[Closed] To Doubt

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 6th of Dentis, 2719

C
ircle, I don’t know –”

Anatole was tipping more brandy into Incumbent Proulx’s snifter, the leather-backed chair at the heavy mahogany desk creaking. He was watching Proulx intently, though both men were laughing, and Proulx so hard that his cheeks were flushed. “I don’t know what’s got into her,” Proulx said as his laughter petered out, over the thin trickle of the brandy against the glass. “You know how they are, at this age.”

“But – Gioran – cooking?” Anatole sat back, swirling his own glass; he hadn’t poured any more for himself.

“The history of Gioran cuisine,” Proulx pronounced, taking another long drink and shrugging his thin shoulders. “It’s all she can talk about. Clocking fungi. I told her to be careful, what with how things are getting, the Huanes and the Fintaines and all that rubbish. Though I suppose I should be glad that she’s taking an interest in her studies at all; I spent most of my Brunnhold days on the lawn. You remember?”

Proulx’s eyes skittered down, across the desk; they lingered on the shadowed carpet. He was pulling at his dark red mustaches thoughtfully.

They caught the low light strangely; they were ringed as gold as the phosphor lamps, but they went to hazel toward the pupil, a sort of tawny light brown. He sat across the desk from Anatole, his small frame slumped in another plush chair.

The streets were full of mist. You couldn’t see it now, of course – it was Dentis, over the long strange hump of the year, and the days were starting to get shorter – but when he’d got home from Stainthorpe, the study window had given out on a sea of rooftops rising from the fog, slick and glittering with rain. The rain’d got heavier as the evening’d drawn on, and now the sun’d sunk below the chimneys, it was driving sideways, lashing the windowpane.

It was benny warm in the study, warm and warmly-lit. Anatole was looking down at the desktop with a faint crooked smile. “There is nothing quite like one’s first victory on the lawn. But – to each their own, I suppose.” With a slight shrug, he looked back up at Proulx. “I wouldn’t worry about Annabelle, Alcest. We all set aside the idle pursuits of our youth, eventually.”

Proulx nodded, slowly, then smiled. “If the boy I was then could have imagined,” he laughed; he shrugged himself, taking another long drink. “The Council. I don’t know if he would be impressed or horrified.”

“I would have been horrified, no doubt,” Anatole put in, and Proulx laughed again, gold shivering through his perceptive field. Anatole watched him carefully. “I’m sorry to have missed you, by the way,” he said, “at the Pendulum, last eights. Bernard told me you had quite a bit to say about the recent –”

“Sir,” said the quiet, even voice.

Neither of the two galdori had seen him come in, but then, Morris had always been light of foot; light of foot, and hard to read. Both men looked up, either way, falling silent. The footman stood dutifully by the door of the study, a soft phosphor-lamp sheen in his slicked-back, dark hair. His long, pale face was grim.

The incumbents watched him expectantly, but it was a few seconds before he spoke. Finally, he said, slowly, “You have a – visitor, sir.”

Something in Morris’ face made Anatole sit up straight. The tense set of his jaw, maybe. Morris was a man with a hell of a servant’s rhakor, and the faint jumping muscle in his immaculately-shaved cheek spoke louder than a hundred wide eyes. His back was always stiff, but it seemed stiffer, tonight.

Anatole kept on smiling, still, though he couldn’t help the slight quirk of an eyebrow – a glance at the window, dashed and rattling with rain, a bemused glance at Proulx, who was staring at Morris with the half-pleasant, half-confused look of a man who’s starting to be drunker than he thought he’d be when he started.

Then he looked back at Morris, setting his snifter delicately on the desk. "Yes, Mr. Morris?"

“He –” Morris looked at Proulx, just long enough for Anatole to notice. His throat bobbed in a tight swallow. He opened his mouth to speak again, then shut it. “The gentleman is one – Mr. Aremu Ediwo,” he said finally. “He claims to have important business with you, sir.” Morris put a subtle weight on claims.

The smile on Anatole’s voice did not break, not a whit. It only froze; his fingertips froze on the rim of the snifter. The whole of him froze, for a few moments.

“A Mugrobi gentleman?” mused Proulx, pulling at his mustache.

Anatole darted a sharp glance at Proulx, an almost worried glance, then swallowed dryly and smiled back at Morris. “Perhaps –”

“Anatole,” Proulx said with sudden feeling, fidgeting in his chair. He smiled brightly at Morris, then at Anatole. “You mustn’t let me get in the way of your business, I –”

“Nonsense.” Anatole licked his lips; the smile was still plastered on his face, as if stuck there. “Please, Mr. Morris,” he said smoothly, “send him up.”

Morris looked like he was about to argue; he didn’t, in the end. With a brusque nod, he said, “One moment, sir,” and then turned on his heel, walking crisply from the study.

The door clicked behind him, and Anatole took a sip of brandy; then he drained his glass, setting it down on the desk. Proulx was looking at him curiously, his smile a little wan. “If you have some business,” he offered hesitantly, “I, ah… I shall…” He trailed off, but set his glass down with Anatole’s.

There was a long pause, full of the pattering rain and the ticking of the grandfather clock.

Tom felt like he was swimming through a dream. The air seemed more chill than it had earlier; everything seemed brighter. The desk, cool underneath his fingertips. The light, catching the gilt letters on rows of spines, lining the walls. Incumbent Proulx sitting across the desk from him, as he’d been sitting for the past hour.

