[Closed] Of Sleep and Soothsayers

[Ezre Vks]

Over Dark Sands

some unfortunate hour on the 16th of Achtus, 2719

"You are a friend—unlikely but true—and I do not—well, in case you have not noticed, I do not keep many friends. It is not a talent of mine, I fear. Therefore, my answers to the typical parental question of how are things going in Brunnhold contain limited subject matter. Such as yourself." The young student looked away, down into his kofi, dark eyes probing its rich depths for the bottom of the mug while he spoke with his typical quiet honesty, even if there was the faintest hint of chagrin in his near-whispered admission.

It didn't matter.

He was Hoxian.

His needs were few, were they not?

Shifting in his seat, not quite blushing—but not quite not blushing—under the perceived intensity of Tom's concern, under the pale-eyed gaze on a tired, older face while some much younger, frustrated soul stared through them like a window, too thick, the Hexxos Guide laid out their options carefully, obviously unaware that the once-human with his knowledge of knives and curious hints of nostalgic romance had no concept of earthquakes, no frame of reference for volcanoes, and no clue just how thin the high altitude air really could be. It wasn't as though Ezre knew how to swim properly, had any concept of a sea-faring vessel, or could feel comfortable in the company of Tek-speaking wicks, either. There were so many differences—that much he knew—but he could only explain with what was familiar to him.

He did note the various expressions that played over the raen's face, glancing up while the other man's eyes were closed, while steam wafted between them in some reminder of the distance their lives had been spent in opposite.

His first answer was muffled by pastry, unintelligible Deftung before he swallowed, smirked, and waved half a baked whale in emphasis, "Y'nko. One of the very few conjunctions in Deftung, the words put together are a now lost but I believe quite disappointingly general reference to grilled pastry with a filling. There are several regional styles that are baked in different shapes and filled with various sweet flavors. These are from Frecks, and so they are filled with a type of candied yam. I—uh—"

He glanced out the window, attempting to translate the memories that rose fragrantly into his mind of an isolated childhood he now knew was unlike any typical galdori upbringing, perhaps a typical upbringing in general,

"—there is a very austere legend about where the aurora glow in the sky of northernmost Hox comes from, and I do believe it centers around a flying whale."

Brief intermission though it was, Ezre smiled faintly. He'd enjoyed those stories as a child, bundled in furs, watching the ribbons of light as they danced across the sky. He opened his mouth to speak of those lights one more time, dark eyes widening for a moment, only to realize it was much better when seen in person. He simply inserted the last warm vestiges of his second y'nko into his mouth instead, falling quiet and washing it all down with slow sips of still-hot kofi before finishing his explanation of their options.

This. Tom said, meaning his accidental vessel, meaning the clearly bizarre life of an Anaxi politician that he had to at least pretend at sometimes.

"I have only been in Old Rose Harbor twice—three times—for a transfer of flights and a layover for a few hours of foul weather, but I possess an enthusiasm for new experiences that perhaps we do not share in the same way." The Hoxian was teasing, tone so obviously self-deprecating that it was almost stripped bare of any hint of his usual inexpressive rhakor. There was a mischief in the dark pools of his eyes before he broke any possibility of a grin with a yawn, shaking his head, wishing he could assuage the kind of fear of the unknown that clung to the deeper voice of the not-galdor across from him,

"We have a saying about my homeland, Tom," He offered by means of comfort, setting his mug down and leaning a little, narrow shoulders slumping beneath the thick wool of his coat. He said it first in Deftung, quieter than the kind of pride it stirred in him really wanted to allow, before repeating it in Estuan:

"Hox is a harsh Kingdom, but we live there."

