[Closed] Keeping Faces

[Ezre Vks]

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three twelve willow avenue

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Early Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

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"We can most certainly accept discomfort. Zjai, I would say there is a difference. I do not have to be comfortable to accept what is laid before me as the path I must travel. The only way through difficulty is to keep moving, after all, no matter if it must be slowly or gently." Ezre agreed in the same quiet, deep in his inked chest near-whisper he'd spoken with while standing so close to the raen. Was now a good time to expound on Hexxos rituals for Vessels prepared to receive the displaced souls they'd been chosen to bear? Would Tom have wanted to hear of how they lived their first twenty years very aware of what they were to become? Would he have wanted the details of their pilgrimage to Xerxes or the intricate steps taken to assure the willing body was bound still for the transference? Would he want to hear about the heartfelt care for the corpse left behind as well as the continued support of the new body filled?

Dru. Now was not the time to speak of such things, but maybe one day, just maybe, Tom would simply see for himself instead.

The Hoxian studied the sharp, well-aged features of the raen's borrowed Anaxi body, sliding tattooed hands away from tension eased and form corrected in a delicate frame that must have felt so very different to a man who'd once been human, like shoving feet into a pair of too-small shoes or binding a belt too tight. Yet, Tom had filled the space with himself in his own way: the words he chose, the smirk he snuck in sometimes, the willingness to reach out to the sentient particles who had once deigned his existence unworthy of any attention at all. It was, indeed, an uncomfortable acceptance, an unexpected balance, that Tom Cooke was forced to seek in the unlife he'd been so unmercifully handed.

Ezre, too comfortable around the dead and those denied death, thought he wore it all gracefully enough, even if the other man could not yet see it, could not yet grasp it all in hands much smaller than he remembered,

"In humility, I must remind you that this is my duty. I still have much to learn."

His smile was a soft, almost shy one as he stepped back into the circle that he'd drawn, dark eyes glancing downward when the raen arched a fading ginger brow. He chuckled, just as light and soft as the expression on his face, lithe young body shifting easily back into the stance he'd been in before, "I will return sometime in Achtus to stay for the winter break before the last year of my education. The invitation has been extended to Lilanee by my own family, but you would not be an unwelcome guest. I might have spoken of you in Roalis. Just a little. My umah would be honored to meet you, I am sure. Kzecka is a two-day journey from Frecks, and not an easy one."

The young Guide stretched again, inhaling deeply the scents of a stranger's study carried along with the fragrance of the incense he'd chosen for them both. His body wasn't as tense as the raen, for most of what weighed so heavily on Ezre could best be described as burdens of the heart, but that didn't mean he was ignorant of ways to lighten such heaviness.

"Intent is an acceptable rite of passage." He echoed, gathering the airy lightness of his field the way clouds gathered on the horizon in the heat of summer for a storm here in Anaxas, bringing all the monic particles that had become part of his daily existence close to himself. It would be obvious as he began to move from one position to the next that his field flowed and flexed with him, a tangible but invisible extension of his inner self, a connection to something greater than his singular being. The Hoxian didn't entirely know how to articulate the basic principles of zkratas and seeking oneness, not in a way that felt as though it would be easy to understand, but he could demonstrate that intention, that internal desire, through his motions and his words.

"First, we greet the gods and invite them to walk us through their houses." Inked hands stretched upwards, palms coming together. He inhaled for the raising of his arms and exhaled slowly when he brought his joined hands downward, elbows bent, fingers straight and aligned with his sternum, emphasizing when to exhale before speaking slowly as he attempted to translate Deftung into Estuan all while untangling himself from his own too-busy mind,

"Like an invocation at the beginning of a spell, this is sort of a personal prayer. Then, we take the journey, first with Roa, Goddess of Life, and the Pose of Beginning." Ezre hadn't said anything would start out simple, shifting into a squat as if it was the simplest thing in the world, arms outstretched in a circular shape for balance, back straight and once again demonstrating when to breathe. It was, perhaps, less obvious of a position to someone who had not ever given and would not ever give birth, but the dark-haired Guide wasn't sure how much detail was necessary. He waited, watching Tom carefully, and offered with gentle, if not somewhat taunting, guidance, "You do not, of course, have to aim for my level of flexibility. Just find a bit of balance—there—like that—and breathe. Zjai."