Tom felt like he was looking at him for the first time. He tried to find a smile for his face again. He thought it must’ve reassured Proulx, because the other man nodded, unflapped.

He was still Anatole, he reminded himself, still sitting there, smiling Anatole’s smile; he was still in control. “Perhaps – this is quite unexpected,” he went on, and found the voice again, blessedly. “It’s a damned shame to cut such an enjoyable evening short, but I’m afraid I must. I can’t apologize enough. We don’t do this nearly often enough, Alcest, I daresay –”

Proulx was already rising stiffly to his feet, waving one thin hand. “I shall leave you to your business. Bea and I will see you,” he added, leaning on the back of the chair and peering at Anatole from beneath his bushy russet brows, “on the thirtieth–?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the Vyrdag,” Anatole replied, lightly. Proulx laughed. Yes, he had found his rhythm again, he thought, rising to his feet himself, wincing as he put his weight on his hip. There was an ache in his side, but it was faint, dulled by the last few weeks. He didn’t think of it; his head was empty, again, of thoughts.

Until the door opened.

“Sir,” came Morris’ low voice, and the human bowed. Anatole stood very still, his fingertips lingering on the polished mahogany, his lips slightly parted for just a second. He was watching him evenly. He wasn’t sure what expression was on his face – he thought he still might be smiling; he hoped he was – only everything had been swallowed by the sight of him, the soft light gold on his dark skin, glinting in his eyes.

Here. Not just in Vienda – in his study. It was –

Proulx turned, and Tom might’ve known what would happen. The incumbent was smiling; his tipsy, bastly field pulsed gently, then reached out to caprise the Mugrobi galdor at the door. At the edge of his porven, Tom felt the mona shiver and draw back. What he could see of Proulx’s face went pale.

And so Anatole smiled. “Sana’hulali, ada’xa,” he said, and bowed. “Alcest, this is ada’xa Aremu Ediwo, an associate of mine from the Isles,” he went on smoothly, without a trace of feeling, turning to Proulx. “Ada’xa, Incumbent Proulx and I were just finishing up.”

“Ana–”

“Please.” Anatole spoke over Proulx. He gestured with one hand, trembling only slightly. “If you would have a seat,” he said, more softly. You must be tired, he could not say. It's awful, out there.

.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 6 Dentis, 2719
The Vauquelin House, Uptown

In the islands, the rain came down warm and windswept this time of year. There were days when Aremu would be sitting in his study, and hear Ahura shout abruptly from downstairs, and it would be a race between the two of them – Aremu running through the attic and then down to the second floor, shutting as many windows as he could as the storm outside began to pick up. Distantly he could see the men and women running through the fields, bright flashes of cloth and dark limbs pricked out amidst the sugarcane. Usually – not always – Ahura would meet him at the top of the stairs, and one or the other would shut the last window, triumphant.

The humidity would build inside as it rained; water would lash at the windows and pound noisily against them. Sometimes, there would be flashes of light in the distance, lighting tossed between clouds over the Tincta Basta; sometimes, it would strike on the island, and a distant boom would echo through the air; sometimes, the boom was not so distant.

And then, in time, the storm would break; light and wind would sweep through, and the humidity of the storm would lighten, leaving the air clean and fresh in its wake. There was no rush to open the windows again – it was a joy, letting the fresh air wash through the house, clean and sweet-smelling. The colors were always bright outside, after a storm; the dirt redder than usual, the grass and trees bright, vivid and green.

In Vienda, the rain seemed to fill the city with a gray, dismal haze. It was thick in the air, thick and unpleasant, reeking of soot and smoke, as though all the polluted misery of the city’s factories had swept up into the air, and been spat back down upon them. It was cold, too, shockingly cold for Dentis. The puddles on the ground were muddy, and unexpectedly deep in strange places; carriage wheels rattled through them, and splashed great washes of foul water over the sidewalks.

Aremu had walked, all the way from the Dives. To be confined in a carriage was, he felt, more than he could bear. The sun had set, and the city was lit with large lamps, shedding pale circles of yellow light; the rain streamed through them, visible against the vague outlines of buildings. People hurried in Vienda; Aremu did not mind. He wore his collar turned up, and a hat covering his head, and there were matching bulges in both his pockets. He walked, steadily, weaving with the flow of traffic, his shoulders hunched and his head down; he moved easily, steadily with the flow of it. Always, he kept an edge of awareness about him, checking to see whether any eyes lingered too long, whether any heads jerked sharply in his direction –

There was no relief to be had at his destination. The crowds had thinned out in Uptown, as Aremu wove through the emptier, quieter streets, with the houses set back and heavy gardens overshadowing the roads. The rain was no lighter; eyes lingered longer, here. There was no one to draw the attention away from him, not here.

He stopped outside the gates; water dripped from the brim of his hat, and Aremu was conscious of a trembling, all through him. His right arm ached, brutally, and he did not know if it was the cold or the tension. Aremu lingered, there, longer than he should have. It was not too late, he told himself; he could still turn back. He could walk back away from this place. He could lose himself once more in the Dives, where no one looked too close, where no one wanted to know. But he knew the words for a lie.

Aremu opened the gate, and rang the bell.