For a brief moment, the chatter behind them, two booths over, might have paused, might have held their collective breaths, but then it began again, a little less loud than before. There might have been a few pointed comments, muttered under the assumption they were out of earshot, and Ezre arched a delicate eyebrow sluggishly, unwilling to care, looking down at his inked fingers wrapped around the glazed ceramic mug, letting the sentiments about whether Hexxos lived at all drift past his ears and away with the steam,

"These things may sound worrisome, but we will all be together. If I felt as though travel would be impossible for you, I would not have extended the invitation so—"

He paused, watching another y'nko slip from the wicker, towel-lined basket with a nod, only to glance up again and meet the disapproving frown of the raen. There was something in the other man's tone that felt more like a parental warning than the doubts of a friend and Ezre's jaw clenched. He swallowed the assumption that he would somehow end up in danger, leaving his friends to deal with the aftermath—again, he heard tacked onto the end, only that last word was left unspoken out of some thinly veiled politeness, out of some gift of kindness between himself and Tom Cooke.

The dark-haired student heard it anyway. He frowned also.

"—I have made the journey myself several times. I have, at least once, traveled all of the routes I have given as options, and here I am. I am responsible for Lilanee. For you, also. In Hox. During the travel, especially. You are my guests, and I—"

His expression deepened, tattooed bottom lip pressed beneath white teeth in a familiar referential expression to the redheaded Hessean, and the Hoxian understood—suddenly? finally? uncomfortably?—that he had left a bruise in their trust in Vortas.

"—I am not going to—I would not—"

Some flare of teenaged displeasure played across his usually calm face, but he did not say anything else. There were more whales, after all, and they were getting cold.

So soon would his kofi.

[Tom Cooke]

Hurtling Toward the Unknown

A Sleepless Night on the 16th of Achtus, 2719

S
team drifted between them; the table, with its dark lacquered wood, seemed longer.

He’d struck some note he hadn’t meant to; he could see it in the way Ezre, for all his rhakor, had looked down and away. He hadn’t meant it that way, he wanted to protest. There were leagues between Anaxas and Hox, leagues and leagues, and the thought of some sagely raen in Kzecka knowing his name – and a natt name it was – had made him feel every kind of awestruck from the start.

Typical parental questions. He’d thought it had been ritual, or something; he’d thought Ezre’d told his umah about the Anaxi raen with gravity and maybe a little caution, like the telling of a dangerous secret.

How go things at Brunnhold, Ezre?

I did well on the test for comparative dialectical chemistries (he didn’t fucking know) and – by the way, umah, I met a raen, and an absolute ersehat of one –

It scraped at some unexpected tender patch. Ezre was shoving a chunk of whale in his mouth and chattering some vodundun through pastry crumbs, and he found himself smiling again, uncertain.

The lights, he’d only barely heard of; there was a bit in Tzacks about them, as he recalled. A legend of a flying whale, he’d never heard. Ezre was looking out through the thick glass at one side, as if he was hopeful to catch a glimpse of one; Tom looked askance, but the window might’ve been a mirror. “Is – there?” he asked, the smile dropping off his face. He looked at Ezre, intent. “Such a thing? A flying whale?”

He felt a familiar prickling of shame. He might’ve snorted, if he’d been in a different sort of mood. He might’ve told Ezre he’d like to see him spend his erse a night in the Rose proper, if he wanted new experiences. He might’ve told him there was nobody who liked to scrag or bed his way into a new experience like the man he used to be – he might’ve, if it’d been true.

Hox is a harsh kingdom, Ezre was saying, with the weight of someone sharing something as meant a great deal to him, but we live there.

Tom wanted to take it and hold it close, but he found himself looking down; he found it hard to keep his lips from twisting. He didn’t know what to make of the silence from the card table. He heard a rush of Deftung, but then in Estuan – he’d’ve sworn – a tatter of a harsh whisper, “... if you can call it living…”

Another, hissing on the consonant, just the word cxil.

He looked up, brow furrowing deeper. Ezre was looking down at his cup of kofi, and Tom was sharply aware of the fingers curled round the glazed clay, with their tracery of lines.

It was funny to think that was what’d struck him first about the lad he’d met in Bethas. Now, of course, there were even more of them, a thick dark line even on his face. He supposed he’d thought all galdori in Hox took such tattoos; then he’d met Ksjta. Now, he glanced past Ezre’s solemn face, toward the proud, straight-backed, rhakor-clad shape of one of the dagka. She’d gone back to the game, and something about her face told him she was winning, in spite of its austere expression.

