My Least Favorite Life

An unexpected meeting.

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A large forest in Central Anaxas, the once-thriving mostly human town of Dorhaven is recovering from a bombing in 2719 at its edge.

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Tom Cooke
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Sat Aug 17, 2019 2:08 pm

The Bérangers’ Ballroom Uptown
Afternoon of the 12th of Roalis, 2719
He reached for it, but he couldn’t find it.

A burst of laughter took his attention away from him. The room was soft, whirling with its phosphor lights; he felt soft. There was a hand on his shoulder, a hand with a ring. Pushing. He breathed in the scent of brandy, brandy on the breath, brandy swirled in a glass. More laughter. A laugh like a bird’s trill, high and clear – and mingling with it a deep hum of a laugh, a giggle he could feel all the way down in his diaphragm. Just like he’d been taught. He laughed, the brandy jumping just to the lip of the glass but not over.

He took another long sip of Twemlaugh. “That must have been... interesting,” he said, laughter guttering out. He kept himself from slapping the hand off his shoulder.

“Yes. Francoise certainly thought so.” Incumbent Rochambeaux looked thoughtful, eyes wandering out over the ballroom. “I’m sure he meant well, of course.”

For such a boring kov, Aurelien had nice eyes. He was a towhead, a little taller than Anatole, more than a little younger. His eyes looked brown, ’til the light hit them a certain way; then they turned gold like the sun striking a mirror, like cats’ eyes. Or maybe the light’d catch his face just so, and one eye’d be bright amber and the other dark like steeping kofi. A lot of galdori had eyes like that, but he’d never noticed them much.

He was already thinning at the temples. The soft light licked a little coppery red into his tight blond curls.

“They often do.” He let the edge of a sneer enter his voice; he took a sip of brandy, swirling it. “It was a creative response. You must allow him that, at least.”

It went like this; he could recite this much in his mind:


And I have loved him: the shape of him
Carved into my breast; the wings of
His breath, stirring dark between us…

“Look over there.” Again, Aurelien’s voice clawed his concentration apart.

He was forced to follow the other galdor’s subtle half-nod. Across the room, a man much older than both of them – in his seventies, at least, with only a thin dusting of grey hair on his scalp – was chatting with a middle-aged Mugrobi official.

Aurelien shook his head. “Lemieux.”

“On his way out, I would say,” he replied, instinctively.

The other incumbent laughed. “After that incident with pez Emeka.” He laughed, and took a drink of brandy. “I remember that – that story you would tell when I was interning with Incumbent Rousseau – do you remember?”

“Mmm.”

“Your office was just down the hall,” Aurelien said; “you’d just been appointed. And you said Rousseau and Lemieux had both given you –”

“– hell,” he tried, and Aurelien’s laugh let him know he had the right of it. He thought for a moment, trying to piece the situation together. It took his mind further away from pez Hirtka, and he was getting more and more irritated. He tried to mold that irritation into a different shape, focus it on Lemieux’s bald head. “And now look at him,” he added, drawling. It was becoming effortless, that drawl. He took another drink. “Not that you can look at Rousseau.”

Another laugh. “Anatole! Enough, enough. Please,” said Aurelien, putting that hand on his arm again, just for a couple of seconds, “tell me how you’ve been. I can’t say what a fine thing it is to see you up and about again. For such a long time, you weren’t yourself.”

“Alioe has refilled my cup, I must say,” he replied. “I haven’t felt this good in months.”

“Well, it’s a fine thing to see. We’ve missed your unfailing wit.”

He tried to think. Stirring dark between us, he thought, the fire that burns the heart – but no, that was later. He was getting all mixed up. All night, he had tried to cradle the words, to hold them close to his breast. To tell them to himself over and over again. He was scrambled; he was losing bits of the poem.

How much had he had to drink? Being honest, he wasn’t sure. Wasn’t sure he cared, either. It was like this: the weight on his heart was heavy enough that a little guilt didn’t matter. He’d determined to get shit-faced tonight; it’d been planned. But that didn’t stop him wondering, didn’t stop a certain pain from singing in him with its small, frail voice — why are you doing this? And then he’d think, what if Ava could see you right now, sliding backwards?

(What if Ava could see you right now?)

He laughed again, long and hard, deep in himself; he laughed Anatole’s deep laugh. He drained his snifter and then, bouncing on his heels, cast about for more. Wasn’t long til he waved over a servant, a natt a few heads taller than both of them, and got himself another drink. And then drank deeply of it, drained near half the glass.

He caught a look of slight concern on the other incumbent’s face, a covert glance at the glass in his hand, a hesitant motion to do nothing in particular.