He bowed, politely, at the sight of the tall, slender human with slicked-back dark hair. He was beneath the awning, out of the rain – too close, Aremu knew, to be taken for anything but what he was.

“Good evening,” Aremu said, quietly, blinking the last of the rain from his lashes. “I am sorry to have come without warning. I have important business with Incumbent Vauquelin.”

For a moment, Aremu had thought the footman would close the door in his face. He should not have been surprised, if so. He had planned for it. Yes, sir, I understand the incumbent is very busy. If you could put this note with his correspondence, I should be grateful – the paper was tucked, safely, into a pocket of the heavy overcoat; he thought he could hear it crackle, faintly, when he moved, although it was hard to be sure over the slush of the rain, the distant rattle of wheels on cobblestones.

Almost to his surprise, the man let him inside. He took the wet, water-logged coat without comment, and whisked it away where it could not drip on the carpet. He put Aremu in some small, quiet side room.

“Mr. Aremu Ediwo,” Aremu said, quietly, when asked.

Aremu stood, there, his hands in his pockets, tightly aware of the press of the cravat against his throat, the uncomfortable press of the jacket against him. It was still cold, in this small room. The door was not quite closed; he heard a fierce whisper of voices from outside, and then, a little later, a bright, high giggle, and a shushing sound that managed to be louder still.

He looked up at none of it; he stood, instead, facing the curtain-covered window, and breathed steadily.

“This way, sir,” The human returned; he sounded as surprised as Aremu felt.

There were memories which faded; Aremu could not have told the latest storm apart from the others. He knew, in time, this dull, dismal, tense walk would fade, would blend together with the others he had done in Vienda; he would not be able to pick out how he had felt on this street corner, or that. Most memories faded, in this way, in time; some stayed as sharp as knives, and cut as deeply still, even weeks or years later. There were memories he could not forget, and not by choice; it was those Aremu clung to, perversely, as he climbed the stairs, because otherwise he might have forgotten it was real.

The door opened; the human bowed him in. Aremu stepped past him, carefully. There was Tom – there was Incumbent Anatole Vauquelin, Aremu corrected himself, gently, at the sight of a second galdor in the room, a small man. There was a bright field around him. Aremu had stepped forward too far; he was aware of it, sharply, vividly. He held utterly still as the field swept over him, and the galdor’s face went pale.

Aremu bowed, deeply, and he eased back with the motion, just out of range, just out of the path to the doorway. Don’t, he wanted to say when Tom bowed to him. Not in front of him – don’t –

Aremu found a polite, even smile, which showed nothing beneath the surface of it, and fit it neatly to his face. “Good evening, sir,” he said, quietly. He bowed to Incumbent Proulx as well. “My apologies, sir, for interrupting your evening.” Aremu said. He had the trick of it, by now; both arms were visible when he bowed, but by the time he straightened up, they were tucked politely behind his back once more.

“I am sorry to have come unannounced,” Aremu continued, quietly. He did not sit, not yet; not with both of the other men standing. “I am here regarding the affairs of Ada’xa Uzoji Ibutatu, Hulali rest him beneath the waves.” He looked between the two men, and settled his gaze on Tom. The soft gold light flickered over him, washed his skin warm; Aremu could not have said how he looked. His thin face seemed to have lost its familiarity; there were gray eyes gleaming in the lamplight. Aremu held tight to memories he should have shunned, and gripped them close, and kept his face smooth.

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 6th of Dentis, 2719

T
he thin hand hovered, still half-extended toward the chair. Steadily, it dropped and came to rest its shaky fingertips on the desktop again. He was looking at ada’xa Aremu, meeting his smooth, pleasant smile with one of his own.

“Ada’xa Uzoji,” he repeated numbly, licking his lips. He thought of Niccolette in the kitchen.

Proulx stared coldly at the imbala for a few more seconds; then, he looked at Anatole. “I don’t know the name,” he said. “Ibutatu.” His voice was sharp. He hadn’t bowed.

Graceful, Tom thought. He couldn’t remember if he’d noticed, on the isles or on the ship, the way he bowed. He didn’t look down at it, and so when the imbala’s hands came out from behind his back, it looked like he had two of them; from this distance, in the low light, he’d’ve assumed the wooden hand was flesh and blood, if he hadn’t known better. But what man would have known? What man would’ve even thought of it? When Aremu raised back up, the hand was gone again, both of them clasped behind his back.

Sir, he said, and it didn’t hurt so badly. The memory of Ahura’s kitchen swept over him like a breeze carrying the smell of tsug, and he thought of Aremu’s little smile when he’d said good morning, sir. He caught the updraft of other memories, too, more tender.

To his surprise, Tom found them comforting, rather than jarring. He held onto it; he felt the shame wash through him, and he held onto it anyway, because he didn’t know what else to do.

He could see nothing in Aremu’s eyes, today. He wondered if the imbala was thinking of that same evening, if, seeing him now, it disgusted him as much as it comforted Tom. His face was as smooth as – but Tom couldn’t think of it. Proulx was looking at him, and when he turned, he knew what was reflected in the other galdor’s eyes.

“I have been honored with ada’xa Uzoji’s acquaintance.” He smiled at Proulx. “Perhaps” – he hesitated, thinking rapidly – “you are acquainted with an Enofe pez Okorie?” He smiled more brightly, raising both eyebrows.