Ezre broke off, biting his lip. Neither of them had reached for a y’nko in some time, and the steam drifting up from their kofi had thinned.

“Responsible for a human that doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing,” he muttered. It slipped him before he could stop himself. His lips twisted, and he took a sip of kofi, bracing himself on the bitter.

He found himself wishing he had the scarf from Rroxa. He didn’t think he had – didn’t think he could – show Ezre how much it’d meant to him; it’d been enough he’d laughed off, pushed through Lilanee’s comment, for all he’d seen her sideways glance. She’d regretted it, oes, but she believed it, and she’d said it anyway. Now, ridiculously, thousands of feet above any kind of solid ground, he had the urge to spit out, I don’t think this is going to work.

What else could he say? You scared the hell out of me in Vortas, and you never, not a single flood-fucking time –

Did you know what I was feeling, then? Did you know anything of it? That one of the few people I call a friend – oes, including you, you chrove – had turned her back on me in disgust at what I’d become, and another of that paltry and shrinking few shoved his way into my mind with the same magic she –

The mug made more of a noise than he’d meant it to when he set it down. “I’ve had a lot of new experiences in the last year,” he said instead, drawing in a deep, even breath. He shrugged, trying to smile. “I’m up here in an aeroship flying toward Hox, and in Dentis, I learned for the first time that Vita is round.”

He looked down. “I’m not just worried about the godsdamned journey. I’m worried about Kzecka, too – backwater raen, I am – I’m living, Ezre, and I’m taking all of this as it comes, but if dying’s meant to leave you with a zest for life…”

He did laugh, then, soft and bitter.

“It’s not you, Ezre. I just like to have a plan, these days,” he said.

[Ezre Vks]

Over Dark Sands

some unfortunate hour on the 16th of Achtus, 2719

"You mean—eh—beyond the sky? Maybe. I wanted to think so as a child, and to be honest, it would not be the most surprising thing, in my opinion." Ezre managed to interject, not shying away from just the briefest moments of revealing that he wasn't as far away from flights of fantasy as a child despite the realities of death he had grown up so tangled in. As if the truths he knew weren't strange enough, why not a flying whale?

The Hexxos was not particularly hurt by the quiet comments of old women, quite aware that one of his own kind would be washing their still, quiet body and dressing them with gentle care soon enough. A Carrier of the Dead would wrap them in whatever finery and fond memories their family provided without asking any questions, binding them with herbs chosen by those who loved them so that those fragrances could bring them comfort during the cremation, so that they could perhaps celebrate their favorite memories while smoke drifted into the thin Hoxian air. A Hexxos Hand would be there to sort whatever bones were left from the ashes, silent and without judgment, generous in their kindness during the time of mourning with their silent willingness to listen.

If these women who could perhaps see the horizon of their lives looked on his kind with such disdain as he knew they did—his kind handled corpses, his kind entered the graves, his kind saw all that the once living had perhaps once wanted to keep from view—then they were welcome to walk themselves to Xerxes, to bathe, and to curl up in a stone alcove all alone.

He would be fine with that, really, for it would be their loss—not his.

Ezre didn't laugh when Tom spoke of himself as he once was—no one here understood other than himself anyway. He was quick to glance back out the window, to blink at the depths of his kofi, and to sigh, slumping just a little bit more, when he looked back at the raen's face.

It is not about that, the Hoxian wanted to say when the older not-galdor mentioned his humanity, it will never be about that again. But he didn't, even if his dark eyes widened and his countenance brightened into a near-smile at the mention of Vita being round. It was all the galdor ninth form could do not to giggle, not to laugh, and, especially, not to roll those same wide eyes.

Humans didn't know?

Did wicks?

Did anyone—oh, well ... there might as well have been flying whales, after all.

