[Closed, Mature] The Sun Waits to Eclipse

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 4 Loshis, 2720
The Crocus’ Stem, Cinnamon Hill

The walk from Nutmeg Hill to Cinnamon Hill was not, really, so long. Aremu knew the streets of Thul Ka well, or well enough, even after so many years. If they had changed with the passing of the years - if he had left the city before the advent of the cableways and had found the landscape changed by them, irrevocably but not regrettably - if he was unsure whether he was still quite the same man who had wandered them in his youth and his growing - he could still find his way through them, well enough.

The letter should not perhaps have been a surprise, and yet it had been. He had known it by the address, of course, when it had reached him at Dzum some weeks back. He had opened it, and found an unfamiliar hand.

He had never seen Tom write; he had not seen it in life, and he had not seen it since. He couldn’t imagine this as the other man’s hand, all the same. The words, though, the words were Tom’s, and he had smiled to read them, and then read them again, and savored it to himself.

Ada’xa Aremu Ediwo,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I was exceptionally pleased to hear about your success intercropping the úrowoxo cultivar, given its propensity for delicacy and instability, with the if’uwu variety of tsug tree. I am told that the úrowoxo kofi plants take their time, but that the yield is all the richer for the wait, especially in the company of the tsug.

I cannot pretend to know much about the process, but it seems apt: as the Symvouli cycle turns, our roots and Mugroba’s must share the same soil. In nourishing one another, we nourish the grove.

He hadn’t thought - of course, he had known Tom would be in Thul Ka for the rainy season, as all Incumbents would be. He had hoped, too; he had promised Tom once that he would show him Thul’Amat, and he had meant every word.

In the thinking there was fear and anticipation both. The more he thought of it, the more there was Aremu wanted to show him. Giddy, excited, he had nearly sat down to make a list, even if it could never be sent. He had thought better of it, then, all the same. There was fear, too, and not so much on his own behalf.

I have told you of my plans to journey to Serkaih in late Bethas; I should be returned to Thul Ka from Dkanat by the first or second of Loshis, though I may expect to be waylaid by travel. I will send word when I have arrived, and I should be grateful to discuss further arrangements during the Rainy Season.

Aremu had sent a note to the address Tom had given, after he himself had reached. It said none of the things he wished to say, only that he himself was in Thul Ka and he looked forward to seeing Incumbent Vauquelin at a time of his convenience on the manner of business he had proposed. He had started to add a line on intercropping, on the pleasures and challenges of it, and then he had stopped, and thought better of it, in the end. He wrote instead that the kofi harvest had been of good quality, and was well worth the wait.

He had not known quite what to expect or when, but not so long later a note had been returned - in rougher handwriting which he had smiled to see - and they had fixed a time.

Perhaps he would not have walked if the skies had not, for once, been clear. It had rained all morning and most of the afternoon, and then stopped, suddenly, and the clouds had seemed to evaporate, leaving behind a clear blue sky. There were traces of sunset as he walked, colorful gleams spilling half visible over the city, and sometimes when he reached the top of this hill or that he could turn to look at them, and admire it. Usually he did.

Aremu wore tan, light cloth, a long sleeved tunic and pants; his amel’iwe was orange and yellow, embroidered in red, draped comfortably over his shoulders. His right wrist rested in his pocket, the bulge of his prosthetic indistinguishable through the fabric of his pants.

He found the Crocus’ Stem, in time; he made his way up the steps, and came inside, and bowed to the front desk.

The woman behind it watched him; her eyebrows lifted, and her lips pressed into a thin purple-painted line. “Good evening, ada’xa,” her voice drifted up, ever so faintly at the end.

“Good evening,” Aremu said, unflinching. “I have an engagement with Incumbent Vauquelin on business.”

“He is not available at the moment,” the human said, smiling politely.

Aremu inclined his head. “Thank you,” he said, the liar’s smile easy to carve into the mask of his face. He is expecting me, he wished to say; he knew there was no point.

He knew better than to look at the chairs in the lobby; instead, he turned and he went back outside, standing at the edge of the sidewalk. He waited, there, his left hand finding his pocket as well, his face smooth and even.

[Tom Cooke]

The Crocus' Stem • Cinnamon Hill

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

H
e’d gotten a glimpse of Aremu’s hand-writing in the ledger on Isla Dzum, once or twice in the whirl of days he’d spent there; he couldn’t’ve looked closely enough to remember it. He’d never seen it in life – why would he have? – and so when he’d received his first reply from the Ibutatu Estate, some months ago now, he’d had the strange sense of having got in touch with the wrong person.

He’d sat up in his study, eyes skimming the lines of neatly-printed, curled letters. Precise and consistent, even with their delicate gaps and distinctive slant.