Proulx’ lip twitched, but he nodded slowly, tugging again at his mustache. Then he started, lifting a finger. “Uzoji Ibutatu,” he said, “Uzoji – not the same? Uzoji pez Okorie?”

Anatole’s smile broadened even more. “Indeed.”

There was a pause. “Ah,” said Proulx finally, looking a little put-out. He spared Aremu one more look, frowning. “Are you quite certain, Anatole?” he asked, without looking away.

“Quite.” Tom thought that if he smiled any wider, he’d be scowling. He was afraid to look at Aremu; he was conscious, too, of the flush in Proulx’ cheeks, of the decanter and the two glasses. He was thankful for them; he hated them. “Ada’xa Aremu is here on important business,” he started again, snatching back Proulx’ eyes with his voice. He held them, lowering his head slightly. He thought to say, to do with the estate of Uzoji Ibutatu – how many lies had he told, in the last hour? – but Aremu had said nothing of the estate, and Tom found himself strangely, painfully reluctant to lie.

He didn’t have to. Proulx nodded, but held his gaze for a few more moments. “I’ll see myself out, then,” he said.

“Ah, please, allow me to at least –”

“Nonsense.” Proulx was smiling again, though there was an edge to it. He clasped Anatole on the shoulder. “I’ll see you on the twentieth, Anatole,” he said, then turned. Without looking at the imbala, he went out, his gait a little jerky.

Tom watched him go. His hands were shaking harder against the tabletop. He wished he had something to hold; he looked at the decanter once, and then his empty glass, and then away. He took his hands away from the desk, clearing his throat. In the silence, he looked up at Aremu. There was nowhere else to look.

The pressed dark jacket complemented his slight frame, and there was something fair macha about the dark cravat at his throat, the way echoes of lamplight nested in the silky rumple. But Tom half-expected to see the jacket torn under one arm, blood blooming across his white shirt. Tom half-expected, if that wooden hand came out from behind his back, to see a streak of dried blood running between the fingers, glistening in the low light of his study.

The shame wasn’t enough to bottle up what he felt, then. He looked once, hard, at the door behind the imbala, and by the time he looked back at Aremu, the thin polite smile was gone. He started around the desk, but stopped just shy of the other side.

What the hell are you doing here? he wanted to ask, half angry and half bewildered. Alone? Are you alone? In Vienda? He thought suddenly of Aremu in the Rose, his shoulders drawn up, every line of every muscle rigid with tension. He thought of him cooped up in some carriage Uptown, and then walking the streets in the frigid downpour, with every Anaxi golly –

His brow knit; his eyes flicked over Aremu’s face, over the benny clothes again, and then went back up to his dark eyes. The anger vanished. His lips parted, started to shape a word, but no sound came out.

In the end, all he could manage, very soft, was, "Aremu."

.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 6 Dentis, 2719
The Vauquelin House, Uptown

Aremu knew when to step back. He didn’t know when he had learned; he had known how for a long time. There was a way of doing it, of speaking and remaining silent, of knowing when to us each. He had learned it in Anaxas; he had learned it in the islands; he had learned in at Thul’Amat; he had learned it before. He knew it all through himself, instinctive; there was no wish in him to speak, and he doubted he could have, even if he wished to.

Aremu made no particular effort to meet Proulx’s gaze, and nor did he look away. He was conscious of the galdor’s faint disdain; it did not ache, directed towards him. He could bear the frowns; he understood them too well. It sent a jerk of fear through him, though, to see Proulx looking at Tom; it was sharp and icy cold through him, like rainwater dripped down the back of his collar. It was bitter on his tongue, because he knew he was to blame.

Aremu eased back, carefully, far enough from the door that Proulx could pass through without needing to hold his field away. The other man left the room, and Aremu tried to imagine him going; tried to imagine him walking down the hall, his gait still faintly uneven – waiting for his coat in the doorway, shrugging it on – folding himself into a warm, well-lit carriage outside, with no more than a moment or two in the rain –

Aremu strained, as if he might be able to hear the door shut, as if he might be able to hear the scrape of hooves or talons on the street outside, to know he was truly gone. Something of him still lingered in the room – a scent, a feeling – Aremu couldn’t name it, but he could feel it, all through him. he knew he was shaking, ever so slightly; he tried to still himself. He tried to think of other things – of rough, scarred hands brushed with dark hair, of kofi leaves veined with gold. They were still clear behind his eyes, even with them open. He could see them; they were with him, now.

Tom said his name, and Aremu felt a jerk ripple through him. He tried to – he looked away. It was more tender than he could bear. He didn’t know what to make of the look on Tom’s face; he was not smiling, now. He had not come close, either; he was far enough, still, that Aremu could not feel the brush of his strange, jarring field. A reminder, Aremu remembered.

“You don’t need to bow to me,” Aremu said, quietly. He could feel the tension through his shoulders, all down his arms; behind his back, his left hand gripped his right wrist so tightly the pain shot up his forearm and settled in his elbow. He was looking away, still, at the elegant, well-apportioned room, the warm glow of yellow light, the cut-glass decanter with rich brown liquor inside, brandy by the smell.