"The journey is just as important as the destination." He whispered in Deftung, quietly with his tattooed lower lip poised just so against the rim of his kofi cup, repeating softer still in Estuan, "For the doing is often more important than the outcome."

The dark-haired Guide cleared his throat, shifting a little in his curl around his mug, chewing instead of speaking. It was more than just candied yam and grilled dough that was thick in his mouth for a moment. He tried to sort through what Tom said and what he didn't; to separate how he felt about and how he was still so ignorant of the creature in front of him.

"Kzecka is perhaps the first place you will have been where no one will be afraid of what you are, but it will also be the first place where you can find comfort in shared experience. It is—I think that—I cannot pretend to know exactly how it must feel, but—" Ezre inclined his head slightly over his shoulder in indication of the giggles and passing of cards, "—but I know the relief in being surrounded by those who accept you as you are. I am eager to be home, Tom, even briefly, and I am very sorry the weather is not welcoming. Hox is just not hospitable on the outside in any way during the winter."

The people would be, he thought to promise, on the inside it is always warm. He faltered tiredly instead, studying the raen's face when he laughed, tasting the bitterness like what was left on the back of his tongue by the hot liquid in his hands and feeling the sharp edge hidden behind soft fabric layers of sound.

"The living do not always remember to enjoy the gift they have been given, either—let us all be true here—and I know you do not feel anything but a burden from where you sit. Fear is heavy, and the well-established culture I offer you a glimpse into is—it is not—it is strange. Fantastical, even—"

That last bite of his y'nko was for emphasis. Back to those flying whales.

"—I will be transparent because I, too, am a little nervous—I believe both routes to be difficult but not deadly. My parents are making sure all of our decisions are wise, Tom. Mine more than anyone else's." It was the young Hoxian's turn to smirk, riposting with some very quiet near-giggle of his own, quick and chagrined, "There is a plan, but I do not know what to say to you other than that—again, so much of my strange biases are revealed in your company."

There was a pause, Ezre attempting to think of encouragement, of something that didn't sound like an excuse, but his thoughts were still stuck a few moments back, eddied around a single statement like stagnant water around a fallen branch. Leaning on his elbows, the dark-haired student couldn't help but add with the most mischievously chagrined of whispers, aware that this was a terrible moment to step outside of seriousness,

"Did you—do all hu—did you really not know? About Vita, that is."

[Tom Cooke]

Hurtling Toward the Unknown

A Sleepless Night on the 16th of Achtus, 2719

T
he Deftung he did not understand; the Estuan he did, though he thought it was the second half of a proverb, and the first half must’ve been mant important, too.

Since he’d woken up like this, he’d held only one thing close – the next moment – and everything had flowed from that. The outcome, he might’ve argued, makes all the doing worthwhile; it doesn’t matter what you do, so long as the end’s in your grasp.

But he knew the weight of a journey well enough. He was still angry; he did not want to hear Ezre’s words about acceptance – acceptance for what? – I don’t know what those women have against you, he wanted to argue, but it’s different. Me, I’m a monster, and if you don’t want to believe that about the raen in Kzecka – because they’re your kin, or because you love them – I don’t know what to tell you.

Even Lilanee had been afraid. He was not sure he wanted to have shared experiences with these folk; he was not sure he wanted to accept the experiences he shared. It was too flooding late for this, or maybe too early.

Ezre took another y’nko, biting into it with a soft crunch.

Tom smiled at the basket, propping his head up on a hand. “At least none of us know whether there are flying whales,” he admitted.

You wanted to think so as a child, he thought. Had Ezre known, he wondered suddenly, what Lreya was – when he was a boch? When had he learned? Raen might as well’ve been flying whales; he supposed there was comfort, at least, in the idea that he wasn’t the only one.

And in life, burden or not. He grimaced, looking down at the hand on his kofi. He supposed Hox wasn’t the only inhospitable country he’d found himself in; this one, at least, was warmer on the inside than it looked in the mirror.

Ezre asked a question.

