[Closed] Keeping Faces

[Ezre Vks]

three twelve willow avenue

Early Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

Ezra slid from the chair as if it was too comfortable, oozing out of it as if it was too far away from what he wanted to reach, folding himself neatly on his knees on the floor and making a point to settle closer to Tom instead of across the table from him. He watched him reach for his glasses and for a moment, one of his hands strayed to his chest where a pocket was inside, palm against bright fabric, very aware he'd left his own folded on the small, gilded, highly stylized secretary in the room he'd been begrudgingly allowed to stay in thus far, next to a pile of notes he'd scribbled at some obscene house when he shouldn't have even been awake. A few first sketches of the prodigium he had in mind, with a hastily scratched list of the items that belonged to Lilanee's father to be included as foci.

Sleeping in strange places was actually not one of the Hoxian's favorite things, but sleeping where one felt utterly unwelcome was far worse now that he knew the sensation.

He half-sighed, half-chided himself with a sound against the back of his teeth, now left with a useless hand motion, leaving his hand over the fluttering of his heart beneath saffron linen and a scowl just teasing at the edges of his otherwise deadpan expression,

"Zjai. That is correct—"

The Hoxian glanced sidelong toward the door with a quick, furtive sort of motion, suspicious, chagrined, and curious, aware that they were expecting the human woman who'd stared at him in surprise to eventually appear with tea. There was just enough of an unknown level of privacy, just enough of an undercurrent of discomfort at assuming himself a disturbance despite the welcome, that Ezre felt listless and unable to entirely focus, that he wasn't sure how much of himself he was truly allowed to be in Tom's company, even with his genuine assurances. He was in some ways used to feeling out of place, but the past few days had been more than just mere culture shock,

"—I will seek something quite a bit deeper than casual meditation. I suppose the proper word would be a trance. It is not the easiest to upkeep a spell when treading so far into the realm of non-thought, but the distance is great and the location of the target I will be seeking is not a known destination. It is also an unfamiliar mind unprepared for visitation."

There was no judgment in his tone, the young Guide nodding at the mention of Western Anaxas, tilting his head to watch the raen put some of the pieces together in his mind while he finally found the page spread he was searching for, dragging the book closer, leaning against the table a little heavier than anyone less tired would have on one elbow to point to several paragraphs of text with an inked finger,

"The notes here speak of the benefits of tuning out other senses in order to find a singular focus, especially for mental magic such as Clairvoyance or sometimes even Perceptive. I have experimented only lightly with such concepts, more due to a lack of resources than a lack of ideas or enthusiasm." He summarized, shoulders sagging for only a moment because Ezre startled at the not-Incumbent's words.

He smiled, briefly, stern face softening with a slow weariness, and it was without any hesitance, even if it was a small expression, "I trust you, too. You have begun to seek some monic reparations, some sort of balance, and it is very tangible—I—oh." He paused again, longer this time, looking down at his hands at the mention of prayer before meeting the other's much paler gaze for the rest of his words of Roa and her gift of life, humbled especially by the open sincerity in the raen's voice. His smile didn't falter so much as grow a little warmer, humming a sound of agreement and gratitude all with the same rough couple of consonants, finally managing to pull together Estuan syllables, "Thank you."

It was an odd sense of relief to hear such spiritual words—and from the soul of a once-human!—instead of the irreligious slander and doubt from the lips of a Hessean galdor. The Hexxos Guide might have thawed just a little, sitting there on the floor in front of the hearth, shoulder brushing the raen's knee unintentionally as whatever it was that was cold and sharp inside keeping his shape melted a little, giving him room to breathe.

Tom went on, attention leveled, voice still serious, and while he surely meant to give honest warning, Ezre had been challenged already on the subject of Jonathan Emmett's life. The Hoxian's delicate jaw clenched and he shook his head, a motion that was far more gentle than the edge of confidence, of near-defiance, in the tone of his otherwise soft-spoken voice,

"Dru. You will not have to tell anyone Emmett-vumash is dead when he still lives. You will not have to tell anyone he is lost when I find him. But even if you do, Tom—" The dark-haired Guide leaned back on one palm in order to make sure he could search the concerned face of the man he considered a friend, irregardless of how unlikely it might have been had circumstances been any different than they were, "—even if you do, you are no more a stranger to death than you are to matters of the heart. You can attempt to wear that veil of stern galdor politician flesh when it must be worn, but I have seen—and heard—what hides beneath it all, and I am very confident he knows how to show kindness and gentleness when necessary, perhaps more so because he is so aware of what the absence of it is like."