Slowly, Aremu turned and looked back to Tom; he met his eyes. Something like a smile twitched at his lips, and faded. Rain was lashing at the window outside, rattling against the glass. I missed you, he wanted to say. I thought of you – I thought of seeing you again. I missed you, Tom. I’m glad to see you, even here –

“You don’t need to treat me like a man.” Aremu said, instead, his voice barely audible over the driving rain. He let go of his forearm; his right arm eased forward, and the prosthetic slid into his pocket. He could feel the scar burning where he had pressed too close to it, the pain lingering like an echo. His left hand flexed, tightened and loosened, and hung half-limp at his side. He met Tom’s gaze, his jaw tight, nostrils flaring faintly. Then, aching, he spoke a few more words into the silence between them. “It’s not worth the risk.”

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 6th of Dentis, 2719

R
isk to you, or to me?” Tom asked softly.

You don’t need to, Aremu’d said, not you shouldn’t, not you can’t. Tom held by the desk, tilting his head and watching the imbala with solemn eyes. His brow was furrowed; his lips were pressed thin.

Aremu had jerked, when he’d said his name. Tom wasn’t sure what to think.

The imbala tucked his wooden hand into his pocket. He got a better view of it this time, if fleeting; the light caught carved knuckles as he shifted his arm. Again, Tom thought, if you didn’t know, you wouldn’t. It was only that the shape of Aremu’s hand was written on Tom, and even now he could feel it against his skin. He couldn’t see it for his sleeve, but he wondered how the wound in his arm was healing up. No bandages, that was good, and he was moving it well enough.

Aremu’s eyes were roving round the study, following the march of gilt spines along the wall. They’d lingered briefly on the decanter and on the leather-backed chairs, on the great window with its heavy curtains and its cushioned seat.

When he finally did meet his eye, the twitch of his lip stung. Worse, even, than the pleasant smile from before; he'd known that was a mask, at least. If he’d been asked to say what this smile meant, he wouldn’t’ve been able to come up with words, but he knew, somehow, in a place deeper than words could go. He thought he saw something of himself reflected in it; he knew how he must’ve looked, standing there with all the trappings of an old Anaxi galdor around him.

But that was not the only thing Tom saw. He’d seen this Aremu before, the set of his shoulders, the clench of the muscles in his jaw. His nostrils flared slightly, and Tom’s frown deepened. “The last thing I want to do is put you in danger.” One step, then another, and he moved round the desk, to the other side.

He held the other man’s gaze.

Holding onto the heavy mahogany, he eased himself up onto the corner of the desk, half-sitting, half-leaning. He winced, but the weight off his hip was worth it. “But in this house,” he went on, firmer, “in this study, you’re my guest. Not Proulx’, not anybody else’s. I will not let a man like that guide my hand. If I bow to you, that sets a precedent. He doesn’t have to follow it, but he knows damn well he’s not to fuck with you while I’m in the room.”

He hadn’t meant to say it like that, and he hadn’t meant for it to come out deep and wavering and rough. He didn't know who he was angry at; maybe it wasn't that sort of anger. His jaw was set and tense. He grunted, trying to relax it, to loosen up his shoulders.

Sucking at a tooth, he looked down and away. You don't need to treat me like a man. A man. The words echoed through his head again, in Aremu's soft, matter-of-fact voice. A man! As if you aren't – he remembered very well what kind of man –

He squeezed his eyes shut, then. “I’m worried,” he breathed, even more quietly. “I’m glad to see you, but this place...” His head was flooding spinning. He hadn’t meant to say that, either; he felt a rush of embarrassment.

It was a moment or two before he could open his eyes. When he did, he looked back at Aremu.

“If my judgment’s erred, then guide me,” he said more evenly. “But I know what this” – he gestured loosely at himself – “means, and I know what it can and can't do.”

.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 6 Dentis, 2719
The Vauquelin House, Uptown

Aremu’s eyes held fixed on Tom as he came around the desk, as he leaned against the side of it. He shuddered; he didn’t know if he could speak. His jaw was clenched too hard to open; he did not know what would come spilling out if he tried. Tom was watching him, and speaking again, low and rough and angry.

It cut through all of it, that force; Aremu shuddered. He knew him, then; he thought that he would have known him even if he hadn’t already, even without the memory of his own body shining through with stars, of an orchard of thickly placed tsug trees. Rough force, tenderly applied; Aremu’s eyes closed for a long moment. When he opened them again, he blinked away the faintest traces of moisture, looking at Tom. Some of the tension had gone out of him, though he still ached all through. Tom was looking away now; his eyes had shut. He looked back, face somber through the golden light.

“No,” Aremu said, then, softly. “I have erred.” He took a deep, careful breath, even. “Your judgment is what matters, not mine.” He looked evenly across the room at the other man.

I’m glad to see you, Tom said. I’m worried. More than anything, Aremu wanted to go to him; he wanted to reach out and take Tom’s hand in his – better still, he thought, to wrap his arm around the other man, to show him -

Aremu did not move. He was not trembling, anymore; he could breathe again. He could not, he thought; he could not go to Tom as he wished, and then ask – the thought crawled through him, and left a foul taste in his mouth.

“I have come to ask for your help,” Aremu said, looking across the room at the other man. He took a deep and careful breath; he exhaled what he could of the tension left in him. His right wrist still rested against his pocket; his left hand had dug into the fabric of his pants, holding tight. He let go, slowly.

