest family members in their communal block of housing, they were the ones expected to do the hardest work.
"Travel has not eroded the mountainous foundations of who I am." Surely, even he believed that about himself, his words dissolving in steam against his face and his heart sinking into his chest. His hands had stopped aching now, burning instead, and his toes tingled from the cold,"But different winds have carved unfamiliar shapes in the cliffs I choose to climb."
The airy lightness of his stronger, more powerful field pressed back against the caprise while Ezre chose to shovel next to his cousin, both their faces as blank and unreadable as expected out here in public view even if it was only the three of them.
"I have seen the way you look at the Anaxi—"
"The Hessean—" Jsara corrected Zker firmly, tongue shaping another syllable—the younger Guide knew exactly the word that his peer wanted to use in its stead: heathen. He'd used it, he knew, but this time, he made sure to cut off his cousin before they could, too.
"—Kuleda'gk. Yes." He admonished them both, using the familiar, comfortable term of reference, making sure to bring the redhead they clearly knew as his lover into the conversation as an individual person with a name instead of a nationality burdened with an immeasurable weight of mistaken cultural assumptions. He already knew where such paths led, having wandered through them and weary of the sharp stones. Just the need to set someone else's feet on the better journey picked at scabs that had not yet fully healed and poked at bruises that still hurt, even after a handful of months,"That is who you say makes me smile too much? Because surely you would never speak in such a manner about a raen, Pjo'gk, outsider or not."
"No, I would never—I—" There was a sharp exhale of consonants through grit teeth, Jsara caught in Ezre's ever-vigilant, annoyingly clever snare. Some things never changed, they supposed. Their dark eyes narrowed and they hid more of their face behind their scarf, twisting their grip on their shovel to toss all of their snow in the younger cxîl's neatly carved row. They snorted, raising a challenge instead of coming up with a retort.
He huffed, pressing on, listening to Zker hide a giggle beneath his thick layers of coats and sweaters before tossing snow back,
"I did not think so. I smile because the walk is hard, not because I have become weak." Ezre had to be honest, looking up toward his older cousin who he trusted, whose teasing he couldn't even veil endurance for.
The other Guide balked at the harshness of honesty, staggering in snow that was up to their youngest cousin's knees, leaning against their shovel to return the lingering gaze the better-traveled Hoxian had suddenly weighed them down with. The Hexxos sighed, using the back of an icy, gloved hand to wipe red cheeks, bitten by the cold. Ezre was admitting something, here in the morning dark, instead of simply playing along with their otherwise obviously immature banter.
"You smile because the summer's honey is sweet, despite how much sting of the taiga violet bee lingers with its pain." Jsara offered a brief smile, not without a heart of their own, and their tone was chagrined, immediately shamed now by how harsh they had been in their admittedly jealous joking. The older Guide would not reveal here in front of Zker how sad it had made them to hear of Ezre's time in Brunnhold and Frecks, aware that while they'd made the right choice for themselves to remain in Kzecka, there was so much they'd not seen or experienced. Living vicariously through their family's stories, they'd not realized that resentment had grown where admiration had not.
"Yes." Ezre didn't return the smile, the younger Guide catching his breath instead, dark eyes drifting from his cousin's face to the youth with them as the bundled thing kept shoveling past them, not entirely capable of following along with the sudden depth the two Guide’s conversation had delved into. They'd had a habit of twisting favorite proverbs into their speech, though usually it was to make subtle jokes. This time, however, he hoped his cousin would feel all that lay beneath the humor.
"I can only imagine how sharing yourself with outsiders must be a strange struggle, Ez'ia. " Jsara practically whispered, biting their tattooed lip for a moment before they returned to shoveling with a grunt, unable to keep from assuaging the moment with a bit of Hex'en humor, "I always assumed you'd end up in Xerxes, tending Vessels—"
"—what? And follow in Tuhir's footsteps?" Ezre dumped his freshly shoveled load of heavy white stuff in his older cousin's way, this time returning the favor with the flicker of a smirk.
Zker giggled again, still listening, but mostly making a mess with their shovel, carving curved paths instead of being helpful.
"Maybe. Your heart is clearly warm and strong enough to keep company with raen—"
"—is it now? Well, all the better for foreigners who I have kept company with instead." He couldn't help himself, chuckling and shifting his footing with a crunch of hard, wet snow. Hip-checking the unsuspecting other Guide, Ezre tossed the older Guide right into their pile, playfully mocking offense, uncaring of the breach in expected demeanor since Jsara had clearly no interest in keeping composure, either. It was so early, and they were good friends in addition to being close family. The older galdor squeaked, sinking into the cold depths while the better-traveled Hoxian set their shovel down, taunting them with an insincere offer of his hands to help them back up again, pulling away at the last moment so he dropped them back in the snow one more time, "You cannot possibly be jealous—"
Ezre would have finished, would have pursued the possibilities of his cousin's envy and curiosity, but something thunked against the back of his head, crunchy but wet.