He cleared his throat. “It has been a harrowing rainy season,” he intoned, mock-sternly, “and I am determined to celebrate. We’ve passed the torch to Mugroba alive and well, eh? Whatever they choose to do with it.” This time, his own hand found Aurelien’s shoulder, a little firm. “Tell me: how is Francoise?”

The incumbent brightened. “Well, perhaps she can tell you herself,” he said, gesturing. “Here she comes. Francoise! You’ve met Anatole. And, ah, perhaps you’ve met…”

On the edge of my beloved’s eyelash… He felt as if he were losing time. Something was going to drag him away again. On the…

Aurelien’s eyes were on something over his shoulder. He could feel a field caprising his, and then another brushing its porven edges. The second one was familiar. Couldn’t’ve placed it, though. Something bright about it, something strange. Itched at his memory.

He turned, arranging his face into its customary thin, sharp smile. But then he froze, swallowing a sore lump. The surprise didn’t register on his face, and neither did the sinking, laoso feeling in his gut, thank the gods – and he just managed to bow, low and graceful, without spilling his brandy.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said. “I think we have met.”
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Sat Aug 17, 2019 5:16 pm

Evening, 12th Roalis, 2719
The Bérangers’ Ballroom, Uptown
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The ladies’ retiring room at the Bérangers’ townhouse had felt quiet, at first, a break from the tinkling noises and whirling lights outside. Niccolette sat in the edge of a fabric-covered stool, her eyes jumping away from her reflection in the mirror. She held a glass of champagne in one hand, pale bubbles tricking up through it, and her eyes went back to it again and again, then skittered around the room, cutting through red hair and pale faces, bits of bright lipstick and the dark curl of eyelashes.

“And the heat!” Francoise’s voice broke through the scattered remains of Niccolette’s focus. She glanced at her friend’s curled bright red hair, then away.

“It’s never taken me like this before,” Francoise was saying. “Tell me - will it get any better?”

“Oh, no, my dear,” The woman next to her was smiling. “Roalis and Yaris are simply notorious. Here’s what you must do - get that husband of yours to take you out of town, somewhere nice and cool in the countryside.”

Francoise giggled. “Oh, I wish! Wouldn’t that be lovely. Aurelien is always so busy with work, though. I don’t know if...”

“No!” The other woman laughed - Francoise laughed as well - Niccolette shuddered, and looked away, something ugly twisting in her chest. The door eased open, two other women slipping inside, laughing, glittering -

“Make him spoil you,” the woman was saying. Niccolette could see the reflection of her red lips in the mirror, her teeth white inside her smile. “Trust me, dear - he will! Men are terribly sentimental, much more than they let on.”

“Miss?” A timid voice came from behind Niccolette. “Is this your case?”

Niccolette jerked, looking up and back, eyes dropping to the small yellow case the maid held out. “No,” her voice quivered - caught - and Niccolette set the champagne glass down, a little too hard, the liquid leaping against the side. “No, you fool!" she snapped, a bolt of red jolting through her field. Niccolette smoothed it away, took a shaking breath. “I told you – it is - the case is -“ Niccolette grasped for a moment - she couldn’t - she couldn’t think -

“Gold,” Francoise said, gently. She had turned - she was looking at Niccolette. “With a red flower embroidered in the corner. Go on,” she smiled up at the maid, who fled off.

"May Alioe smile on you, dear,” the older galdor clasped Francoise’s shoulder gently, sashayed past her and Niccolette in a soft waft of perfume.

Niccolette was shaking, and she couldn’t seem to stop it. She turned back to the champagne, picked it up. The champagne was jerking around in the glass, jumping wildly. Niccolette lifted it to her lips, carefully took another long sip. She could feel Francoise watching her, but the other woman didn’t say anything, and after a moment the rest of the idle chatter picked back up. Widow, Niccolette heard, distantly, as if she were listening through the fall of rain.

“Thank you,” Francoise smiled at the attendant, and took the case from her. She opened the little clasp at the front, set it down on the table between Niccolette and herself and the mirror.

Niccolette looked down at it, reaching forward. Her fingers were still shaking, and it took her two tries to grasp a hold of the little bottle of black liquid, to ease it out and set it down on the table drape in front of them. Niccolette finished the champagne, and set the glass down with a soft rattling noise. The brush next; Niccolette dipped it in the liquid, forced herself to study her own face in the mirror, and brought her fingers up to her eye – once – twice – she couldn’t stop shaking long enough to do it, she couldn’t –

“Let me,” Francoise said, gently.