Aremu had thought it over; he had thought about what he would say. He had written his letter; in it, he had made a thousand caveats. He thought, inexplicably, of the Uccello di Hurte, of the tunnel that had led down beneath the hot, spinning engine, of the rope straining against the knobs, and Tom’s thin, shaking hands. He had been afraid, then, but not like this. Was it only the absence of time? If he had known, that day, what was to come – would he have felt as he did now?

If you cannot, Aremu had written, I will find another way. He had not named the task, on paper; he had not trusted that other eyes might not see it. All the same, he had been careful, cautious; he had eased around the non-asking. He thought of the rope, straining between the knobs; he thought of it hanging, loose and frayed, as he emerged, and the ache in his leg. He thought of the shaky tightness of Tom’s voice after, the fear, the wetness in his eyes.

Tom had trusted him, then, Aremu thought. They had not seen each other in three years; he had not even known it was Tom. He could never have dreamt it might be. No questions, Tom had promised. He had let Aremu make his own judgments as to the risks; he had done what he could. No caveats, Aremu thought. Tom knew himself; he knew what he was capable of. I give you my trust, Aremu had promised. He would not make a liar of himself.

“I need to go to Brunnhold.” Aremu said, looking at Tom. It wasn’t so hard to say aloud as he had thought. He found himself straightening up a little as he said it; his hand softened at his side. He knew he was frowning, but it was a slight frown, gentle; even the ache in his arm seemed to have lessened. Said aloud, there could be no turning back. Said aloud – said to Tom – it was truth, and he could no longer dream of avoiding it. He felt himself descending down the ladder, the walls close and narrow around him, but his hand was sure on the rungs, and he knew what it was he needed to do.

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 6th of Dentis, 2719

A
remu opened his eyes, blinking away the beginnings of tears. Tom watched him silently. He softened, but this time, he knew Aremu spoke true. There was no room for mincing; this was not about respecting a man’s beliefs.

The imbala spoke again, and he felt it even more strongly, though it was tempered with a building dread. He went over the words in his head. My help, Tom thought, then, I have come to ask for your help. Not, I have come with a message; there was no we. There was a long pause, and Tom wasn’t sure if he’d speak again. The dread built and built in him. He had a strange feeling he’d have to stick to that judgment with everything that was in him, before this was all over.

Tom couldn’t help but glance down as he knotted a hand in the pocket of his trousers. He glanced back up at Aremu’s face, uncrossing his arms. Aremu looked straight at him and said six words.

His mouth came open. “Brunnhold,” he repeated, hoarse. He felt behind him for the edge of the desk; he fumbled before he found it.

He had time to wonder, numbly, why. Something twitched across his face, something like anger, frustration, and then fear. When he’d said go to Brunnhold, the first thing that’d flashed through Tom’s mind – but no, he didn’t mean like that. If he had, he’d hardly’ve needed an incumbent’s help; it wasn’t hard to get yourself –

He struck a wall; he couldn’t think. He went to Aremu. It was an impulse; he was in motion before he knew it. He didn’t even hesitate when he’d crossed the threshold, when his porven must’ve washed over the imbala – he didn’t think of it, not once. Not until he was close enough to touch, close enough that the stark highlights and shadows of the other man’s face were blurred at the edges.

Gently, he lifted a hand almost to his cheek. He’d been indoors long enough to dry off – Tom hoped, leastways, Morris hadn’t made him wait outside while he went upstairs – but the mist and rain had left their imprint; he thought he could feel the faint chill coming off the other man’s skin, smell the petrichor and the smog of Vienda. He thought Aremu should have been warm. His hand must’ve been cold, but it wasn’t as cold as the downpour, and a body had a way of warming another –

Then he saw it. It hovered there, stark pale against Aremu’s skin, tilted for a caress, but not quite brushing. He couldn’t make sense of it, for a moment, the scene. It wasn’t the sort of hand that ought to be touching Aremu’s cheek. He was no fool; it caught up to him.

No strings, he thought, with a sudden stroke of dread. Gods, no. I’m not –

Anatole’s hand hesitated, then fell. Tom swallowed a painful lump. “I trust you,” he said slowly. Thickly. He cleared his throat and nodded once, his frown deepening. I don’t like it, he didn’t say; he knew he didn’t need to. Aremu had seen the look on his face. “I won’t ask why, but I need to know more. On campus? How long?” His brow was knotted with worry.

He didn’t move away, but he turned outward, careful to stay on Aremu’s left side. He didn’t put an arm around him, but he brushed the other shoulder with his hand, feather-light. He nodded not toward the desk, but toward the hearth, around which a few chairs perched. That corner of the room was darker, but warmer. Still, it’d drowsed to glowing coals during his chat with Proulx – he’d have to nudge it back to life.

Tom had moved Anatole’s green chair out of the study. It had been in Hamis he’d finally done it, his hand still wrapped in gauze where he’d cut trying to scoop up the pieces of a broken teacup. There’d been no point in doing otherwise; he’d gladly disrupted the stack of books at the foot of the chair, had gladly got rid of all of them. He’d replaced the green chair with its comfortable indentations, with the worn wing where a dead man had rested his head, without a single thought.

Now, there were was one dark brown chair, wing-backed, old and a little misshapen; and another, much newer seat, leather upholstered but lower and deeper than the one across the desk. There was a small table between them, and they both had foot-rests.