He’d felt a little ashamed at first, lying awake and thinking about his long fingers curled round the pen; he’d tried to remember the sight of him writing in the isles, but the memory of that first afternoon was a painful haze, and all he could seem to hold was the polite, watchful look on the imbala’s face. He’d read the letter over, because there was still something familiar in the dour, thoughtful lines.

That he’d replied at all was somehow more than he could’ve borne to expect, sending the first letter. And that he’d kept replying, as he’d set about pulling strings with Vienda roasters and kofi har’aqi – as the samples had come, the jars and bags of pale speckled beans – was almost more than he could bear. He remembered a half dozen afternoons serving Ibutatu kofi Vienda-style at the house, speaking lightly of his pleasant visit to the isles.

He’d thought once or twice to brush a little lavender oil onto one of the letters, before he sealed it and sent it; he never had. Less had he been willing – or able – to pen them himself. Rosmilda always wrote for him in matters of business; she always adjusted the flow of his words, switched some for others, polished them ‘til they shone.

Looking at them after she’d finished them was like looking in the mirror at a stranger. It’d been so, like reaching through a dozen layers of fabric.

The letter he’d come back to at the Crocus on the thirty-ninth was just like the rest – it’d made him smile, the solemn thoughtful rhythm of the words, though he’d wondered if he’d overstepped. He’d been sore and tired in every inch of him, the bruise dark and aching on his cheek, when he’d sat down to pen the note with his own shaking hand. He’d stopped once, wondering if Aremu thought Rosmilda’s handwriting was his; it twisted in his gut differently, now, looking over the jarring crooked lines.

He dreamt that night – he remembered, vivid, two hands with long fingers brushing through the dark tangles of his hair, lips tracing down his broad chest. He woke up numb and strangely ashamed, afraid to untangle himself from the sheets and –

“Clocking hells,” said Fétique, snapping his pocket-watch shut and tucking it away, “I’m going to be late for dinner with Marie. Those Mugrobi certainly can talk, can’t they? Anatole.”

“Hmm?” The streets of Cinnamon Hill slid by out the window; in a gap between two shopfronts, he saw a cablecar whoosh by on glinting rails.

“You’ve been in another Ever since midday. I don’t blame you. Owo’dziziq went on long enough, I’m surprised he wasn’t hoarse. All that business about setting suns and rising suns.” Fétique’s gold eyes narrowed. “Suns! Does it have to be so clocking hot here?” He plucked at his robe.

It wasn’t the first time he’d ever worn the incumbent’s robe of office, and he supposed – for one of the opening ceremonies – it was appropriate enough. It was a draping, flowing thing, not too much unlike professors’ uniforms at Brunnhold, all slit sleeves so long you could trip on them. It was solid black, with silver-embroidered hems. Underneath it, he was wearing a high-collared three-piece suit, immaculately-pressed.

Miserable.

He barely saw the street slide by outside the coach, except he knew he was going uphill, and he knew the greenery dotting the balconies, casting rustling shadows in the setting sun. It was dark when the moa scratched to a halt outside the Crocus.

Time enough, he hoped, to get upstairs and change, to do – something about – he hadn’t looked in the mirror all morning, all day; he couldn’t bear to.

Fétique got out; he slumped for a moment, listening to the roaring hum of the insects. “Good evening, ada’ –” he heard, cheerful enough, and then, deflated, “– xa.”

He pushed himself up; the coachman pulled another door open and helped him out and down to the stones. Fétique’s back was stiff, when he looked up; he wasn’t bowing. His quantitative field was tight.

“Ada’xa Aremu,” he said, finding his voice less hoarse than he thought it might be. He bowed deeply. “Deepest apologies,” he said, “the ceremony ran over.”

The gold phosphor light – flickering, spotted with passing moths – glinted in his dark eyes, brought out the gold reflected in his skin. It caught on the vibrant drape of his amel’iwe, too, and the long smooth cloth of his shirt and trousers underneath. He was standing with his hands – with his hand – tucked into his pockets.

Fétique looked back, one brow raised sharply, but he didn’t ask. “Hmm. Well.” It was a familiar look on Fétique’s pinched, pale face; he’d seen it many times today alone. Can’t get away from them, he muttered once during the ceremony, can you? Everywhere you go.

“Evening, Anatole,” he said, “ada’xa.” He pursed his lips, smiling at Aremu, and made to move by, staying well clear of field range; the doors shut behind him.

The back of his neck prickled; he felt sure some of the uncertainty flickered across his face, but he stepped closer, unhesitating. They weren’t quite alone, even here; noise and light drifted out of the houses, bright and busy, and the walks were full of Cinnamon Hill folk.