“Why would a human need to know, Ezre-xi?” His voice came out sharper than he’d meant it to. The dagka, behind, grew quiet for a moment; he caught a pair of dark eyes, and then another.

Godsdamn him. He thought of the sight, a redheaded old Anaxi snapping at a Hexx – He let out a sigh; he tried, with it, to let out some of how he felt. All his breath did was stir the smoke a little, as if to remind him he had it in the first place. The gift, he thought bitterly, he’d been given.

All of him had been raw to the touch, in Dentis – with him. He’d never more felt the gap between what men saw and what he was, and he’d never been more unsure of what he wanted to be, of those two things. Now, he just was; there was a pair of curious dark eyes peering at him across a basket of whales, stumbling his way through another innocent question with a smile twitching through his rhakor.

Tom was tired. He thought not to answer; he thought to go back to bed.

Instead, he took another long, dark sip of kofi, and looked sideways out the window, because it was hard to speak of these things and look Ezre in the eye. “What does Vita being round have to do with your shift at the docks? And more – who’d teach you?” He tapped his fingertip on the rim of the mug, frowning. “Who do you think would teach…”

He trailed off, faltering on a helpless note. His mind felt sluggish. He’d done his people a disservice, he thought; even now, Ezre was probably smirking, thinking of the droves of mung plowfoot folk doing their plowfoot work in Anaxas, in the world they thought was flat. I never even thought about it, he wanted to protest; I never even would’ve considered it.

[color–#7d7a76] “Not all humans,”[/color] he said, looking back sharply at Ezre. “There are some in Anaxas with writs. There are some who read without them, but it’s – illegal. And schooling for humans is illegal, too, but if you want a writ, you’ve got to get your learning some…”

He took a deep breath, head sinking into his hands.

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the dwindling pile of y’nko. Fantastical, he thought, wistfully. As if flying whales are the most fantastical thing about Hox, or anywhere else.

He looked up at Ezre. “You’re a Guide, Ezre-xi; you’ll see more of this, soon enough. It leaves a – it leaves its mark on you, that’s all.” Maybe you already know a little something of marks, he thought, glancing behind, at the card players. He looked down at his kofi.

[Ezre Vks]

Over Dark Sands

some unfortunate hour on the 16th of Achtus, 2719

"Ido not understand Anaxas." Ezre grumbled quietly in some sort of riposte to the sharp not-question, attempting not to talk with his mouth full. Tongue sweeping thick, sweet paste from his teeth behind tattooed lips, he fell quiet when Tom's pale gaze shifted past him, when the booth near them quieted one more time. He couldn't help it, exhaling through his nose and rolling his dark eyes in nearly an audible fashion, shifting in his seat, turning to look over his shoulder in a vibrant moment of utterly youthful rebellion to make sure one on-looker got a weighty, unapologetic glance from the Hexxos Guide.

Everyone was quick to return to their cards then, that was for sure, but such a wordless, accusatory exchange didn't leave the dark-haired student at all satisfied. The raen had looked away by the time he settled back into a slumped, sleepy-but-awake sort of position, leaning on the table.

Not unaware of the various—exhausting—legal differences between his homeland and Anaxas, between Hox and any number of the other Six Kingdoms, Ezre hadn't necessarily spent a lot of time over his few short years attending Brunnhold actually in the real depths of Anaxi society, being an academically and socially isolated mortuary sciences student, and so he was perhaps somewhat out of the proverbial loop when it came to being aware of the details of what the lower races could and couldn't know. He'd seen wicks and humans read and write in the Stacks, in Vienda, and he'd simply assumed writs to be so ubiquitous and useful that whatever was supposedly so illegal about them was more something ancient and unchangeable in the law instead of actually enforced or practiced.

That said, it wasn't as though he was entirely sure of what humans knew in Hox, either. They were left to themselves and had been for centuries. Laws were in place to keep them from rebelling, from forming militias, from skipping out on taxes, and from cohabitating with galdorkind. There were no universities for humans, but he knew they were able to educate each other to some extent in order to interact for trade and keep themselves alive. They probably had their own schools and he had heard more than one rumor that even wandering Mhoren had been known to settle and teach them, controversially unconcerned with the repercussions.