“I don’t want to have this conversation across a desk. I can’t,” he said softly. “Will you sit? Can I get you anything?”

.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 6 Dentis, 2719
The Vauquelin House, Uptown

Aremu couldn’t have named what was on Tom’s face. He felt it; he knew it. It had lived in his chest for too many days; it had settled there, like a stone, sunk to the bottom of him and impossible to dislodge. He had felt the weight of it in everything he did; he had felt the weight of it waking and asleep; he had felt the weight of it through every inch of him, as if it could fill the emptiness inside. He saw it, when he looked at the stars; he felt it, when he dove into the waves; he smelled it, when the wind rustled the cane towards him.

Tom was coming then; Aremu felt the strange, bristling ache of his field first. He held, still; he was aware, suddenly, unpleasantly, that he had kept himself so far separate – that he had kept himself as far from Tom as he could manage, still in the room, with the other man at the desk. But Tom was close now, and for a moment Aremu thought he’d feel the other man’s hand against his cheek. He was warm; Aremu could feel it, even from here. Aremu didn’t move, and Tom’s hand hovered for a moment – held – sank away.

Aremu closed his eyes, because he did not know if his disappointment would show. He hadn’t known how much he wanted Tom to touch him until he hadn’t; he hadn’t known how desperately, achingly alone he felt until –

I trust you, Tom said. Aremu blinked his eyes open, looking at the other man. He felt Tom’s hand brush his shoulder, gentle, pointing him towards the chairs. There were questions; Aremu had been gathering himself to answer them. There was a fire of slumbering coals, glowing faintly in the heat. Aremu thought he could feel the warmth of them even from the distance, prickling over his skin – but it was Tom, he realized, abruptly. He turned to the other man.

Aremu didn’t think he could stomach alcohol; he’d never had anything like a taste for it, not particularly, and he didn’t like the thought of being in Vienda any bit less aware than he could be. It frightened him enough already. Then, too, if these moments were – if he was – he wished to hold onto them, no matter how painful. Aremu swallowed, dry-mouthed, and shook his head. Aremu started to move, looking at the chairs, and then he stopped, and looked at Tom instead.

I want you, Aremu didn’t say. Instead he reached down, and he took Tom’s hand in his. He hadn’t known how cold his fingers were until they wrapped around Tom’s, but they were, because why else would he have been so conscious of the other man’s warmth? He lifted his hand, slowly; he settled it against his cheek. Aremu closed his eyes, breathing deep; he turned, and brushed his lips softly against Tom’s palm.

Slowly, as slowly as he’d brought Tom’s hand to his face, Aremu lowered it back down. He looked at Tom, his eyes searching the other man’s face; he didn’t move towards the chairs, not yet, but held, standing there in the midst of the study. He wasn’t quite ready to let go; his fingers intertwined with Tom’s, gently, if the other man would let him.

Aremu felt himself trembling again; he could feel it starting, but he could do nothing about it. He took a deep breath; his hand tightened against Tom’s, and then loosened again, carefully. Aremu was surprised by the strength of his wanting. It wasn’t only a longing for distraction, or at least he didn’t think so. He hadn’t thought he’d be able to bear any touch; he had not seen Tsadha, not since. He had thought it would be like friction against an open wound; he had thought it would ache.

Aremu took a deep breath. He didn’t lean in any further; he held there, waiting, his eyes fixed on Tom. If Tom – if he wanted, too – Aremu couldn’t think. Shame warred with the strength of it, and Aremu pushed it aside; he knew it was not gone, only subdued, but he would pay that price later, if Tom would let him.

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 6th of Dentis, 2719

H
e could feel it even then, underneath his hand, the way Aremu was shaking. He knew it wasn’t from the cold, though he didn’t know what else he could do but guide him toward the fire. He didn’t say anything, and he started moving, but then he stopped; Tom stayed fair still, and his fingertips settled on the imbala’s shoulder, because he couldn’t help it. Because he didn’t know what to do, and he wanted more than anything to do something.

Then Aremu was taking his hand in his. His fingers were fair cold; Tom shivered. He didn’t understand, at first. He was still full of questions, full of worries. By the time his heart caught up with his head, running hard fit to stumble over its own feet, the other man had already lifted it back to his cheek.

The floor clock ticked, but Aremu drew the seconds back. His hand was against his cheek again, only this time, Aremu made sure he knew to touch him. He turned his head, and his lips brushed Tom’s palm; he could feel the tickle of his breath. He could think of no more questions. He couldn’t even draw in breath. When Aremu opened his eyes again, Tom looked into them.

He didn’t think he had demanded anything. If he wanted him, Aremu already knew it; he’d known it five weeks ago, and there was no unknowing it.

Aremu was still shaking, but he drew in a deep, steady breath. Tom found he could breathe again, too. But neither of them made any moves toward the hearth.

The way they were standing now, it was easy to tilt his head and lean forward and find Aremu’s lips with his, his eyes fluttering shut. There was nothing hesitant about the kiss. He ran his fingers over Aremu’s hair, as he’d done plenty of times before. Once, he’d had to stoop his shoulders just so and tilt Aremu’s head up; this motion was different, but it’d become familiar, too, in its way. He’d wondered if he’d forget after so many weeks, in this strangest of places, but he hadn’t.