“I hope we didn’t keep you waiting long, ada’xa?” he asked.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 4 Loshis, 2720
The Crocus’ Stem, Cinnamon Hill

Aremu did not mind the wait.

When he thought of it at all, he imagined the door opening from behind his shoulder, and – sometimes, there, his imagination faltered. Consciously, he knew it would be a deep, even voice, and the brush of a clairvoyant field as soft as sage. Ada’xa, most likely; Ada’xa Aremu, most likely, or else Ada’xa Ediwo. The image was a tangle of dark Adaxi suits and his own light linen pants and shirt, a floppy straw hat which had half-covered gray-streaked red hair.

It was a strange thing to look forward to.

Now that he was here, Aremu found himself uneasy, unsettled. He found himself facing away from the door; there was no need, at this hour, to search for a patch of shade, and so he was comfortable out of the way of the Crocus’s steps, off to the side. The street was not very busy at this hour.

They were low on the hill still, Aremu knew; Cinnamon Hill stretched much higher than this, though all of it was higher than the city around. He didn’t know this street, but he thought if he started up the side of it, before long, he would reach the familiar places which wound up over the rest of Thul Ka, and looked down on all of it from on high.

Money alone can’t buy you Cinnamon Hill. He remembered the words, but not the voice; he couldn’t place quite who had said them, and when or why. At Thul’Amat his accent had placed him; there had been no avoiding it. There, was, still, no avoiding it.

A carriage rolled to a stop in the street before them. Aremu glanced up.

An uncomfortable looking Anaxi climbed down, his short dark red hair tousled with sweat. He smiled, and then his face went pinched, and he edged away.

It is not, Aremu wanted to say, contagious.

Aremu bowed deeply, his hand and the prosthetic smoothly emerging and tucking behind his back as he rose. “Good evening, sir,” he said, evenly. He shifted out of the way, marking the distance between them, so as not to block the steps. He had already, in fact, been far enough, but he thought it worth the gesture.

A second uncomfortable looking Anaxi climbed down.

It was a moment; nothing showed on his face. He – Tom – was dressed in the heaviest garments Aremu had ever seen in Thul Ka, all dark colors with silver gilt, with the hint of a suit beneath the robes. He looked, Aremu thought, like a drawing of an Anaxi judge, from his high sloped cheekbones all the way to the gleaming hint of heavy shoes beneath embroidered hems.

There was the faintest trace of a bruise high on one cheekbone, beneath tired, gray eyes.

Aremu bowed as well, deeply; his hand and his wrist came behind his back once more, his left hand settling over his right wrist. The voice was familiar, at least, even if the sight had taken him by surprise; he knew it, now, after days on the island, after nights spent curled together in Brunnhold of all places; when he read the words of those letters, writing in gleaming curling writing or Tom’s own rougher hand, this was the voice he heard them in, and it tasted faintly of orange.

“Incumbent Vauquelin, sir,” Aremu said, evenly. “It is my privilege to wait.” He rose back up.

The other Anaxi went upstairs, and the door closed behind him.

Aremu’s breath settled. Nothing showed on his face; this was not the place for the sort of smile he wanted to offer. “No, sir,” Aremu said, evenly. If you want to change, Tom – for a moment, he wondered if it was deliberate, if Tom had wanted him to see him like this. There was space for some of that between them, Aremu thought, achingly. I’m not the man I used to be, the robes said; I know Vita is a sphere.

I never knew you didn’t, Aremu wanted to say; even he tasted the wrongness of those words. It never mattered to me whether you did; those, too, felt sour and strange on his tongue.

Two young galdoi women across the street glanced over and giggled, Aremu thought, at the sight of the robe.

Back straight and arms tucked behind himself, Aremu inclined his head. “It would be my privilege, also, to wait longer, if you wish.” Tom, he thought; Tom. For a moment, he tried to smile; he wasn’t sure how well he did, and he knew better than to linger in it.

[Tom Cooke]

The Crocus' Stem • Cinnamon Hill

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

I
n one dream, he’d kissed it.

The hand he’d lifted to his lips was flesh and blood, but it was cool, smooth wood underneath them when he’d shut his eyes. He couldn’t remember the exact shape of it; it seemed to him that it ought to look like the other hand, carved just like the one he remembered. He remembered the dream in a flash, before he could stop himself – he felt a prickle of shame, that he thought of it – but it lingered like a tingling on his lips.

He didn’t look at it, when Aremu rose and tucked it back behind him. Incumbent Vauquelin, he had prepared himself for; sir, too, the way he lilted over the syllable in his soft Mugrobi accent.