Did he know how he felt about such things? Not entirely, but also, a little. Like staring up at what meager candlelight had filtered through nicium-laced bathwater while his lungs burned for air, Ezre still felt as though so much of the world his parents seemed so ardent that he see for everyone's sake was out of focus, unclear, and strange.

He thought it was sad, but not in the typical pitying way that his race was expected to feel. It made him uncomfortable, but not with indignant pride about what body he'd been born into all those years ago under the stars of Spar Rhavat. He knew too much about death—about life—to be comfortable with what had become the festering wound of the status quo.

"I am not blind in this moment, Tom." He offered quietly, as unsettled now as he was no longer willing to crawl back to bed, "Nor have I been these three years, even if the atmosphere of academia has kept me as isolated from Anaxi reality as the quiet tsvat'en of Kzecka kept me isolated from all of Vita. You say marks as though they are bad things, however—"

The Hexxos knew that opinion, obviously, and while he paused to sift through all the emotions and thoughts that rose slowly to the surface to singe the roof of his mouth, he shrugged.

"—Vita being round matters little to most, regardless of what life they were born into, but the inability to even discover that as a fact, the lack of freedom to do so, is a divisive issue that has weighed down the Kingdoms for so long. You knew this before, in your own way, but now, considering your supposed position in Anaxi society, you see everything as it really is. Do not let the pain that comes in the marking keep you from seeing the stories those marks are meant to tell. Or, more than that, do not dwell on the suffering so that it keeps you from action, as Tuhir would say to me far too often as a child."

Ezre set an empty mug down with a sigh, tilting his head to press the side of his face against cool wood and thick glass,

"Your Kingdom has forced me to make choices, too. Not about what I can and cannot read, but what I must be called, how I must be dressed, and who I am supposed to be like. As a galdor, you might say that I have been given so much already, so why should it matter? But outside of my small, rather marginal culture even in Hox, the lines that have been drawn beneath my skin carry meanings, too."

Inked fingers traced patterns in the condensation his breath left on the booth's window, and the young Guide didn't look back toward Tom. Through his own foggy reflection, he caught glimpses of stars and clouds illuminated by the moons, of thick snow that sparkled and dark rocks that swallowed all the light greedily. His voice dropped to a low whisper, eyes fluttering heavily with tiredness and thought,

"My umah has had four hundred years to act upon all she has seen, and what did she do? She had a child and said with this one life, go, make a difference with all you have learned in a world that does not want to listen. I prayed before I left—I pray the same prayer so often—that the Circle would give this Guide wisdom and understanding."

Turning back toward the raen, he added softer still, "And what have the gods gifted me with as a lens through which to focus my sight beyond the clouds of my home? A heathen Hessean and a once-human raen thus far, but I look forward to what else lays in wait on my path."

He huffed a chuckle, a giggle, a sly sort of smile that lingered even after his yawn,

"I cannot offer guidance to the places I have not yet traveled, only illuminate them with my companionship when we share the journey. Ghosts in the East Garden. Someone else's mind in Western Anaxas. Winter weather in Hox—at least that one I know. It will be cold and exhausting, Tom, but far safer than where we have already been. The conversations you will have there, well, those are up to you. It is my hope there is some comfort, some truths for you that you will find helpful, but I cannot guarantee there will be no pain in the discovery of new things. When you speak of how you once lived, you do not make it sound as though you were one to shy away from a little suffering in the name of a good mark. What has changed?"

[Tom Cooke]

Hurtling Toward the Unknown

A Sleepless Night on the 16th of Achtus, 2719

H
e’d listened, understanding, not understanding – he didn’t know; he was too godsdamn tired – he imagined, for a moment that slipped away just as quick, what it would’ve been like to be born again somewhere up in the mountains, ne man ne woman nor nothing like that. Not as if I don’t know, he wanted to say, even if I don’t understand. Not as if you don’t know, he reckoned, even if you don’t understand. Marks, marks, marks.