"I did not come out here before breakfast to be bored." Their youngest companion replied, already forming another ball of snow in his gloved hands, "I do not want to shovel either, but ttssschhh, you are not going to talk of these things now."
"I am—I was. I may still be. But, you will tell me of the shape of stones in your path later—alone—so that I may walk them with you instead of standing in your way." Jsara spoke quietly, earnestly, not returning their hands to their shovel, but reaching for a handful of snow as well. Watching Zker attempt to choose a target, they began to quickly form their own snowball. Raising their voice, the older Guide added, "Besides, I am also hungry!"
Serious conversation dissolved quickly into much-needed childish games, the three relatives tossing more hard-packed snow and wrestling in the thick, crunchy blanket that covered much of the courtyard until they were red-faced and wet, laughing and expressing themselves with all the freedom afforded by the privacy of living in a family unit. There was far too much fun had in the morning darkness under the stars, but eventually their stomachs reminded them that breakfast would only be served to those who'd honored their responsibilities. Soaked and still smiling, the youthful Hexxos dusted themselves off and returned to their work, too full of enthusiasm to shiver in the below freezing temperatures, even with the sharp bite of the wind,
"I am sure you have both just missed my superior speed at moving snow. I understand. Your housework has been hard without me." Ezre was nodding in agreement, still teasing them both, wiping his cold-burned face with a numb, wet-gloved hand.
It was Jsara's turn to chuckle, rolling their dark eyes and getting back to work. The three fell into a comfortable rhythm again, clearing the courtyard and covered walkway, making paths and lighter banter, singing songs. By the time they were through, everyone was both sweaty and numb at the same time, having peeled off their outermost layer before fetching their buckets, taking turns at the pump for each other, coaxing slush and actual water from beneath dark volcanic stone.
Everyone parted ways, finally tired and shivering, and Ezre entered his home to the smells of his umah in the kitchen and the low tones of his otsur helping. Two heavy buckets full of water were hefted, one in each of his hands, and he lugged them with well-practiced effort inside. Hanging back up what few protective layers he'd chosen to wear, watching them drip with a curl of his delicate lips, he welcomed the touch of warm wooden floors against bare feet once up the steps from the foyer, shuffling quietly toward the spacious kitchen, peering hungrily into the pantry.
"Do not touch a thing, Ez'ia—" She knew him, of course, and she knew his intentions, plucking a fresh steamed bun from its place and waving it in his direction, drawing him closer. The raen's voice was chiding, but her mark was true. His attention wandered over jars and other containers, tattooed lower lip between his teeth, but he obeyed, looking over his shoulder to meet the dark gaze of his mother, staring from over a basket and the oven. Her eyes flicked to the hammered metal buckets, asking for their liquid contents without asking.
She waited for empty, inked hands held out to hers before depositing the cooled bun in palms she noted were traced with scars, "—wake our company, but then you have two more trips outside, do you not?"
The young Guide was quite aware of how many buckets it took to fill the reservoir in the kitchen, just like he knew how many buckets it took to fill the bath, to do the washing, to do the dishes—
"I will get the rest, mhoen." Tuhir offered, Estuan drawn out over a rocky Deftung accent, purposefully brushing gently past Lreya with amusement in his tone and the hint of a private smile, "My coat is warm already, anyway."
"It is wet." Ezre spoke through a mouthful of bîjzan, the fluffy steamed bun full of spicy vegetables still hot on the inside and causing him to wince, "Wear mine instead."
His otsur arched an eyebrow and shook his head, disappearing back into the foyer while suppressing a soft chuckle.
The young Guide would have hovered in the kitchen, picking at food, watching his umah finish preparing porridge and dumplings, brewing tea, and frying some eggs, but the flex of her powerful, strange field was a reminder that he'd been told what to do. Cheeks flushed and burning from the change in temperature—definitely just the change in temperature—Ezre made his way through his humble home and back upstairs, quietly sneaking through the dark to the bedroom of his childhood and the sleeping Hessean still tucked beneath layers of blankets and furs, fully intent on crawling back under it all so he could rudely awaken the hapless redhead with frozen hands and chilled nose, recklessly unconcerned about the consequences of such mischievous cruelty.
Their path had been—was still—difficult, but it was worthwhile, after all.