His privilege to wait. For a moment, he wondered if it was a reminder – a cruel twist of one – that he’d gone too far with his last letter. To wait longer, Aremu said, his face smooth and dour as if carved, if you wish. His neck prickled. Often enough these past few days, he’d thought to wonder if Aremu had sent for him to draw a line.

The imbala’s lips curved up in a smile, but it was hard to tell in this light. A frown’s shadows still sat in the hollows of his face.

He tried to smile back, but he was already smiling; he couldn’t fit his smile in beside the Incumbent’s, smooth and thin as paper. He’d thought to offer for him to come in, too, but they both knew there was nothing in it. He kept his field smoothly indectal.

And Aremu’s smile didn’t last long, after all. There was more giggling from behind, but he didn’t look back, or anywhere but Aremu’s face. “You are very gracious,” he said, inclining his head. “I shall only be a moment.”

He paused. It’s me, he wanted to say, so badly it burned. Please, Aremu, it’s me. He stood iron-straight in his suit and his robes, numb to the sweat that trickled down the small of his back. He felt like his skin was stone, and him trapped underneath it. He felt like he couldn’t’ve budged Anatole an inch, even if he hadn’t given a damn what was for the best, even if he’d wanted to break everything just to show him.

When he moved past Aremu and into the Crocus, his expensive shoes clicked on the steps. He pushed the doors open and moved through the lobby, soft-lit with gold and quiet this time of the evening, still smelling of the morning’s kofi.

He wouldn’t’ve made a liar of himself for the world, and it was better that way. If he’d gotten there earlier than Aremu, he’d not a clue what he’d’ve done. Stayed in front of the mirror for a house, probably, petrified like the trees in Tseli. He’d laid out his clothes for the evening that morning, and he didn’t hesitate before he grabbed them. He splashed off with water, changed, went through the motions mechanically.

When he came back down, he was wearing his crisp white tunic and trousers, hemmed with green and dark blue. His amel’iwe was a deep sea green, too. His sandals scuffed softer on the steps.

Aremu’s amel’iwe was vivid under the phosphor streetlamp again; it was orange, edged with pale yellow like pulp, and something in him ached at the sight. It was nestled comfortably round his neck, draped over the long, graceful lines of his back. Aremu’d shifted, since he’d gone inside. His hands weren’t behind his back anymore; they were tucked into his pockets.

He stepped to the sidewalk, then smiled; the smile was a little more tired, this time. “It’s a relief to be out of that thing, ada’xa.”

It was cooling off in the dark, and the insects were singing loud. The smells of spices drifted out of the windows, mingling with cigar smoke and the greenery that spilled out on both sides of the street. It met the scent of rain. The air was sticky, but there was none of the heat that’d made it heavy during the day; there was something pleasant about the cling of it, if he let himself feel it, with the cool breeze that whisked through.

“How are things on the isles, ada’xa?” he asked, as they started off down the street. “I hope your flight here was smooth.”

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 4 Loshis, 2720
Walking Down, Cinnamon Hill

Aremu didn’t know anything of what he expected. He stood outside the Crocus, and he turned back to the street, and he waited. The last of the light was dimming, now, steadily; the phosphor flickered on, pale gold; it was said that all the lamps on Cinnamon Hill were gold, although Aremu knew it wasn’t true. It was only the ones on the exterior streets, the ones which ringed the edges. Further up the hill, it was a mix, though there was still more gold here than in all the rest of Thul Ka.

His throat moved in a silent swallow; he shifted, and didn’t take himself out of the light, though he wanted to.

The door opened behind him, and Aremu glanced back over his shoulder. His face felt oddly stiff. His hand and the prosthetic were tucked into his pockets, and there was something tight in his shoulders that he couldn’t seem to shake.

For a moment – just a moment – his eyes went a little wide. Something caught and twisted in his chest at the sight of the crisp white, and he let it go with the ease of long practice, and a deep wash of shame. It was, he thought, a nice color; it made him think of the Rose, somehow, with a pleasurable, longing sort of ache.

“It looked warm, sir,” was all Aremu could think to see. You look good, Tom, he wanted to say. Tired, but good; I like those colors on you, as you are now. He didn’t think to mention the bruise, or if he did, it was to know, somehow, instinctively, that he should not. He never would have, before; he’d have kissed the edges with it, or traced it with a thumb, never pressing down, just finding the contours of it. He had practice enough with that, for all they hadn’t known each other long.

“Well, thank you,” Aremu fell in next to him; it wasn’t such a busy street, but it was busy enough that he walked close beside, in the wash of the other man’s sage soft field. “I’ll miss the worst of the rains, while I’m here.” He thought of the old house, sitting alone on the edge of the cliff, battered by rains and empty. It wasn’t so dire, really – Ahura would come by to freshen it up every few days, to air out the worst of the stuffiness and keep it free of dust – but something about it was lonely, just now.