Slowly standing, he moved one foot behind him, bent at the knees, hands moving upward in the same circular position, flexing his field, "Imaan, Lord of Age, invites us to grow in the new life we have been given," his footing shifted again, hands lowering so the right was extended, firm and open-palmed, with the left in the middle, "taking root like the trees of Vulker, branches sighing in the wind—"

Rotating his torso toward the opposite direction with a graceful, almost dance-like speed, his arms also changed their position, where he waited, glancing again at his pupil and lifting one arm to encourage the raen to better his own angle. He managed to stay within the bounds of his drawn circle, even when he swept with his legs or shifted his center of gravity,

"—reaching down into the rocks and earth, holding firm to the steadfastness of Bash—"

Ezre's hands first came together as if pushing an invisible force outward with his breath and another tangible shift of his field. He took a step back and stood straight again, feet a shoulder width apart but parallel. It would quickly become obvious with some of the slow movements that each of them could have just as much use in combat when at normal speed. There was more than one purpose in this particular form of meditation, should anyone be willing to sift through all the layers of meaning, though it was clearly much more ritualized than a direct reference,

"—to drink deeply of the All Waters that flow so generously from Hulali's heart—"

There was a flicker of doubt across his delicate features as if he worried he was butchering translations that sounded so much more descriptive in Deftung. He repeated a few of the phrases in his more comfortable mother tongue while he moved, reaching downward toward his toes, arms sweeping with him. Easily able to press his palms to the wooden floor but without any judgment for the flexibility of the not-galdor next to him, he remembered to breathe,

"—and spreading Hurte's Beauty like a tigress stalks her prey, purposeful and proud—"

Arms stretched upward and outward in opposite directions, wide and slow, fingers curled in some semblance of claws while Ezre took one step back onto the leg opposite of the one he'd had bent behind himself before. Bringing his hands together again, thumbs pressed side by side before he pressed his palms and inked fingers together, field rippling like water with the motion, he continued,

"—gathering the wisdom of Vespe so that we can truly say that Ophur's golden light has allowed us to prosper, regardless of material wealth—"

A slow series of movements mimicked grasping in a way that felt like blocking blows, finally ending back at the familiar position of upright, knees bent, back straight. Ezre's arms were both down at his sides for only the briefest of moments,

"—Alioe, cares not for the glitter of things worn away by the sweep of her hands over Time—"

Hands came together in a circle again, outstretched in front of him, though he paused to offer correction where it was needed, emphasizing his shoulders and back with a little shrug,

"—for when Naulas offers that last door to Death, one must remember the path his hooves tread always lead back to the Beginning again."

A simple sweep of his whole self and a long exhale led them both back to the ready stance he'd begun with, the Hexxos Guide's smile a distant one, as if just the slow process of instruction had already led him a few much-needed steps outside of himself and away from the indignant hurt that he'd carried through the streets of Vienda, nestled among his fragrant packages, and here into the not-Incumbent's home.

"This particular set of movements is one of the more simple options. If I walk us through again in Deftung without pausing, do you think you can follow? It will still be slow."

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[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

K
eep moving.

He could’ve smiled; he almost did. It tugged at his lip, even as he felt the shifting of Ezre’s field – not sigiled, not even etheric, but coming into focus, like a lens adjusted to crisp clarity. Like a line of print read through glasses for the first time.

The only way is to keep moving. “Like throwing a fist,” he murmured, breathing in deep. “You can’t hit like a man who’s not sure he’s going to see it through. Like a man who’s scared of breaking his hand.”

He didn’t know when he’d forgot. It wasn’t dying had done it to him; he’d lost his momentum long before that. Ish had seen it, Caina had seen it. Maybe even Aremu had seen it, maybe even at the beginning, watching the lightning over the bay with a half-empty Low Tide in his fist.

He let out his breath, balancing carefully through the pain, shoulders back. There wasn’t much room to think – he was clearing his head, slowly, like scrubbing a floor clean of chalk – and if he felt one way or another about an ancient raen in Kzecka knowing his name, he didn’t let it fill him. He only nodded. He didn’t see as he could refuse, and he thought it was about time.

As Tom’s mind came into focus, much as he could center it, so did his field. The mona lapped out again, mingling belike. Settled-unsettled. It had none of Ezre’s collected organization, gathering-storm discipline. It was an uneasy balance, an uncomfortable acceptance.

If intent was a rite of passage, Tom thought he’d hung the lantern and climbed into the boat, and he could feel the rock of it and the creak of the boards underneath his feet. Passage into what? He could feel the fog rolling on the waters.

He opened his eyes and watched as Ezre greeted the gods. Slowly, straight-backed, Tom followed. It was an easy enough motion; he kept his breathing even as he pressed his palms together.

The raen walked through the houses of the gods perhaps as well as could’ve been expected.

The name of Roa warmed in his heart like a lit candle; her invocation played hell with his knees. Ezre corrected him, matter-of-fact firm. He couldn’t dip so low as the Hexx with his lanky muscles and his iron control. He squatted ‘til his ankles shook, and no further. He tried to make each breath to a count of five, and that was better going, with Anatole’s lungs.

He thought how strange, to mime this pose with a body that would never need it. For all he was a man, he wasn’t a fool; he’d seen it firsthand as a lad, and more than once, at Greene’s. (He’d seen the other side of the tally, too, and those women had their own place in Sharkswell.) He wondered for the first time as he fought to keep his breath through the pain – one, two, three, hitch; one, two, three, four, five, deep, in, out – in, out, in, out – he wondered where his lives would take him. He’d ended so many lives.