For all he could still feel the chilly, damp touch of rain in his hair, his lips and his breath were warm as any living man’s. Tom knew how precious that warmth was; he had been without it. He didn’t know much else, but he knew that it was important, now, to hold with his judgment. So he met that warmth with a kiss like a promise.

He didn’t draw away. Instead, if Aremu let him, he pulled the other man into his arms. One hand stayed in his hair, tracing fingertips over his scalp, a steady rhythm.

Tom didn’t have to stoop, and nor did he have to stand on his toes. He found his head nestled just so on Aremu’s shoulder, and he let it. He could hear his breath like his own pulse in his ears; he could feel him warming off, shedding the wet cold.

His other hand rested on Aremu’s upper back. “Circle,” he breathed, voice muffled. “You’re so tense.”

He’d forgot everything. He should’ve been asking questions, he knew. He tried to catch hold of them, but every time he got one, it dissolved and scattered through his fingers like so much sand. He knew how dangerous this was. He wasn’t sure how he’d got through with Proulx, how he’d stood so long at the other side of the room, like Aremu was a stranger. All he’d wanted to do since Morris had brought him through the door was hold him; he didn’t know if it was wrong, but he knew what he felt.

He should’ve been drawing away by now, too, saying something else, looking Aremu in the face. We have to – he couldn’t think – we have to what? He ran his hand over his back; he could feel the knotted muscles even through his jacket.

It was warmer by the fire, and his hip ached from the standing. All the aches’re worse in weather like this, he wanted to say, irrationally. This time last year – I thought I knew what pain was, but the shock of this – do you know what it’s like? He thought of Aremu’s hand, and he wondered. Does it hurt more? Can you tell when it’s going to rain, too?

He wanted to sit, but he couldn’t seem to let go. “How long have you been in Vienda?” he murmured into the other man, stroking his back. “If I’d known…”

.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 6 Dentis, 2719
The Vauquelin House, Uptown

Aremu’s eyes fluttered shut as Tom leaned in. It was a warm kiss; it wrapped around him like a blanket. Tom’s fingers were tracing through his hair; his other arm was settled against Aremu. Aremu wrapped his arm around Tom, unhesitatingly, his fingers twining themselves into the other man’s hair, cradling his scalp.

Aremu wanted; he wanted so much. It wasn’t that kind of kiss, and he knew it. It was a warm kiss, tender, and it eased an ache inside him even as others rose up. It wasn’t a demanding kiss; it wasn’t breathless and urgent, the sort of kiss that led you to sink, to search -

Tom’s head was nestled against his shoulder. Aremu kept his eyes closed; he knew he was still trembling. He held Tom close. If he didn’t look - if he didn’t look, then - his left hand stayed in Tom’s hair, fingertips stroking his scalp. You’re so tense, Tom murmured, his hand rubbing Aremu’s back. Aremu didn’t look, and his right arm came out, slowly, and wrapped against Tom, his forearm settled gently against the other man’s back.

Aremu didn’t need to look, not with how close they were. He tilted his head; his lips brushed Tom’s head, soft and gentle. It was warm, tangled together; he still wanted, but it didn’t ache like it had before. He could set it aside; he would never have forced it on Tom. Tom’s hands were still stroking him, and his breath tickled Aremu’s neck above his collar, and all the warmth between them seemed to be soaking into Aremu, settling somewhere deep inside.

“Not long,” Aremu whispered. He shifted and kissed the other man’s head again, soft and lingering.

I couldn’t put it off, Aremu wanted to say. My courage is stretched so thin; at any moment I felt it might snap and send me tumbling. It means more than I can say to do this; I must do this. I think he would not have asked it of me; I think he would tell me not to go. It does not matter. He left it behind - he left it unfinished - and I wish to honor him. It is not mine to tell; it was not between us, this task. He told me enough; he came to me because he wished to make it right. I didn’t know what he had decided, and now that I do - no climb has ever grown easier for the waiting. But it is not mine to share, even with you.

I missed you, Tom. He had not let himself think of it; he did, now. Moonlit memories flooded through him: scattered red blossoms, Tom’s head in his lap with his hair pooled pale red against Aremu’s thighs, a soft hand tight in his in Ahura’a kitchen with little tufts of red hair glinting in the lantern light, red eyebrows catching the morning sun as Tom laid kisses and soft laughter against his brow. Aremu shuddered. Tom’s arms were warm around him, and he felt the trembling ease. It did not hurt; he did not feel unworthy of the comfort, as he had feared.

“I missed you, Tom,” Aremu said, his voice aching and rough. His hand came down, gently; he eased Tom’s chin up, and kissed his lips again, warm and tender, his thumb stroking Tom’s cheek. He didn’t ask for anything more.

Aremu had strength enough to pull away, then. His eyes were open once more; his right wrist found his pocket once more. His hand found Tom’s again, took it; they went across the room together. Aremu went to one of the chairs, so that if Tom sat in the other, it would be his left side facing him. He looked down at it, frowning, and then back at Tom.

“Sit with me?” Aremu asked, half-pleading. His hand was tight in Tom’s. If this is it, he didn’t say; if this is it - don’t let me sit alone. The distance between the two chairs seemed the length of the Tincta Basta, suddenly, Tom as far as the Rose or Vienda. Aremu wanted him close, badly enough not to mind not knowing what it would cost.