It wasn’t a long walk; the place he’d picked out was just down the hill, at the edge of the streets below. Not Cinnamon Hill, not anymore, however just. “It’s not too far,” Aremu said, after a moment. They hadn’t discussed it in detail; Tom had been the one to suggest dinner. He’d left the finding of a place to Aremu, and he thought he’d done well; he hoped so, anyway. He didn’t know how much to say about it; he didn’t know whether he ought to say anything at all.

What do you think of the cable ways? That he could have asked. How do you like Thul Ka, sir? He didn’t want to ask that, here, as they were now, sir and ada’xa; he wanted to know what Tom thought, not the Incumbent, and it was hard, here, to know whom he was talking to.

They fell into a brief silence. Aremu swallowed something like a lump in his throat; his hand and his wrist stayed tucked into his pocket, the knack of keeping the amel’iwe on one long-remembered. Why did you write me? He wanted to ask, suddenly. It’s too difficult, isn’t it? We were fools to think anything like this was possible, here, in the middle of Thul Ka.

Why did I write back? That, Aremu knew, achingly, was easy to answer. This, stilted, awkward and strange, was better than nothing.

“How were your travels?” Aremu asked, glancing sideways. If his gaze lingered a moment on the bruise, gleaming in the lamplight as it shifted gold to blue, it was only a moment.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

I
know, he thought to say, dove, it looks flooding terrible on me. On him. On whoever the hell this is. If there was shame, he buried it under wry acknowledgment.

He felt them, the eyes. They passed the brush of a few arati fields, Thul’amat dasher but Cinnamon Hill rich, laughing bright red lips and wrists jangling with bracelets. There were a few polite smiles, a few curious glances – mostly at him, pale and thin and speckled, dressed like a Mugrobi; often, too, at Aremu, when they got close enough, friendly but strange.

A few caprises, which he matched politely, oddly aware of Aremu in his field as he did so. The imbala was a pop of orange beside him; he looked over occasionally to see the gold light flicker over his face, spark in his dark skin and make deep shadows in his high cheekbones. When the light was brightest, he could see the shadows of his eyelashes.

“It was,” he said, still smiling. Terribly warm, he thought to say; and the shoes pinch like a hatcher…

He stayed quiet, looking down for a moment at his sandals, at the dark stones whispering by. He looked up again when Aremu spoke; his expression didn’t change, and he didn’t let his eyes linger too long on the imbala’s face.

The worst of the rains? he wanted to ask. He tried to picture it, driving rain in the islands; he remembered the soft, dry, salty sea breeze in Yaris with something like an ache. He found himself wanting to ask what the storms were like – what it was like, being in the middle of the roiling sea, all grey-green-dark and heavy skies, for all he knew it only from Anaxas’ coasts.

Did the rains affect the plantation? He tried to imagine Aremu at his work, only he’d no clue what to imagine; ledgers he knew, and the cane, and the kofi, but he thought too of books he’d seen in the small library by the window, about rainfall and drains. An engineer’s qalqa, too, as much as aeroships.

He felt achingly curious, but more to hear Aremu speak of it, free and full of his qalqa. He remembered turning over lines of neat curling script, trying to wrap his mind around it. The effort had been strangely comforting, in the quiet warmth of his study.

There was a lull; he didn’t want to ask, just now, but he didn’t know what else to fill the silence with, either. He didn’t know what ada’xa and sir might speak of, and he couldn’t seem to think, for once, what Anatole would say.

The lights turned blue, almost suddenly. He smiled still, politely, as they found their way through streets he’d never been on. They were a stone’s throw from the hotel on foot, but he’d taken the cable cars or a coach, in the brief time he’d been here. He felt a tug of curiosity, though he dared not ask.

He looked over once, only once, to see the familiar reflection of a blue street lamp in Aremu’s eyes.

He might’ve caught the imbala’s gaze, in the corner of his eye; he didn’t know on what, or if Aremu was looking at him at all.

“Strange, ada’xa,” he said, evenly enough, with the same smile. It tugged at his bruise, at the edges of one eye; it ached. “I was grateful for the opportunity to visit Serkaih.” He paused, and he thought to leave it there. “I have never crossed the desert before, much less seen anything like it,” he added, in the same even tone. “The desert at night.”

The stars, he thought to say – but he’d already said too much.

It doesn’t have to be like this, he wanted to say; the gulf between you and this – this body – it’s not so much. Ada’xa and sir are acquaintances now, he wanted to say, and we can spin something of it.