Ezre's smile was bright and it lingered far longer than he usually allowed such otherwise controlled expressions to take over the delicate features of his face. The colors that crept into the invisible, tangible space between them through mingled monic particles were all shades of color Tom had been privy to once before in a totally less physical context. He cleared his throat and shrugged, looking away again—toward the book, toward the fire, toward nothing, really—and added with no small amount of shyness,

"Lilanee and I share, uh, feelings—" The Hoxian carefully, protectively, left the details of those particular feelings ambiguous, private, as was expected and respectable when speaking of someone who was not present or something along those lines when it came to personal matters, "—and while she is rightfully wary of what—and who—she does not yet know fully, she trusts you because I do. This whole situation is not ideal, but for whatever reason we have yet to understand, the gods have deigned it so that life and death do not cater to our whims."

Straightening up again, he added, "There are a lot of unknowns in this Clairvoyant attempt. You, of everyone I have cast alongside, have perhaps experienced all of the strangest of moments. I cannot guarantee this will be any different." It was obvious by Ezre's choice of words as well as the subtle shift in his tone that he wasn't offering Tom another way out. He was, in fact, seeking to secure his participation with the smallest hint of humor.

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

E
zre was sitting at his feet, close enough their fields mingled freely; it was a new sensation, but not an unwelcome one. Tom did not look away, though a smile flickered to life on his face at Ezre’s oh; it was a wry smile, a smile like a gentle challenge, but it was no less warm than Ezre’s. He wasn’t sure, but he thought the Hexx might’ve let himself sag, just a little.

He thought he might’ve breathed a little easier; he thought some of whatever it was that buzzed between them – this strained uncertainty he couldn’t pin down – he thought it might’ve eased, just enough.

As he went on, Tom’s smile faded. When, not if. The Hexx’s jaw was set, his soft voice like iron. He was looking up at Tom, meeting his eye without hesitation or doubt. Stubborn as a fucking kenser.

That was, Tom thought reluctantly, how you ought to go to the mona. He didn’t think Ezre’d regret this a whit, and it wasn’t a bad plan. It was taking shape in his head, piece by piece, cobbled together out of half-lit diagrams and soft words; he might’ve been flooding moony, but he was starting to think they had a scrap of a chance. Still, the Hexx’d be a fool not to admit the possibility –

Ezre went on, and Tom blinked, his face blank.

Perhaps more so, the Hexx said, because he knows what the absence of it is like.

Ezre’s smile lit up all of it, like a light he’d seen once in a clairvoyant dream.

Tom studied Ezre’s face; he met his dark eyes for a moment, just a moment, before he had to look away. There was a familiar prickling in his eyes, as if an eyelash had got loose in them. It must’ve been the burst blood vessel, Tom thought.

The air shivered with color. He could taste it, heady as the incense; the mona were alive with it, stirring and mingling, the warm sweet ochre of patchouli, crisp pale vetiver.

His own field was heavy with it, he realized. He hadn’t meant to let it spill out of him; he didn’t know how to take it back. He couldn’t even suppress his field, and he knew, as a raen, that any rejection, any doubt, was playing with fire.

So the mona ran with it, deep and sad, soft as sage leaves under the fingertips. The shift was so blue it was almost purple.

He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, taking off his glasses and massaging his eyelids with his fingertips. Another deep breath, no less shaky. He tried to align his thoughts with the rhythm of the floor clock; tick, tock, it whispered, tick, tock, and his mind raced past it, tumbling over its feet. His eyes burned. He swallowed a lump, sitting like a rock in his throat, unsurpassable.

He couldn’t’ve spoken if he’d tried; more than words would’ve come spilling out of him, and he was embarrassed enough as it was. One tear leaked out of his eye – not the bloodshot one – and he snatched it away with his wrist, sniffing sharply. He flicked his spectacles back open, wireframe glinting in the light from the hearth, and settled them back on his nose.

He peered back down at the diagram, a little blurry, though he could still feel Ezre’s eyes on him. He felt a kick of embarrassment, and he cleared his throat. “Feelings,” he started with an edge of sarcasm, but they were both rescued from the kenser’s erse by the click of the door.

Tom looked up sharply, fingertip poised on a line of ink. A tray rattled, heavy-laden. Margaret moved into the study, spotted the two galdori by the fire, and froze.

“Ms. Wheelwright,” offered Tom, forcing a pleasant smile onto his face. He sniffed, cursing himself. His field evened out slowly; he cleared his throat and straightened, then moved the glasses over and gestured to a clear space on the table. “Please.”

Still shooting furtive glances at Ezre, the nattle bustled closer. She bent to lay the tray on the table, wafting bitter-smelling steam, then reached for the teapot. When Tom waved a hand, she froze.