Niccolette nodded; she closed her eyes, and shifted on the stool, turning to face the Anaxi. She felt Francoise’s thumb sweep across her cheek, soft and easy, and felt the soft even pressure of the little brush against her eyes, a slow smooth sweep over the lid and out at the edges. Niccolette held still through it, and when Francoise pulled away with a cheerful “There!” her hands had stopped shaking.

“Thank you,” Niccolette whispered. She turned her gaze back to the mirror, and tried to focus on herself, on the pale outlines of her face, only slightly blurred. She took a deep breath, picked up the little tube of lip color, and touched up her lips as well. She plucked a small square of paper from a stack of them and pressed it against her lips, leaving a stain behind like a kiss.

“Do you remember,” Francoise said, grinning at Niccolette, “when that fashion for giving these out went around Brunnhold?” She began to giggle. “Oh, good lady, and your – your partner was meant to be able to tell which was yours!”

Niccolette smiled, blinking a few times. “Yes,” she said, slowly. Something almost warm swept through her voice. “Oh – yes! And you were dating that – Hoxian, yes?”

Francoise was giggling now. “Yes! Yes, and he was so terribly confused by it – do you remember – he threw it out!”

Niccolette felt something in her chest, rising like the bubbles of the champagne, and then she was laughing too. “Yes! Oh, you had that horrid fight – you told him it was as if he had thrown out your lips!”

“I did!” Francoise shrieked, and her hand gripped Niccolette’s, and then they were both laughing, and Niccolette was smiling through the tears. Francoise dabbed them away before they could fall, tucked a long strand of hair behind Niccolette’s ear, and smiled at her. “Ready to go back out?” She asked, gently.

“Yes,” Niccolette took a deep breath. “Yes. We should find Aurelien, I – I am sure he is missing you.”

Francoise smiled again, soft and a little sad, and nodded.

The two galdori rose. Niccolette focused her gaze on herself once in the mirror, soft and solemn. The lavender-colored dress was all contrasts, a soft, feminine color with a high collar, up nearly to her chin, with extra ridged fabric almost like the collar of a men’s coat – long, slender clinging sleeves, and a row of asymmetric daring gold buttons glittering down the front, before it descending into a frothing swept skirt. Niccolette traced her fingers over the buttons for a moment, took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and marched back out into the ballroom.

“There he is,” Francoise said, brightly. She hooked her arm through Niccolette’s, patting the Bastian on the hand. “Oh, with Incumbent Vauquelin! He was very ill, you know, all last fall. Everyone was saying – well – but he seems to have recovered quite well. Aurelien has missed him terribly. You remember him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Niccolette said, idly. Her eyes caught on the shimmer of fabrics behind them, on a faint trace of dark skin, a gleaming head, then pulled away. The noise rose and fell like a wave, and Niccolette winced, faintly; there was still just the faintest sensitivity in her ear, only enough to bother her at times like these, when the noise of too many conversations seemed to overlap and batter at her, too loud, too loud –

“Diana is his wife?” Niccolette asked.

“Yes, that’s right,” Francoise smiled at her.

Niccolette watched a tray of drinks go past; the human carrying them stopped, turned to them, and Niccolette took another glass of champagne, took a long sip of it and held it tightly in her hand.

“Good evening, Incumbent,” Francoise was saying. Her arm had slipped free of Niccolette’s, and now she bowed. “Oh, yes, of course! And, you know, Aurelien has told me so much – I really do feel as if I know you quite well.” She smiled at Anatole – smiled at Aurelien, who smiled back at her, warmth brightening his golden eyes, a soft, pleased, almost secretive little smile on his face as he looked his wife over.

Niccolette jerked her gaze back away from the chandelier. She couldn’t quite meet Aurelien’s eyes; she couldn’t look at his face too long. She turned to Anatole Vauquelin instead – bowed, politely, her depth matching Anatole’s with the ease of practice. “Good evening, Incumbent Vauquelin. A pleasure to see you again.”

There was, Niccolette noticed, something odd about his field. She frowned, slightly, her brows drawing together for a moment; her field was cool and indectal, smoothed of any emotion of color-shift around her, and it caprised his – just for a moment, before Niccolette pulled it back, blinking at him. For a moment her lips parted, and she nearly –

There was a crash from behind them, the loud sound of a glass breaking, and Niccolette flinched. Her hands dropped to her skirts, fluttering against the fabrics, but she kept the smooth and soft and open, taking a deep breath. Her gaze had pulled away from Anatole, but she returned her attention to him, smiled politely – tried to think of something to say, failed, and smiled just a little longer, taking another sip of her champagne, the soft clink of her ring against the glass echoing through her.