He took a deep breath, in and out, then smiled; he tried something warmer, though he kept his eyes on the street. “I know you’ve traveled a great deal yourself, on business; I should like to speak more of it soon, ada’xa.” He smiled over politely, for just a moment, then looked up at the dark sky between the streetlamps.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 4 Loshis, 2720
Dzoto’otú

There was a thin, pleasant smile on Tom’s face. He agreed politely that the robes and suit had been warm. They walked on.

The smile didn’t change when he spoke of Serkaih, when he spoke of crossing the desert, when he spoke of the desert at night. His tone didn’t change either, for all that Aremu strained to hear something - anything - within it, any hint of warmth.

He felt a tight ache in his stomach, a sourness which crept up into his mouth, as if he had been sick or soon would be. “Of course, sir,” Aremu said when Tom glanced over at him, blue light glinting in his dark gray eyes, off the planes of his face, the high cheekbones and the sharp nose.

I know the northern desert better, sir. Aremu thought to say. As a boy, I - no. No; he shied away from that. On business, Tom had said. He couldn’t think of that now, walking beside Tom in gleaming white. His breathing held even, smooth, in and out.

They say you can’t fly in the Southern Desert this time of year, sir. Did you - he tried to imagine Tom swaying on camelback beneath the gleaming sun. It isn’t quite true, he could have added with a little smirk, but they don’t run passenger ships, all the same.

Did you like them? The stars? It’s different, lying still in the desert at night and looking up - different from moving in the airship, different from - did you search? Did you see?

“This way, sir,” Aremu said. They turned into an narrower street, but a busier one. The smell of food and drink drifted into the air on a cloud of tobacco and qinnab; they went past the laughing chattering tables on the corner, a little further. Down, past it, past two shops holding out hope of a last customer or two, to an elegant carved door with Mugrobi script printed over the top of it: Dzoto’otú.

Aremu held open the door and bowed. “Here, sir,” he said, looking at Tom once more. Windows with elegant carved screens in them spilled patterned lantern light onto the street in elaborate designs.

A tall, slender human, her long face smiling, showed them down the hallway, past a number of set sliding doors. She slid one open, and bowed them in. “Dzoto’otú,” she said with a smile.

Aremu led Tom down a short corridor, the walls hung with plants. They went inside the door at the end. There was an elegant table inside, ringed with benches. The walls were set with screens, decorated in elaborate carvings and mixed with warm lanterns; there was a small bell overhead, and something like a window, closed as if with small doors, nearby.

“It is a place for doing business,” Aremu said quietly, turning back to look at Tom. “Dzoto’otú is a way of promising they will respect our privacy. The food comes through there,” he gestured to the window, “and the bell will ring to announce them.”

“I thought...” Aremu shifted, hesitant; something like hesitation, or maybe sadness, spilled over his face. He came closer; he reached out, slowly, and touched Tom’s hand with his, and he didn’t say more, his eyes searching the other man’s face.

If I’ve misjudged, he wanted to say, we can find another place. He couldn’t voice those words. I missed you, Tom, he wanted to say, more than anything. Instead what emerged was a quiet, aching “Tom,” his voice almost hoarse; a little smile edged softly at his lips, at the corners of them.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

T
he light from the windows cast a pattern of shadows like lace across Aremu’s face. He looked back at him, once, before he held the door and then bowed.

Here, sir.

He knew not to look; he found nothing in Aremu’s eyes of what he saw, except for a pale glint. “Thank you, ada’xa,” he said, inclining his head. He watched the lights shift over the folds of Aremu’s amel’iwe, the soft rustle of its hem as he rose up, his left arm sliding behind his back again.

He knew not to linger, though he wanted to look over his shoulder at the street: at the drifts of smoke and steam curling through the lanternlight, the shopfronts dotted with warm lights like stars, the bustle of people. He wanted to say something about it, how this place was a stumble from his doorstep – he might’ve seen it from his balcony that morning, a shadow snaking off from the thoroughfare – but it was unfamiliar, all the same, and he shivered with it and with the cool humid night air. And of being here with him, most of all; I never thought, he wanted to say, we’d…

It felt bittersweet, like this. What are we doing here, he wanted to say? What in the hell are ada’xa and sir going to do in a place like this? Unless Aremu meant for this to be the drawing of the line; unless he was showing him, brittle and strange, what this would be like.

He understood, but it didn’t ease the tightness in his chest.

He moved inside, and Aremu shut the door after him. He smiled and bowed to the human hostess, “Ada’na,” though there was a slight furrow in his brow when he rose.

“I respect,” he thought she’d said – or that was part of it – but he couldn’t place the rest. Her smile hadn’t wavered at the sight of either of them; it was smooth as a mask, and she said nothing else, turning with an elegant motion. Aremu led him down the hall, the waxed boards creaking quietly underfoot, loud in the muffled quiet.