Had Lreya Vks thought the same, once, somewhere? He knew the curiosity in Ezre’s voice. Not knowing a tenth of the vivid expanse of their mothers’ souls was the lot of all men.

How strange, as he slid his foot behind, as he asked his body to let him grow in it as Imaan invited. Oes, he felt it, now, the ache. Like-unlike anything he’d felt in life. These muscles, such as they were, were sore at the slightest touch; but if he pressed carefully ahead, he could bend further, and the ache felt good. He thought he’d lost the catlike grace he’d had in life, the knowledge of how to handle all that weight, hard-won from years of clumsy bochhood.

He had not been a boch in this body. He had not been a young man in this body, like Ezre, comfortable in his tattooed skin, comfortable in the muscles he’d earned. He asked Imaan for patience; he hadn’t had time to grow into this shape, and wouldn’t for many years, if the Circle allowed him to keep it so long.

He was afraid to find a new grace; he was afraid to see grace in the grey that threaded through his hair, in the veins and invisible leylines like branches of Vulker’s trees. In the new pains, the new pleasures. He was afraid, and he let himself feel afraid.

Sighing in the wind –

He fucked up the turn; he stumbled, and he lost his breath, and he righted himself before he stuck his feet of clay through the dance. He followed after Ezre a beat behind, twisting through the ache, admitting this was nothing like the dance of pulling a knife on a kov in a Voedale dive.

Neither was the snap of Ezre’s hands, which Tom, sleeves fluttering unbuttoned, struggled to follow. But he knew a fight when he saw one; he settled into the invocation to Bash, wondering if he could’ve done this when he was alive, putting away that wondering and finding himself grateful for the sturdiness he had now.

It was in the mention of Hulali’s waters that he became aware of it. A field was a tangible thing, in one way or another; you couldn’t hold it in your hands, this strange vodundun, or see it with your eyes, but it was there nonetheless. He was moving through it like he was knee-deep – submerged – in the Mahogany, and it flowed around him, and it – moved, too.

It was all buoyant, just like the waft of incense. It was buoyant around Ezre, too. It danced in their hems; it followed their motions, hushed with expectation.

Vespe, Ophur – Tom knew nothing of wisdom, and less of ging –

It was when he and Ezre’s hands traced the circle that he felt it, like a blow to the chest. His throat tightened. He kept his breath even, holding the Cycle unbroken with gentle Naulas, and fought the chills that threatened to sweep through him.

“Always,” murmured Tom, into the lull, “lead back to the Beginning again…”

He shut his eyes. They were back at the start, knees bent, comfortable-uncomfortable. His hip ached laoso; he could feel it in all his muscles, now. His face was a little flushed.

He opened his eyes. Ezre, across from him, looked unruffled in his loose linen, the same as he’d looked at the beginning. There was a smile on his face like a statue – serene, knowing. Distant. Tom’s jaw was set; there was no smile on his face. He lifted his chin.

He nodded once. “Slowly and gently,” he grunted. “The only way is to keep moving. I’ll try to follow you in Deftung,” he promised.

He could feel his field around him, still, fully flexed. He’d never sustained this before; it was a wholly new feeling.

[Ezre Vks]

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three twelve willow avenue

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Early Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

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"Zjai, like a fist—" Ezre smirked, voice wavering with curiosity, delicate brow quirking just barely, "—but who does not follow through with a swing? Broken hands can mend."

An unthinkable concept to the teenaged Hoxian, the dark-haired creature would have scoffed or snorted or chuckled had it suited him or suited the moment, but instead, he simply chose to carry on with the flow of things, smirk lingering on his tattooed lips longer than necessary before he spoke of home, before he extended his offer, albeit with a sudden hint of shyness. He churned too many emotions into movement, focusing himself on the task at hand instead of all the possibilities that spread out between them like someone's full hand of cards.

The young Guide paused when needed to correct with a few grunted consonants, a repetition of a movement, or to reach gently out of his carefully drawn chalk circle and into Tom's, adjusting posture without asking questions. He moved slowly through his first example of the Ten Houses, finding the Estuan translation-in-motion to be so lacking and unusually uncomfortable on his tongue. Those last syllables, though, Ezre tasted them, and they were bitter. While his dark eyes didn't drift toward the raen next to him, toward the displaced soul who had not been led to any end at all, he was almost certain he could feel it—a tension in his field, taut with unspoken, unknown things.

He could have said something then. Something about the words, something that would have left a sweeter flavor behind, something to ease that too-tight feeling that hung in their mingled fields, but what? He could not change the truth. He could not assuage the hurt—his tattooed fingers could not search deep enough into borrowed flesh for such a healing. Dru, that discomfort was what it was, and much like someone else's muscle and bone, Tom would have to learn to move through it, move in it, move with it, no matter where his path led in this new life just out of the reach of death.