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Tom Cooke
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Sat Aug 17, 2019 10:29 pm

The Bérangers’ Ballroom Uptown
Evening of the 12th of Roalis, 2719
Couldn’t think – too many directions at once. He couldn’t deal with this and hold onto pez Hirtka’s words at the same time. It was Niccolette Ibutatu’s eyes he met first, before Francoise’s; he met them and held them and thought of the last time he’d met them. He wasn’t looking down. He was looking straight across, straight-on. Her field’d caprised his only briefly, only a doetoe, just enough to make it pull back – most of them did – but even that little touch was enough.

It wasn’t just woobly, wasn’t just a wobble in the air against his skin. It was rich and nuanced. It was smooth, smooth and calm like the lavender color of her dress. The word clinical came into his head, and then indectal. He couldn’t seem to kick his thoughts past that word, not until –

The mona were living, he realized. She’d been a living conversationalist. ’Course she had. He could feel the reverb of breaking bone against the base of his skull, cracking, twisting bone and tearing flesh in the pitch dark, and suddenly it was like hell keeping a straight face. Suddenly his face felt funny. He knew he was keeping that thin, bemused smile on it, but the sensation was all wrong.

Why was he here? Why did he feel like this? Why was she here? She was calling him Incumbent Vauquelin, saying it was a pleasure to see him again. Again. See him again.

His eyes moved from Niccolette to Francoise, and he opened his mouth, still smiling – thin, thin, vapid, amused – but the words seemed to hang in his throat as he looked at her. He thought he could smell something, something laoso. Like blood. Sick. Cloying-sweet. He swirled his brandy, raising his brows. Thin, bemused. Another smell mixing with it, he thought, something chemical, some kind of musk. Some scent an old toffin would wear. It was coming from him, he realized.

A sound like busting glass shattered through his head, and a little flinch spasmed across his face. His left eye twitched; he managed to smooth out his expression, managed to shake his head.

A few yards off, behind Niccolette and Francoise, came a little chattering. There was a flurry of gasps, giggles; he heard a woman’s voice say, “Oh, my! I cannot –”

“Wait a moment, my dear – it is nothing, it is nothing…”

“Goodness,” somebody breathed, in a voice edged with cruel amusement. He realized the voice was coming from him. “Someone is enjoying themselves perhaps too much.” Anatole glanced between Francoise and Niccolette, inclining his head. “It’s a pleasure to see you both again. Aurelien,” and he turned back to the other incumbent, quirking a brow, “all good things, I hope?”

Aurelien laughed again, and took another drink. “For the most part,” he replied. He looked like he might’ve wanted to say something else; he was looking at Anatole with a secret in his eyes, with something verging on excitement, something he was too tired to puzzle out.

Didn’t have to think about it now. Didn’t have to think. Couldn’t’ve thought, even if he’d wanted to. He turned back to Francoise and Niccolette. He caught a look from Niccolette.

He didn’t know what to say. He felt an ache in his heart. Like esera, he thought, he has made a different man of me, swathed in his arms like Her waters. As Niccolette raised her glass of champagne to her lips, her ring caught the light like a droplet of fire.

He found himself glancing around. Taking in – for the first time – the ballroom, good and proper. The whirl of faces, the hair, the soft phosphor lights. He was looking for one face in particular. Aurelien was saying something else, but he couldn’t be ersed to pay attention. He had to find Uzoji Ibutatu. But his wits’d been turned to water, and for every face he could make out in clarity, there were a dozen he couldn’t. Like a needle in a haystack. But wherever she was, you could find him, too.

There was a lull. Nobody was speaking. He blinked at Niccolette suddenly. “And – how is your husband, Ms. Ibutatu?” he asked softly. “I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing him tonight.”

He felt a subtle pulse beside him, from Aurelien’s field. He couldn’t account for it. All he could focus on was Niccolette.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Sat Aug 17, 2019 11:54 pm

Evening, 12th Roalis, 2719
The Bérangers’ Ballroom, Uptown
Anatole was smirking; the expression was familiar to Niccolette, in a vague sort of way, and it didn’t – it couldn’t hold her. She glanced back over her at the sound of words from behind them – a woman was mopping at a man’s jacket with a piece of cloth, her hands wobbling, and she didn’t look ashamed; she was giggling up at her, and there was light and life and love in her eyes, and the man was smiling back down at her –

Niccolette let her gaze flick away, let it drift over through the crowded room, past the doors that led to the terrace outside, past the corridors that trickled deeper into the house, the galdori flowing in and out of those secret spaces.