The place was all smooth and dark, wood stained and polished to a shine. The walls were covered with screens like the ones in the front windows; the lamps caught gleaming in the polished swirls of carvings, so the shapes of the windows were lost underneath the tight-knit tangle of curling patterns. His eyes lingered on the bell, glinting bright, and then on the little window.

In the middle of the table, lamplight glowed out from a carved wooden covering, throwing the same strange, lacy shapes over the wood.

He stepped in after Aremu, his eyes sweeping over the table, the benches; he half wondered if they were expecting company. It was only when he heard the hollow murmur of the sliding door that he turned, and he met Aremu’s eye as he went on.

This look he thought he knew well enough, in the shadows around his lips and in his brow. He didn’t stiffen when Aremu stepped over the threshold and into his field, but he stayed still, and he kept looking at the imbala’s face. Aremu’s left hand brushed his, long fingers warm.

“Tom,” he said.

He understood, then. He felt frozen in his skin; he didn’t think his expression had changed once. There was a little smile flickering across Aremu’s face, and he didn’t know what to make of it, but he thought he knew what not to make of it.

“Aremu,” he tried carefully; he wondered if the name would feel unfamiliar by itself, after so long. “I missed you,” tore out of him; he took Aremu’s hand in his and squeezed gently, and he felt a surge of guilt – even here, he didn’t know if the other man still wanted –

He jolted at the ringing of the bell. His hand came away and he turned. He looked back over his shoulder, smiling sadly, when the windows opened.

The tray sparked silver in the light from the lamp. The tall decanter was intricately embossed, and the glasses were cut with patterns. Aremu’d moved to take it to the table, and he’d eased himself onto one of the benches by the time he brought it back. The two wide, shallow silver bowls were full of a mixture of tomatoes and onions, tangled up with scraps of flatbread, smelling strongly of chili and ginger and cardamom and more. There was a dollop of something cool and sharp-smelling topping it, more curd than yoghurt.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, soon as Aremu’d sat. A little noise leaked in through the screens, but not much; it was quiet, except for the distant hum of insects and muffled, indistinct chatter. “This is – I, uh –”

I went too far with it, godsdamn me, I know that, Aremu. Yield is richer for the flooding wait. What the hell was I thinking?

Heat prickled in his cheeks; he reached up to scratch his jaw, and he almost smiled. “Hells,” he said, “it feels like it’s been an age. How are you, Aremu? You,” he added, his hand dropping, his smile tilting crooked.

The word was warm in his mouth; he looked at Aremu now, and he let his eyes linger, and he let the smile stay on his face, no matter how crooked it was.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 4 Loshis, 2720
Dzoto’otú, Nutmeg Hill

Aremu’s smile broadened, slowly, and softened. His thumb stroked gently over Tom’s soft hand, finding the brush of still unfamiliar hairs and veins, with no scars to speak of or roughened knuckles. He knew, by now, that there were calluses on the other man’s fingers, on the side on the top joint on his middle finger, where one held a pen. He couldn’t feel it, just now; he knew it was there, all the same.

They came apart when the bell rang; Aremu turned, easing out of the soft downy brush of Tom’s field, and made his way to the window. The tray gleamed silver, there; he wrapped the fingers of his left hand around it, and brought his right wrist up beneath, finding an angle of the prosthetic where it could rest. He slid it off himself onto the table, and set the bowl before Tom.

He sat – not next to Tom, for all that he wanted to be there, but around the corner from him, his left side towards the other man. His hand crept over the bench, beneath the spread of the tablecloth, and his fingers touched Tom’s thigh, gently; he lingered, just a moment, feeling the warmth of the other man, and then he eased his hand away, and let it rest half-covered by the tablecloth, close enough to touch.

Tom’s thin face had been flushed; his hand lowered, and the smile on his face wasn’t so thin and even, anymore. His hand found Aremu’s, carefully, out of sight.

He asked how Aremu had been; Aremu studied him, his gaze on the other man’s face a long moment. He smiled, then, and if it was a little crooked – if his voice was still hoarse – he didn’t hesitate or shy away. “Ready to harvest, I think,” he said, grinning at Tom. “Or else to be harvested.” He held on to the other man’s hand through it, fingers tangling carefully together.

“I’ve missed you too,” Aremu promised, his voice softening. He cleared the roughness from his throat, sitting at the table still. He was hungry; he was always hungry, Aremu thought, wryly. The food looked good, as well; he hadn’t picked the place only for the promise of privacy. All the same, he couldn’t quite bring himself to let go of Tom’s hand just yet. It was all so strange, still; he thought it might always be strange. This part of it, at least, the other man’s hand tight on his own – this was easy, or at least as easy as any of it.