Tugging at the folds of his shirt, loosening its linen grip on narrow shoulders with a slow shrug of them, Ezre exhaled a long breath. Some of the weight of the past few days here in the capitol, there in Lilanee's family home still felt heavy, still clung to him like the way that hint of sweat made his lightest layer of clothing stick to the inked curve of his spine.

Glancing at the raen, he noted the physical discomfort on his face, in his grunt, nodding at the older man's agreement as the Hoxian settled back into that opening stance with a grace that revealed how unaffected he was by that first run through of what he'd called simple exercise.

"I will speak clearly." The Hexxos Guide might have teased, quite aware that his native tongue was not a swift-flowing stream but a rocky cliffside.

This time, though he was still leading, teaching, assisting, Ezre's demeanor shifted visibly. Just as he'd shed clothing for freedom of movement, his countenance softened and his limbs loosened, shedding layers of his rhakor, already worn thin in the company of Tom Cooke and the stranger's study the raen had possessed perhaps a little better than he did the body he'd so unwillingly overtaken.

Inhaling deeply, filling his altitude-stretched lungs with hearth-warmed air laden with the thick sweetness of incense and the light touch of tea, the Hexxos Guide once again led them both through the Ten Houses.

Sharp, harsh sounds rolled off tattooed lips, ground out through teeth, given shape by a tongue far more comfortable with them than the vast majority of his Hoxian people. The words were somewhere between a chant and a song, and surprisingly, the syllables and breathing lined up perfectly with the motions, revealing what the Estuan had been lacking. While Ezre moved with well-disciplined and helpful slowness, it was clear the young galdor was holding himself back for the sake of his friend, dark eyes drifting over the raen's form, catching his paler gaze, offering unspoken correction when needed.

This time, as Ezre moved, so too did his field, burgeoning enough as it was to not only fill his circle, but also curl into Tom's, mingling in its own form of monic instruction. Bolstering, gently supporting, it was as if he'd gathered more of it, as if the mona had drifted closer, and it was far more expressive than in his introductory lesson, the airy Clairvoyant particles shifting and sighing with the motions of his body, breathing with him, responding to more than just his physical self, but his inner self as well. Usually, he'd close his eyes, but he was responsible for guidance, angling himself so that he could watch his pupil.

This time, his invocation was definitely more drawn out, definitely more intentional. No longer soft-spoken, Ezre's Deftung was a force of it's own, roots of sound beginning deep in his chest like the magma that flowed through the Lord of Mountains' veins. His intonation might have been a prayer or a song, and should Tom show any interest in repeating him, the young Guide slowed himself even further, rolling out the sounds against his teeth, separating words so that they could be heard and said again.

Roa brought them here to yet another beginning, starting the cycle one more time. Imaan encouraged them to see the world they walked with the eager eyes of a child, no matter how grim. Vulker held them so kindly in the comfort of his boughs and is roots in turn confidently steady in the heated embrace of Bash. Hulali's waters sustained them, reflecting the shimmering beauty of Hurte like the sun rising over the Turga. Bright light illuminates like Vespe's wisdom and glitters over the prosperous hopes whispered by Ophur into the hearts of all mortals, arcane or secular. Alioe claims them all, bringing equality with the ever-moving, unstoppable passage of Time. Naulas waits, patient as always, there where the path ends—

Deftung hitched and dragged over teeth, and the younger galdor stumbled roughly against the last few consonants, but it was not because he didn't believe the words.

It was because he felt them.

The Hoxian led Tom through the motions with all the well-honed calm he was known for, but this time, even when he paused to adjust or repeat, he'd also led himself. Somewhere along the circular path, Clairvoyant aura flowing along ley lines, flexing like sentient tendons, he'd washed away some of the rough edges of his own hurts, smoothing them like a river-turned stone. A lightness he sought tickled against his sternum and illuminated his dark thoughts, burning self-doubt and sending hurt scattering back into the shadows.

Forgiveness was a difficult gift for the Hoxian, not necessarily of others, but also of his own self. He didn't want to let Alioe's hands sweep it away, and yet when he felt that gentle touch, when his mind was so opened, he hardly resisted. Where the heavy stones had crushed him, left behind one by one, the airy freedom that filled him was made warm with emotion, rharkor out of reach like his clothing folded so neatly on the armchair near the hearth.

It took Ezre a heartbeat or two to focus his thoughts back into the present, to drag himself away from that glorious high of non-thought and let his distant, dark gaze settle one more time on the well-aged features of the raen across from him. Like silt stirred up from the bottom of a riverbed, his field began to settle also, monic particles relaxing, lazily content and yet not-so-subtly energized. Inked fingers brushed a few stray strands of hair from his face, now sweaty, now smiling, broad and expressive on a delicate face usually held expressionless with such enviable discipline,

"Perhaps I should have warned that the Deftung takes much longer." He hummed, brimming with a contagious contentment like a warm cup of tea, "You felt the movement this time, did you not? That was connection to the mona. That was the door opened by your intent."