You can’t see mine, is all, he wanted to say. He wasn’t sure how to. He wasn’t sure Ezre’d understand, being as all the raen he knew were marked and labeled just what they were.

This one had politician written in some of his lines – the straight back, the straight shoulders, the keen narrow smile – galdor in his ley lines, family man in others, father, husband, benefactor, intellectual… Other lines in private places, lines he could see with his eyes even if he didn’t know what they meant. There were lines everywhere, all over him, and even the ones he could read said nothing of the soul underneath them.

He watched a slim, tattooed finger draw lines through the foggy window. The Hexx’s fingertip squeaked softly on the glass.

Maybe that was it, he thought, tired. Everybody knows what my marks mean, except they’re not the right ones. Nobody knows what your marks mean, and they’re the very thing you are.

Once-human raen. Good to know the traveling circus’s satisfied you, he thought, listening to Ezre grumble. He looked back down at his kofi, inching his cup round on the table, hsk, hsk, hsk, the liquid rippling with every turn. All he saw in it was the shape of thin, downturned lips, the lines round them dark.

The thought of smiling, even at the sight of pastry whales, was too godsdamn much right now. Vita being round matters little to most, the words echoed through his head, divisive issue, see everything as it really is… Something clenched in his stomach; he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I don’t see everything, he wanted to say. I don’t see anything. Do not dwell on suffering…

Someone else’s mind in Western Anaxas. His eyes went up, sharp and hard.

“No pain,” he muttered, huffing a breath. He laughed mirthlessly. “As if that’s what I’m hoping for.” And what was he hoping for? Why’d he come, anyway?

He met Ezre’s dark eyes; he felt a pang. With his qalqa, he thought he knew one pain from another. He knew a thrown fist from a cut. He knew what scarred and what didn’t. This pain was something like anger and something like friendship, and he hadn’t expected either of them to scar.

Hadn’t wanted them to, he told himself. So what, he wanted to say. You want me to act like the kind of man I was in life? See how that goes for you. “You call her a heathen Hessean,” he said instead, looking away, “when she’s not around to hear, I reckon. No, never mind. I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

The thought of Lilanee staring down at his carpet with tears in her eyes still stung. And your wasted erse, Ezre, he thought, your flooding…

He shook his head, passing a bony hand over his face.

The sound of a sharp Deftung whisper broke through his skull. His hand dropped; he stiffened, staring daggers somewhere past Ezre. One of the Hoxian dagka, chin raised, face coiffed rhakor, met his eye. She looked away, back down at the cards; one of the others had been staring at Ezre like he wasn’t there, and only offered Tom a sculpted eyebrow.

Tom stared at them for a moment, a nerve giving a jolt round his left eye. His eyes flicked back toward Ezre. “What the fuck’s their problem, anyway?”

Behind, sujen were clacking on the table; there was a soft shuffle of cards against the wood. “You’d think I was still a big, scarred-up human,” he hissed, lowering his voice, “for the way they’re looking at us. Do I have something on my face?”

[Ezre Vks]

Over Dark Sands

some unfortunate hour on the 16th of Achtus, 2719

Ezre smirked at the flying whales comment, perhaps given too much permission by such humor to speak too freely, relaxing too far into an unexpected place that was not as filtered as he usually kept the flow from his thoughts to his tattooed lips. He knew what he was capable of, he'd already tasted the consequences of too much of himself and too little rhakor. It was a strange space to be in, this misty miasma of relating to someone he had so little in common with save for some obscure awareness of the raen's impossible existence. There was little else, and yet the young Guide felt compelled to hang on, to curl inked fingers too tight into something that he wanted to feel like the time-smoothed stones of friendship but that still felt like the rough-hewn cliff faces of a stranger too often.