Niccolette heard Francoise giggle next to her, and she felt a soft, subtle pulse of her friend’s field, a soft happiness. Not for me, Niccolette thought, and she felt tired. She glanced back at Anatole, because it was easier than looking at Aurelien, and he caught her gaze again.

“In fact, Anatole,” Aurelien was speaking to the other incumbent, but his gaze was on Francoise, and he was smiling, “we’re having a small get together next week – just for intimates, naturally, and if your schedule would allow, perhaps…?”

Francoise was smiling expectantly; Niccolette could see her friend’s smile just out of the corner of her eye. Aurelien was looking at Anatole as well, and Niccolette let her eyes drift, just a little, watching the sparkling reflections of the party in the glass.

Then Anatole spoke again.

Niccolette jerked; she knew she jerked. The words ran through her like a slap, and she jerked and caught her breath, a soft, sharp inhale. There was heat behind her eyes, tears threatening, and if she could have, she would have fallen to her knees and wept. Niccolette swallowed, instead; she could feel a faint pulse of warning in Aurelien’s field, too late; she could feel Francoise’s sudden, utter stillness beside her.

Niccolette blinked the heat behind her eyes away. She was clutching the glass in her left hand; her right crossed her front, her palm resting solidly against her side, her fingers curling around her waist. Holding on, Niccolette thought, inanely.

A few too many seconds had already ticked by. Niccolette tried to find the breath to speak, tried to –

Francoise shifted next to her, and Niccolette looked over, and shook her head. No, she thought. No. Not this time. Niccolette had to do this for herself; she had to. Every time, Niccolette thought, it was like reaching deep into her chest and scraping a little more of her heart out, like ripping out a bit of beating, bloody muscle and extending it to the world. But it was her heart, and she’d be godsdamned before she’d let Francoise or anyone else rip it apart in front of her.

Francoise’s lips pressed together, tightly, and Niccolette could see her friend’s eyes glittering in the phosphor lights.

Niccolette pulled her gaze back to Anatole. She took a deep, careful breath, stilled her trembling hand – checked her field, checked it again, not letting the faintest hint of what she was feeling bubble out.

“He has returned to the cycle,” Niccolette said, quietly. For a moment – for the briefest moment – she had done It; for a moment, she was the dignified widow, calm and collected in the face of her pain. Then her mouth opened again, and the heat behind her eyes returned, throbbing and painful. “I’m afraid you won’t be seeing – ” Her voice strained – cracked – broke, “won’t be seeing him tonight.” Niccolette squeezed her eyes shut, because she couldn’t keep them open any longer. She felt Francoise take her arm, and she shook her head again, shifting away.

Niccolette took a deep breath, lifted the hand with the glass in it to catch the tear sliding down her cheek – flicked it away. She couldn’t let go of her side. She opened her eyes, looked at Anatole Vauquelin again, and tried to smile. “My apologies,” Niccolette whispered, the words tearing a hole somewhere deep inside. “I am – I am still – ” she searched for the word, shaking slightly, her fingers digging into her side, the little gold buttons on her dress twitching, the champagne bubbling vigorously in her glass, “unsettled.”

“It has only been a few months,” Francoise said, and she didn’t let Niccolette push her away again, wrapping her arm firmly around the Bastian this time. She glared at Aurelien, firmly, and the galdor cleared his throat.

“Terribly sorry, Anatole,” Aurelien said. “I ought to have – I didn’t realize you weren’t – aware,” he cleared his throat, shifting, his posture tense and uncomfortable.

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Tom Cooke
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Sun Aug 18, 2019 1:41 am

The Bérangers’ Ballroom Uptown
Evening of the 12th of Roalis, 2719
He was looking at her expectantly. He should’ve known, when the little party’d got hushed. He saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, another gesture to do nothing in particular. Awkward, pointless things. Francoise’s lips had pressed together, a thin, red-painted line on her pale face. One of Niccolette’s hands was pressed against her middle, now, and he wouldn’t have noticed it, except a ghost of an image came into his head: a sea of candles, a shadow through a thin white shift.

When she finally spoke, he wasn’t looking at her face. His eyes lingered briefly on her hand. Her fingertips, brushing those little gold buttons. His eyelids fluttered, blinking once, twice, and he managed to drag his gaze up to her face. He wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but he didn’t think he was smiling anymore.

Returned to the Cycle. Oes. Right.

Happened, in their line of work.

Niccolette’s voice caught. Questions flitted through his head, filling up that pause with a cacophony. They weren’t Anatole questions; he couldn’t give them his voice. There was the when and the how, of course, but they’d be asinine. Crude and ugly, like trying to do surgery with a shiv. Questions that didn’t help anyone, questions that just threw salt in the wound over and over. Besides, he wasn’t interested in the when or the how, or even the where. He wanted to know the why.