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[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

S
ay what you would about Ezre, but he followed through on his swings. For better or worse, Tom thought, you could say that about him. “You’d be surprised,” he murmured, hoarse, a little out of breath. “Some men flinch. Maybe it means they knew they shouldn’t’ve thrown that fist in the first place, but I don’t… know. I’ve never been that sort of man; neither’re you.”

He took a deep breath in the lull, feeling the strain in every aching line of him, the prickle of sweat on the back of his neck.

Alive, they all whispered: alive, alive. Alive, whether you like it or not. A breathing animal, he was. A creature of blood and sweat and laughter and tears, this body, like all bodies. A kind of beauty in it, if he cared to see it. He almost could, almost.

So he felt the tension in Ezre’s field, felt it like a held breath in both of them. He knew what he’d given away. He could’ve brought it out and laid it between them. No, he might’ve said; that’s mine to bear, not yours. Mine, and your umah’s, and all of ours. Don’t let a petty raen drive a wedge in your Cycle. I want it as much as you love it.

Neither of them said anything, in the end.

Round the time Tom opened his eyes again, the Hexx was speaking. He nodded again, grateful; he thought Ezre knew something of what he might want to do. Then Ezre started.

The invocation was longer. True to his word, he went slow. Tom watched and listened, his aching arms up, his hands clasped together – all the pain might’ve melted away in the wake of curiosity. He watched the Hexx’s lips, his own moving carefully, silently. The harsh click of a K, the bitten-off Ts; the few vowels snapped out like a banner in a mountain breeze, no respite.

Tom tried them without voicing them. He felt out the harshest sounds, ttttchhhhhkh, with his tongue and his lips. The Rs, to his curious pleasure, weren’t too different from the Rs of the Harbor; he could roll an R with the best of them, like a cat’s purr. But it was hard to figure out how to bounce from one consonant to the next without the cushion of a vowel.

Ezre let him repeat the invocation, one phrase after the next. He was touched, and in no place to be self-conscious. He did the best he could: his consonants were too soft, and he lost them right and left; his vowels too long. He lost subtlety and nuance, and without knowing what each meant, he’d not a damned clue where to place emphasis.

But he did his damnedest. It was a chant; he found the rhythm. It was almost like a song. He hadn’t sung since he’d sung for Ava, that strange night in Hamis. To hear this voice find that melody, deep and edged with age underneath Ezre’s — made even more of a stranger’s by the Deftung.

And soon enough, they were moving through the motions again.

The motions, this time, were familiar; that didn’t make them any less hard. He could only repeat some of the Ten Houses, this time. His breath needed to be conserved. His muscles ached, and in holding some of the positions, his limbs shook. Ezre watched, and guided, like any Hexx would Guide the dead.

Tom felt it, this time.

He felt it in Ezre’s field, first, curling through and between them, curling round like smoke. It wasn’t just that his field moved with him; it flexed, and flowed around him. He twisted; the mona rippled. He reached out with Hurte’s claws, and the mona drew in close, pulled.

Tom could feel the clairvoyant mona around him, too. He’d heard tell you could cast with your hands, that you could feel the mona respond even to the motions of your body. It wasn’t like casting, not exactly, but he could feel the tug in every part of him – in that place he couldn’t locate, that feeling he’d never had before this body – a connection settling through him like gold in his veins.

In the end, Tom heard the feeling in Ezre’s voice. This was not rhakor. He knew, by the way Ezre said it, what he was saying; those words in Deftung he could’ve written on his memory, even if he didn’t know which was which.

And he knew Ezre knew, just like before. With the mona still dancing, stirring round him, like the pulse jumping and rushing in his ears, he shut his eyes. His hands were still on the closed Cycle; he thought how easy it’d be, no matter how tired he was, to flow from this to Roa, to drop back down into a squat.

With his eyes closed, he thought he could see a light where Ezre should’ve been, glowing against the backs of his eyelids. Lots of things about the day before yesterday had slipped away from him, but that hadn’t. Like it had been printed on his eyes, in his mind.

He was grateful, more than anything, for that light.

When he opened his eyes, Ezre was grinning at him, a lock of dark hair plastered to his forehead. The mona were settling round them like water easing out of a boil. Tom couldn’t help but laugh. He reached up to wipe the sweat off his own brow; he ran his hands through a tangle of damp hair.

“Longer, my erse. I don’t know what was different – I don’t know what you were saying to the mona, but they…” He shook his head, blinking. “I felt it. Yes, I felt it.”

Something rose up in his throat, then. He shifted from his disciplined stance; he swallowed the lump, but he couldn’t suppress the prickling in his eyes. He shut them, trying to master himself.