"It was not just physical—"

Ezre frowned at the basket, almost empty, feeling the sharp edge of Tom's tone of voice and yet still dragging himself along the blade of it. Dark eyes snapped back up again, wide in surprise, though, at the riposte, hot, red lifeblood rose to his cheeks instead of welled in any other visible cut. His sarcastic smile faded, flitting away like a frightened animal, replaced not with the deadpan mask of emotional distance but with a much softer, a much too honest expression of hurt.

Too comfortable and uncomfortable all at once.

He thought of his words, of Lilanee still asleep, of all the pair had talked about over and over since Vortas. His delicate brows drew together, and for a heartbeat, it looked as though Ezre thought to agree with Tom about what he shouldn't have said, as though he thought to rebuke him for commenting at all. Then, instead, inked fingers drifted across the table, tentative but not slow, coming to rest on the impatient hand still curled around the raen's mug of tea, firm and expressive, "Dru. You are not wrong. I am. I spoke out of turn. It was crude humor, but not meant as hurtful. There are very few Estuan equivalents to the terminology surrounding such depth of differences between us on such a fundamental level, but that was not a necessary statement to include about someone I do care for. She and I have—we have—since talked over such matters, and—"

He'd apologized.

He still wasn't entirely sure how to feel, and yet also he thought he knew exactly how he felt. It was strange to be so brazenly aware of feelings of affection, of the warmth of love, and yet also feel the deep desire to coldly reject what Ezre saw as wrong or foolish about the same person. Acceptance was clumsy, empathy was heavy, and yet, he wanted to find some way to wash over it all, to smooth the stones he and Lilanee knew stuck out in their path together, but he was far from perfect, either,

"—I do not know how to navigate any of this well. It is so hard. Sometimes, it is easy to forget all that we do not share in common and pleasantly enjoy each other's company. Other times, it is as though I cannot see anything, so thick is the fog of what is not the same."

Ezre tilted his head away again, out into the black landscape, sliding his hand to the table with a long sigh, shoulders sagging, "It is similar, I see, with you and I. Outside of what is familiar to me, I am a poor guide and a poorer friend. I do not think—"

The Hexxos had begun to slump toward the interior wall of the booth, wanting to lean against it, wanting to slink under the table and just not look at anyone, but he heard the whisper, too. Clearer, sharper because he was closer, and understandable because he was fluent in the old tongue of his homeland. His eyes fluttered for a moment, making a choice not to respond, but then he couldn't help but stare at the almost protective, defensive glare that the raen across from him returned to the elderly strangers.

Tom didn't not care about the Hoxian, that much he knew, but he wasn't entirely sure he didn't deserve that same expression tossed in his direction, too.

"It is dirty work, dealing with the dead."

Ezre spoke the Deftung proverb first in its original language, too loud, too obvious, too admonishing, before also whispering it in Estuan as an echo, as a translation for his friend. He almost smirked, almost, rolling his eyes and splaying both his hands on the table for emphasis, fingers wide, listening to the sudden shuffle of cards and the heaviness of chagrined silence fall behind him as voices dropped into hushed tones, "It is not your face, Tom, but mine."

He tried for a moment to imagine the sharp-featured Anaxi galdor across from him as a bigger, bulkier human, scarred and dangerous. Had he been a redhead, too? He couldn't imagine it at all, not really, especially considering just how small his referential material was when it came to humanity, and had the whispered words not been so very personal in their disapproval, he might have smiled just a little at the thought that the raen was trying to get across. He swallowed, meeting the other man's pale eyes and speaking in tired, hushed tones, "There is no hiding what I am, and there was a time when Hox operated under a much more rigid caste-like social structure, ascribing the lowest of castes to the Hexxos who handled the dead. Not just because we touch corpses, but because we see what is left behind when they leave this life."

Shrugging, he reached for his tea, staring at his rippling silhouette in what was left of the liquid, speaking of himself as much as he was of the older women behind them, "It is hard to overcome how you have been raised to see things, to stop a momentum that even you know may be in the wrong direction. Hoxians are no different in that flaw than anyone else from what I have observed now that I have left home."