But mostly, he hadn’t wanted to know at all. The galdor Bad Brother apologized, then, and when Tom looked at her – really looked, for the first time – there were tears in her eyes. It was out of place, in the middle of all this. She flicked a tear away.

He glanced at Francoise, who had her arm around Niccolette. She was looking at Aurelien, looking hard, and so Tom looked, too. The incumbent was saying something, stammering through some kind of mungerse excuse. Like it was because Anatole’d been sick that he didn’t know, like this was some mixup they could smooth over. Like it changed the fact that Uzoji Ibutatu and Tom Cooke were both dead, and that’s why he didn’t know.

He looked back at Niccolette. He’d never much liked her, but he’d never heard her take anything back. Ever. He drained his glass of brandy, knuckles whitening on the glass, then blurted out, “Don’t apologize.”

The words came out sharper and more abrupt than he’d intended. Being honest, he hadn’t intended them to come out at all, but that ship’d sailed. It scratched in his throat, like he was trying to push it higher than it was supposed to go, like it didn’t know what to do with his words.

He knew Uzoji’d not’ve wanted grief, not’ve wanted all this rubbish. Thought so, at least, given the way all the other Mugrobi kovs he’d known’d felt about it. But Tom’d never been that kind of man, either, and this place was crushing him.

Aurelien’s field pulsed gently against his again, but this time, the gesture felt like a warning. Tom glanced back at the incumbent, looking into those strange gold eyes. He’d said something, hadn’t he? Something about a get-together. Intimates. He couldn’t think. A chunk of his mind was still devoted to reciting that poem, and now it was deafening-loud.

Tom shook his head, brushing his temple with the fingertips of his free hand. “Like esena,” he muttered, “like Her arms, his, his –” He couldn’t look at Aurelien’s face, and he couldn’t look at Niccolette’s, either. But he felt a hand on his forearm, near the crook of his elbow. It was soft, and then when he tried to pull his arm away, firm.

Gritting his teeth hard, he slapped at the hand, then jerked his arm away. He heard a sharp intake of breath, barely-audible, from Aurelien. Shuddering, he muttered, “My own apologies,” and turned away abruptly.

He found himself weaving through the crowd, toward the doors to the terrace. It’d been a windy, cloudy day, the kind of day that would’ve brought the smell of salt and rotting fish all the way to Quarter Fords from the docks. He thought he could hear the whistle of it, maybe, underneath the murmur of galdori voices, the bursts of laughter. As he neared, touching an elbow here, a shoulder there, letting his porven brush with all the bastly fields, signal his passage – as he neared, he could hear the song of crickets, feel a draft of humid air. He breathed it in deep, then pushed his way outside.

After a whirl of seconds, he found himself leaning against a railing. The garden was haunted by lanterns and thick with the shadows of tall shrubs; he looked out over it, trying to catch his breath. The air was cooler out here than he’d thought it would be, but his face felt hot. The wind had picked up, and the chill was kind against his cheeks. The voices were more scattered out here.

“Godsdamn,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Clock it to hell.” The glass in his hand was empty, but it was far too late to go back for more. The taste of brandy clung to his mouth, and all the soft lights moved. He shut his eyes, thinking of Uzoji’s hand pressed to Niccolette’s side, steaming in the cold. The sight of his lungs filling up again, the smell of burning flesh.
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Niccolette Ibutatu
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Sun Aug 18, 2019 2:22 pm

Evening, 12th Roalis, 2719
The Bérangers’ Ballroom, Uptown
Aurelien watched Anatole go, his face drawn into a frown, his hand still half-extended. “He’s still recovering,” he said.

Niccolette couldn’t tell if it was an apology - an excuse - a condemnation. She glanced up at Aurelien for a moment, then away.

“Well,” Francoise said, sharply. “He had better continue to improve,” she rubbed Niccolette’s arm, a soft, even motion up and down.

Aurelien pulled his gaze from Anatole’s back, grimaced. “What the tocks was that - esena nonsense?” He glanced at Niccolette, and grimaced again. “I’ll fetch the carriage,” he grumbled. 

“Esera,” Niccolette whispered. She shook her head, took a deep breath. “No.”

“No?” Aurelien raised an eyebrow, the expression on his face sharp and unpleasant. Francoise scowled at him, and he smoothed it into something that - if it wasn’t a smile - was at least only impatient.

“I will find a quiet place here,” Niccolette felt as if she was floating away, as if someone else was speaking in her voice. She peeled her hand from her side, patted Francoise’s fingers gently. She was still shaking, the Bastian noticed. “I wish for you both to -“ Niccolette faltered again; she tried a smile, but she knew it wasn’t right. She glanced at Francoise, blinking back tears.