He blinked away a few tears. “How?” he asked, forcing himself to look across at Ezre. He wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look angry; he didn’t feel angry. He felt more than he could say. “It isn’t just the body, is it? It wasn’t just the mona singing in a dead man’s ley lines? It isn’t just bodies, is it, all of this –”

A hesitant gesture around the study, the firelight catching the spines of all those expensive books. The Hoxian, tattooed, strange in the midst of it all.

“The mona see human souls, too – they see mine,” he said softly. “They danced with me. How…” He laughed softly, shook his head again. “I’m sorry, Ezre. You can’t answer it any more than me. I’m damned grateful for this, I just – don’t know how to feel.”

[Ezre Vks]

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three twelve willow avenue

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Early Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

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It occurred to the Hoxian as his dark eyes drifted over the not-galdor in a galdor's body, watching the raen bend muscle and bone to his will in a decently impressive imitation of the well-practiced student that he'd never asked Tom's age before his death. Untimely, he'd imagined. Not younger than himself but not older than the Incumbent whose life he'd so uncomfortably found himself borrowing. To make the shift from secular to arcane, from hurts made by purposeful injuries to aches caused by aging in a too-comfortable life, Ezre could only guess at how strange and limiting it all must have been, considering Hexxos Vessels were always the same age when they made their sacrifice, regardless of the age of the soul they agreed to house.

In the quiet, secretive enclaves of his people, tucked away in the snowy cracks between the black rock vertebra of Spondola's volcanic range, Ezre had felt the ebb and flow of more than one raen field in his short lifetime. No matter where along their difficult path to peaceful coexistence, to begrudging acceptance, to some breath of zkratas those hexx'erkhat—the Dead who were Carried—found themselves, there was seemingly no way to escape that entropic decay, that sensation of monic objection as if the reluctant truce they'd managed to strike with sentient particles over their existence was always just a tenuous ruse.

Fresh from the cold, guiding grasp of Naulas' fingers, still barely a soul displaced from a cold corpse, Tom Cooke's field was both familiar to ones he knew from the comforts of home and also very different. Tumultuous in its energy, the Clairvoyant mona that had begun to gather near him filled in the less mountainous cracks the way broken pottery could be pieced back together with gold—making something shattered whole again, albeit not quite the same. As they moved together, the dark-haired Guide could feel the raen find his place amid the mona that flowed between them, even for the briefest of moments. He didn't have the presence of mind to spare in appreciation, but the sensation of calm acceptance still washed through his senses, drifting as he was between thought and non-thought, between that welcome oneness where his body, mind, and spirit felt whole instead of separate.

Even in that place, empty and full at the same time, Ezre had not entirely expected to stumble over words he knew too well. They'd never struck him as out of tune before, but he pushed himself through the motion anyway, remembering to breathe. When he'd reached the end, pouring himself back into the present like one filled an empty cup with so much hot chan, he looked over toward Tom with his eyes closed, distant and near all at once. He had listened and attempted to hear, he had moved and felt the movement of the mona, surely. The Hoxian didn't bother with the heavy layers of rhakor, feeling his heartbeat before he felt his voice in his tattooed chest. He smiled with a rare openness, and the expression didn't falter even when Tom's countenance did, even when the not-galdor admitted to feeling what couldn't be seen, to being touched by what he couldn't touch back.

Straightening, the young Guide instead reached up to untie his hair, to curl fingers through it, to loosen it all before he set about fastening it back high on his head, inked hands pausing in their places at the raen's questions. Still for a moment, feeling the rush of his pulse, arms in the air, he shook his head gently, beginning first in Deftung as if it was so easy to slip back into his native tongue after disappearing in it for even a few moments, as if it was difficult to remember Estuan was necessary. He smirked, and continued,

"I cannot say I have ever witnessed the full picture or put together all of the pieces of the puzzle of our existence, dru. Not yet, anyway. Has anyone? You and I are similar in our unknowing, though we stand in different places even if the darkness around us is the same. However things fit together—arcane and secular, gods and mortals, mona and magic—it is clear (to myself, at least) that the oneness of it all (zkratas in Deftung) cannot rely on just the living body." Quick, casual work made some messy bun of thick, dark hair and Ezre ran his hands over his face, humming in thought.

"We say the mona remembers, that it is collectively sentient, and yet not everybody on Vita is born able to communicate with them. And yet they do not communicate in any particularly conversational way with anyone. Why? What does it serve humanity for them to ignore their voices? What does it serve galdorkind to have ley lines and yet have passive offspring? I do not know, but it is evident that the body you have, whether it was born yours or borrowed flesh, matters in some significant way. A galdori body, and, to some lesser extent, a wick's becomes the stream-bed and the mona flows like the water of the stream—through it. It hears your intent and acquiesces to your voice, and yet does not judge you for being the soul of one born human so much as it begrudges your unlife as if it was somehow your choice."