“But,” Aremu thought, once, of Tom saying all he had wanted was to know him. He swallowed; he frowned, a little. “Good and bad,” he said, quietly. “We had a good harvest, and some heavy rain,” there was a little wrinkle in his brow; he glanced away, and then back at Tom. He didn’t see the worth in mentioning his dislocated shoulder, or Niccolette’s visit. The first was his own, but he’d never seen the value in discussing such things. The second was Niccolette’s, and not his to share.

What of him was there to know? He wasn’t sure he knew how to answer such a question differently. He wasn’t sure what Tom wanted of him, now; when he’d said that, he’d been speaking of the past. Now – Aremu wasn’t sure he had ever been so exposed as he had last Dentis. Just thinking of it made him feel strange, bare and almost chilly, despite the comfortable warmth of the Thul Ka evening. It was hard to leave you, he wanted to say; I did some stupid things, Tom, and I’m not proud of them.

“And you?” Aremu asked, instead. His eyes didn’t go to the bruise on Tom’s cheek, but he let himself look down, at the amel’iwe if he couldn’t quite bear to study the white clothing. It was easy, then, to grin a little wider, lifting his gaze back to the other man’s eyes once more.

[Tom Cooke]

Nutmeg Hill • Thul Ka

Evening on the 4th of Loshis, 2720

T
he hand on his thigh was unexpected. The heat still prickled in his cheeks, but his smile went crookeder; he felt it like a little current through him, and still felt it when Aremu’s hand slipped away. He’d eyes only for the other man’s face, but he saw it in the corner of his eye, a sliver of dark skin against the cream-colored tablecloth.

And when he reached to take it, he didn’t hesitate. He held on tight, running his thumb over the long, fine, strong bones, over the bumpy edges of scars he hadn’t forgotten after all.

He imagined them, pale nicks and sometimes glistening burns, as he ran his fingers over them. He found the veins that crossed the back of his hand, and the bones of his wrist; he found a small crescent-shaped scar dug into the skin there, one that surprised him ‘til it brought up the vague memory of it against his lips, a very long time ago.

Instead, he held on; he was hungry as a hatcher, but he couldn’t look at his food. He laughed quietly, surprised, when Aremu spoke. The other man’s fingers tangled tight with his and held on, too. He didn’t say anything, but something inside him loosened.

The lampshade made dark patterns against the smooth, tan cloth of Aremu’s shirt, almost like they’d been dyed there; they shifted over his face when he moved, too. Heavy rain. There was a line at his brow this time, a tiny frown curling his lips, and he glanced away. The question – what’s rain like, on the isles? – seemed to fall underneath a dozen others, now. He wasn’t sure what to ask; he wasn’t sure if he ought to.

Good and bad, he thought he understood well enough.

When Aremu asked, he’d started grinning; he saw the imbala’s eyes move down. It looks damned ridiculous, he thought to say, this man in these clothes, doesn’t it? “Good and bad,” he returned, inclining his head, but he was smiling.

His stomach was aching; he’d not eaten since before Owo’dziziq’s speech. He thought to ease away, but to let his fingertips linger on Aremu’s hand, wondering how long he could hold on. The other man hadn’t started eating yet –

Shit, he thought. He slowly disentangled his fingers from Aremu’s, still smiling the same smile. He let his hand rest atop Aremu’s for a moment, firm, then drew away.

It was difficult back in Vienda, he thought to say, after – he didn’t. Can you see it on me? Can you see there’s less of me? The thought was damned silly, and he set it aside. Maybe this face was too much of a stranger’s, after all, to tell much of one thing or another.

“Strange,” he said, picking up the deep silver spoon, “though, uh – that’s all I ever say, isn’t it?” He grinned, a brief flash, then took a bite. “I’d never ridden a camel before Bethas, or seen that much sand – or so many stars, at night. There aren’t even so many on the isles. The sky’s – full of them, like on the deck of a ship.”

I found it, he wanted to say, one night. I’m not so good at finding stars, but I found it, when the campfire was low. I’ve wanted to tell you since I sent the note.

He thought to say it. This quiet room with all its screens and dark wood felt like a dream, and one that would be over sooner than later. Is this it? he wanted to ask suddenly. Barely time to know you again. I’ll be here for the next two months, he couldn’t seem to bring himself to say. Not always trussed up in incumbent robes, like a little osta at the pageant.

For all they’d both said it, the quiet felt tight and solid. It ached to think this was the last time he’d see him – really see him, outside of business – for a long time, with that strangeness lying between them, even if there was comfort underneath the table.

“What do you think of it?” he asked, not quite tentative, still smiling. “Being back in Thul Ka.”