Francoise nodded, slowly drawing her arm back to herself. “As you like, Nicco,” she said, gently. “You’ll come and find us when you’re ready to leave?”

Niccolette nodded. She couldn’t hold her gaze on Aurelien’s face, but she tried at least to look at Francoise - only for a moment, a brief one, because she could feel the warning heat behind her eyes.

There was an expression on Aurelien’s face, one Niccolette couldn’t make out from the edge of her gaze, couldn’t bare to look closer at. He took a step forward, and his arm slid around Francoise, hovering behind her; he leaned forward, slightly, his lips nearly touching her ear as he spoke. Niccolette felt the distant flutter of the two Anaxi fields, intertwining with one another.

The Bastian turned and made her way through the crowd. She didn’t rush; she walked slowly and steadily through increasingly blurry vision, murmuring polite nothings to those she brushed past, her field as crisp and indectal as ever. She found the dark little corridor that led from the bright glittering ballroom, eased past the laughter that trickled from rooms here and there, and tried handles until she found a small dark study, unlocked.

Niccolette stepped inside. A sob tore itself from her chest and she shuddered. She set the half-empty champagne glass down on the desk - stumbled to the window above it, and wrenched it open, letting the cool night air sweep her face. Niccolette clung to the frame and surrendered to the tears, sobbing softly in the quiet dark. 

“And I have loved him,” Niccolette wept, the words wrenching themselves from somewhere deep inside her, like a prayer. “the shape of him, carved into my breast; the wings of his breath, stirring dark between us...” she let go of the window frame, staggered - one hand found the back of the desk chair and she sank into it, burying her face in her hands.

“On the edge of my beloved’s eyelash, flickering bright,” Niccolette whispered to her palms, “The fire that burns the heart; he cleaves me from myself with his touch.”

The Bastian sat up, unsteadily, and reached for her glass, taking the champagne and swallowing it - not a sip, this, but draining all of it. The bubbles frothed a miserable riot in her stomach, heaving. She set the glass down, and missed the edge of the desk; it tumbled and cracked against the floor, shards of glass skittering away. Enjoying themselves, Niccolette thought, perhaps too much, and she began to weep again.

“Like esera,” Niccolette croaked, when she could speak again, “he has made a new woman of me, swathed in his arms like Her waters. The currents -“ she lost the thread of the poem then, lost everything, and for a long time it was only the soft shuddering sound of her sobs that broke the empty room.

“The currents,” Niccolette’s voice was a sore, aching thread, hoarse and lost somewhere inside her. She sniffled - cleared her throat - shifted against the chair, shifted her feet and felt the soft crunch of glass beneath one shoe. “The currents of him sweep through me,” she sniffled. “And I crest and break.”

Niccolette took a deep breath, shuddering; it caught somewhere inside her, and she thought of Uzoji - his soft wide eyes when she had recited the poem for him, his slowly dawning joy. The way he had hardly been able to keep himself from interrupting, throughout - he’d reached for her with hands instead of words, and held her close and even that had made it hard enough to finish.

“Let me be your rock, beloved,” Niccolette whispered, “that strength which trembles beneath all things. Breathe over me, bring me your heat, flow around me. For together -“

Niccolette shuddered, cleared her throat. She tried again, slow and soft, “For together -“

The Bastian buried her face in her hands once more. Like a prayer, she thought, like a spell; once this poetry had woven something between her and Uzoji. Now - now - 

“For together,” Niccolette shuddered. She would not brail, she promised herself; she would finish what she had started. “For together we are all as one.”

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Tom Cooke
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Sun Aug 18, 2019 7:52 pm

The Bérangers’ Ballroom Uptown
Evening of the 12th of Roalis, 2719
He cleaves me from myself with his arms like – like…”

The wings of his breath, Tom thought, the early Roalis winds rustling through his hair, plucking at his clothes. The grass was dewy, the earth still moist from last week’s rains; he could feel it seeping through his shoes. His fingers were numb with the damp chill, just barely holding onto the lip of his snifter, letting it hang from his fingertips at his side. He breathed in deep against the tightness in his throat.

He didn’t think anybody’d noticed him slip off. He’d been able to stand at the railing for a few moments, but no more. The chatter at his back, the faint whine of music and laughter leaking from the windows, the clink of glasses in the night air, was making him sick.