Ezre had tucked a hand into the tied fold of one side of his shirt and the other as if it were a pocket when it clearly was not, palm flat against his chest as he thought through it all out loud, dark eyes drifting from Tom's fair, well-aged galdor features, sharp and so very Anaxi, toward the fire, chewing for a moment on his tattooed lower lip while he sifted and weighed his words and his experiences together like sand tumbling stones smooth,

"I cannot always say I know how to feel, either, nor do I feel it is within my grasp to guide you about your feelings at this juncture, both because I am not raen and because I am admittedly no further on the path. My time in the Kingdom of Anaxas has opened my mind to things I did not consider as a child in Kzecka, let alone as a younger student in Frecks because of how isolated Hoxian galdori choose to live. Here, the differences between the races are so obvious, so full of tangible tension. Here, I see how mysterious the Cycle is, how strange the designs of the Circle really are, and I—I do not know what questions to ask, let alone where to begin to look for answers. I—"

Without the layers of rhakor, the strong feelings Tom had seen glimpses of through their previous Clairvoyant connection in the abstract space of their vestibules were visible on his face, worn as some mixture of sadness and determination, etched into delicate features like the dark ink under his skin,

"—I only know that wrong answers are being passed as truth to questions that perhaps should never have been asked at all."

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[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

T
he Hexx was untying his loose, tangled bun and fixing it back up again. He was still smiling. The ache in Tom’s chest was such that he couldn’t. Ezre’s hands paused with a handful of thick black hair; Tom felt a pang, and his eyes went down.

Ezre’s smile hadn’t faltered, still. He’d searched it for judgment – even for disagreement – in the flickering light of the hearth, it might’ve been hard to tell. He expected, regardless, the but: the picking up of the chalk, the drawing of the line. No anger, but a gentle correction.

It might’ve taken a dozen forms. You’re not human anymore was one of them; he knew it, but he was still loath to hear it, and he half-regretted calling himself it now. He didn’t think that was Ezre’s qalqa, isolated temple-boy as he was; he thought it more likely Ezre would say something about everything having its place. Or purpose.

That was what zkratas meant, wasn’t it? They lived separately in Hox, but Tom knew by now very well what became of their passive children. Everything in its right place – purpose – just another way of saying what Anaxi said: the gods gave us this right and this purpose.

It was hard to tell, anyway, what to make of that calm, distant smile. It was a smile in tune with the mona at rest all around them, settling like silt.

Only, Tom could feel his unsettled again. The clairvoyant mona in Ezre’s field were serene; he’d felt them move with Ezre, and now he felt them settle with the Hexx, lend him their calm even as he lent them his. Tom had felt it, for a few precious moments. He’d felt them moving alongside him, flowing around him and through him like a dancer in a river. And he’d felt them settle, for just one brief moment, settle still and calmer than they’d ever been.

A little blue shifted through his field. He could remember the last Deftung words Ezre had spoken. Those guttural consonants were written on his soul.

So was the way Ezre’s voice had broken over them. Another husky, bitten-off consonant dragged Tom’s eyes back up.

Ezre’d started to say something in Deftung; he paused. The top-knot was back on his head by now, but the smile had been replaced by something very different.

What he’d expected was judgment; what he got was an admission of ignorance, and – understanding, he thought. Born human, Ezre said, as if the Hexx hadn’t told him dozens of times that his soul was older than its most recent – and last, doubtless – life. Tom’s expression softened, touched by something a little like shame.

He turned over Ezre’s words, looking back down at the shadows sprawling and wavering across the chalk lines and dark floorboards. The table, the teapot, and the cups, stretched into strange creatures. Their shadows, unrecognizable.

He’d told Ezre, and spoken true, how much a mystery the arcane was to the average natt. He’d never put much stock in it, but he’d heard tell – among Resistance types, mostly – that it was magic that made galdori cruel. The bochi were fine, he’d heard; it was when they started talking to the mona, they became...

He shook his head, as if he could shake the thought from it. “I thought – I’ve thought, for such a long time,” he murmured, “that it was something I did. I still do, sometimes.” He sucked at a tooth, shook his head. “They ignore mankind, they punish those who’ve no say –”

Was it an intentional punishing? Lreya Vks, who could cast with the best of them – at the end of her life, would they shrug and tear her apart? Was it intentional? Or was it something the mona couldn’t help, either, like the bite of a skittish dog?

Lreya, he thought, and then, umah, and he heard it again – that Deftung phrase, stumbled-over.

He looked back up at the inked face across from him, twisted in emotions he’d seldom seen on it. “Wrong answers,” he said more gently; “that we can agree on.”

He took a step closer, over the swoop of chalk. No rhakor here; it’d been shed with all the bright wool.

“You’re wise, Ezre-xi. You’re going to go places with this qalqa of yours; you’re going to make your umah proud,” he said, smiling tiredly.

[Ezre Vks]

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three twelve willow avenue

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Early Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

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"In Hox, it is traditionally said that some family shame brings about the birth of passive children in a galdori home, but—" Ezre paused for a moment to take a slow breath, to make sure he understood the ramifications of his own thoughts as they slowly churned to the surface, bright and hot like magma becoming lava for the first time, "—but I do not believe it is an issue of punishment, Tom, not for galdori offspring who end up somehow unable to use magic as we know it nor for ghosts, spirits of all kinds, or even raen. I do not think there is some unspoken mistake that a single mortal can make that gets them trapped in some warped immortality."

The Hoxian frowned, both aware of the arcane blasphemy of his opinion about passivity and burdened by the collective lack of knowledge of the truth. He understood that there was surely some sense of morality in all of Vita—there were the noble uses, there were things one man of any race shouldn't do to another, there were ways to act that brought one closer to their community, to Vita itself, to zkratas just as there were ways that tore it apart, choice by choice. He wasn't sure if these so-called wrong actions were judged by the gods or if there really were, in all the Evers, actual punishments for them other than the consequences one often wrought upon themselves at the end of a dark path.

What he knew of the Cycle, or what his people, the Hexxos, believed and observed about the flow from one life to the next, had somewhat nullified the need for distinction between human and wick, passive and galdor, for one never knew what the next life may bring.

Then why did the mona care so much about bodies?

What was the point of some being born without ley lines in the case of humanity? Of some being born seemingly without the ability to put those ley lines to use in the case of passives? Of the watered-down mixed bloods that wicks?

What if it was, in fact, galdorkind that committed some heinous act uncountable generations ago and magic was meant to be a curse, not a boon?

Shoulders sagged a little, and Ezre stared at the fire for a moment, so very aware of questions that hadn't been asked and answers that hadn't been sought out,

"I am not sure it is ignorance, at least not on the part of the mona. Magic still works on humans and passives alike, after all, so clearly they know you, they acknowledge you exist, even if they do not listen to you, even if they do not move at your command." The dark-haired Guide had clearly puzzled over these things before; he'd wrestled with putting together all of the pieces high above the rest of the world under the stars on the frigid, snowy peaks of the Spondola Mountains, huddled in some tsvat against the howling winds, curled up with some still-steaming mug of chan. He knew the stories of his people—those who had lived many lives and wore many bodies, those who had not been born galdor and yet, like Tom Cooke, now existed in a galdori Vessel.

He had thought on these things as a student at Frecksat, isolated from the rest of the races as Hoxians chose to live, sometimes even isolated from his peers because of the nature of his Hexxos birth.

He had thought more on these things when faced with them so boldly, so undeniably now that he'd lived in Anaxas for almost three years, for it was a Kingdom rife with racial turmoil.

He'd spent enough time in the morgue, he'd spent enough time studying the finest details of known anatomical differences as his last year of studies loomed near, that he knew that for some reason, yet unknown, the mona had made a distinction between bodies and that distinction was genetic.

Many before him had asked why, but Ezre was not satisfied by the answers everyone had grown so content with.

"Perhaps—and forgive me for not being able to fully explain this very Hoxian concept in this moment—perhaps there is meant to be some sort of balance, some sort of harmony, between all beings—what we in Hox like to call zkratas, or the oneness of all things, but what most of galdorkind thinks only they have the true rights to become one within as if the other races do not matter. Some kind of balance between the arcane and secular has been tipped somewhere, maybe even before the War of the Book all those centuries ago, and maybe we are just here living in the shadow of tipped scales, unsure of what the measures once were. It is not our wrong—not yours, not mine, specifically—we are paying the price for, but perhaps it is something of ours we should be taking ownership of to make right. Perhaps too many before us have refused to put their hands to the work, if that makes sense."

Offering a gentle smile that belied his intellectual frustration, that belied his spiritual seeking, and that belied all the emotions he normally kept bundled so tightly, he shook his head in equally gentle deference to the raen's kind compliment,

"I am afraid my own life is too short to claim any wisdom as my own. Maybe one day, I can. I have been given much, and I hope not to waste it before the wick of this fleshly candle burns out." His expression faded only a little at the admission of his own limitations, quite aware of his age and, as far as he knew, the singular life he had to live as the person his umah had brought into the world through birth.

Tom had stepped closer and Ezre chose to close the gap, one tattooed hand reaching without hesitation to rest on the older man's shoulder,

"Regardless, I do not believe this is your punishment, even if I am confident it feels like suffering. My umah chooses not to speak to me of such things because she is my parent, but I am not ignorant. You may be paying someone else's debt, that I cannot deny the possibility of, but even in seasons of suffering, flowers sometimes still bloom."

The Hoxian summer was short, so short there was no word for the Estuan summer in Deftung at all; the only two seasons divided instead into autumn, bjaras, and winter, vorsvas, instead, "Lreya taught me as a child to look for the first green curls of new life beneath the snow, growing in anticipation of the thawing. At this moment, neither of us can say we understand why, and neither the mona nor the gods themselves have chosen to tell us what they know of your existence as raen—not yet—but perhaps no one has dug under the cold unknown enough to see what truth is buried beneath."

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