Most of the party was inside; it was just a pina chilly, windy, he reckoned, for most of the guests’ tastes, and the gollies on the terrace were scattered thin. He’d walked along the south wall of the Béranger house like he was wandering, like he was enjoying the breeze, like he’d decided to take a stroll. The stroll’d took him further – down the steps, off the terrace, down to the lawn, all in the shadow of the house. He’d padded beneath warm-lit windows from which smells of perfume and mulling spices emerged.

It’d been the gardens, all wreathed with moving shadows, that’d called him. They were lit, just in case, but he didn’t think anybody’d be down there. Not this early in Roalis.

So he walked among the wavering lanterns like light in the water, the brandy he’d drunk so quick settling on his belly, making him drunker and drunker. The sky was heavy with clouds, so it looked black: Benea and Osa were a mottled glow in the east. He followed them with each step, tracing the shrubs’ trembling leaves with his free hand. He didn’t know where he was going, but he didn’t want to go back.

Ohante. There were questions he could’ve asked Uzoji and didn’t. There’d been ohante between them; he could’ve asked them, if he’d steered through his wording with tact. If he’d known what to ask, and why he was asking. But you couldn’t see into the future – couldn’t see who you’d be in a handful of years, and what that person would feel. Or regret. Or begin to understand.

It was selfish, he thought, swirling brandy that wasn’t in his glass anymore, trying to take a sip of whatever was left in the bottom. He found a stone bench in the shade of a curling tree and sat, fumbling his glass down next to him.

He thought of what he could’ve said to Niccolette. Probably shouldn’t’ve snapped, but he didn’t much care. If it’d been him and hama, he didn’t know what he’d’ve wanted. Nobody, he thought. To be alone, at least. If it’d been him and hama. If it’d been hama…

“The currents of him sweep through me,” he murmured, catching the rhythm again, like a snatch of a melody on the breeze. He pressed his hands together tight in his lap. “I crest and break.” He slurred the consonants, stumbled over the vowels.

The last line he thought he knew. Returned to the Cycle, he thought, Niccolette’s calm, dignified words echoing through his head. He pressed his hand to his chest, stifling a gag. A wave of nausea rocked him. He kept catching faint whiffs of Anatole’s cologne, mingling with the brandy. He didn’t know how long he sat there, locked in place, doing his damnedest not to hurl.

“Sir?” came a quiet voice, barely audible over the chorus of crickets.

Tom blinked his eyes open. No caprision. A woman in a plain dress, the skirt coming to two neat points, hovered in front of him like a ghost, limned in warm light. He swallowed bile, pushing himself up off the bench.

He felt a soft hand on his elbow, and this time he didn’t resist. “If you’d allow me, sir” – the voice again, much closer to his ear – “Mr. Béranger” – with the wind, the rustling leaves, the rushing in his ears, he still caught just about every third word – “take you to your” – the way she lengthened her vowels, he thought, was familiar – “taken ill, Mr. Vauquelin…”

“Fen Kierden,” he muttered, “that’s it, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mimsbury?”

“No, sir,” she said, and left it at that.

He just nodded. “Thank you.”

“Of course, sir.”

His head was against the wall of the coach, the jostle of the wheel murmuring through his skull, that strength which trembles beneath all things, when the last stanza came to him. He mouthed the words silently, watching the tall, dark shadows of Uptown houses slink by. Maybe Uzoji’d been reborn as a human by now, or a wick; maybe his soul had gone someplace Tom couldn’t imagine. Maybe he’d broken the Cycle, too, and he was alone someplace, stranded in somebody else’s body, missing his love.

Diana was still in Hesse, and the house was mostly empty. It was Cecily who helped him up to the study, quiet and meek, and left him there alone. The headache had started; after he lit the lamp on his desk, Tom started to fish out a little Rodriguez to chase it away, and then stopped.

Al Jenwa was already sitting atop his desk, atop a clairvoyant grimoire, the gold thread glistening out of the dark cover. By the time he’d settled and got the page open to the fifty-fourth poem, he was already holding most of the words in his head. It was easier in the quiet.

“Breathe over me,” he murmured, smoothing the pages like he always did now, running his fingertips over the ink like the texture of them, like the sight of them in their clarity, was precious, “bring me your heat, flow around me.” The mona in his field itched against his ley lines, buzzed their complaint. “For together, we are all as one.”

A wince. He took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. “Bring me your heat,” he said again, louder, shaping the words as sharply as he could through the haze, “flow around me…” He could hear himself stumble. Had he said all the words in the right order? Had he said them too fast?

If it’d been monite, he would’ve brailed. He would’ve backlashed.

“Bring me your heat, flow around me,” he tried again, and again, putting his glasses back on. “For together, we are all as one. And I have loved him…”
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