“Thank you, Ms. Wheelwright.” He smiled again, then inclined his head.

“Sirs,” Margaret said, then curtsied politely to both. As she left, Tom stood creakily from his chair and reached for the teapot.

The service was silver and inlaid with flowers; the edges caught the light prettily. Tom breathed in and out evenly, forcing his hands steady as he poured one cup and then the other.

There was milk and sugar, and a small platter of shortbread biscuits, smelling of lemon and lavender. He studiously ignored them as he poured the tea and handed a cup to Ezre, careful not to spill it. He hadn’t asked her to bring them up, but it was a habit of his in the evening after work, and –

Dze. So much for that. He cleared his throat, settling back down with his tea. “They don’t,” he said, and found it easier to look at Ezre. “Cater to our whims. We can pray, but the gods don’t answer our questions. I’ll try to be worthy of the responsibility. And of your rosh’s trust.”

And of your light, he thought, wherever the hell it comes from. He turned back to the page Ezre’d flipped to; setting his steaming cup nearby, fair careful, he smoothed out the page. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and squinted down through them, through the shadows.

“You’ll manage all three, if this goes well. Knowledge,” he murmured, tracing a line of ink with his fingertip, “conquest – glorification of the gods, perhaps. A funeral for a living man doesn’t seem as if it’d please Naulas.”

Helping others, he thought with a faint smile. “Strange, yes.” He tapped the page, sucking at a tooth. “Will we be casting in a prodigium? It seems wise, casting in chorus with a raen. If you’ve any aetherium, to contain – potential…”

He frowned. A little fear shivered through his field, quickly smoothed out.

“I suspect I’ll spend tonight meditating.” He glanced aside, again, at the Hexx. Ezre looked tired, the way he was leaning on the table; he hesitated. “It’s been some time since I’ve cast in chorus. If you’d – meditating in chorus,” he offered carefully, “might be helpful.”

[Ezre Vks]

three twelve willow avenue

Early Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

It was ignorance, of course, that accused a Hoxian of having no ability to truly feel the same depths and heights of emotions as other cultures and other Kingdoms where self expression was much more free. If anything, any Hoxian would have argued quite the opposite, claiming that because of the discipline required to tame one's emotions and sculpt it into the exterior-facing bastion of rhakor, the reception and expression of those feelings became all the richer for the knowledge of how to be without. That was why those same Hoxians praised their literature, their music, their art, and their theatre as superior to even Bastian works, though perhaps such comparisons were simply nonsense in the end when one realized that both self-denial and over-expression were two burning ends of the same candle and that the best of that candle's light was probably actually somewhere in the middle.

Ezre was very vaguely aware that just three years away from regular daily life in Hox had smoothed the well-honed edges of his own rhakor, but he also knew that most of Anaxas could hardly see just how expressive he'd become. It was only when he was home among his peers that such changes were so obvious, when mingled with his people and self-conscious of how much easier it had become to smile when it wasn't always necessary. He often feared that his softened exterior devalued the genuineness of what he did choose to emote, worried that those around him would take for granted what they saw and not take seriously enough the moments that were truly the most important.

But when Tom heard the young Guide's heartfelt words put together with his broad, honest smile, he was privileged to watch the ripples of his offered truth spread first over the raen's face and then through the gently blossoming field that had been so carefully tended over the past few months. Ezre knew then he had not sold himself short despite his shortcomings, despite how he'd changed and grown in even the most subtlest of ways since leaving his home.

Still Hoxian, however, the divinipotent student had the presence of mind and the propriety of rhakor to look away when the not-galdor did, to avert his dark-eyed gaze back down to the table, to the book, and to the hearth to keep from pressing too far in their emotional exchange. Thick lashes might have fluttered once his tattooed face was not as visible, the wash of colors in the slanting, sliding, shifting aura of monic particles that had decided to linger, to cease fighting, to bring peace trickling through the thicker, stronger field the ninth form possessed just like melting snow converged in streams to overflow a river.

He was still smiling, he realized, but he brought one hand up, palm gently over his face, fingers skimming along one of the freshly shaved sides of his head as if wiping away the tingle of blues and the caress of yellows and the bright whispers of other pale colors. By the time he looked back, both galdor-shaped creatures composed themselves, or at least attempted to, but the door had been nudged open and Ezre was so comfortable in its warmth that he said too much.

Delicate eyebrows rose, hearing the euphemistic summary for a myriad of complicated emotions and urges all woven together in the syllables for feelings taunted back at him and teeth caught the inked line of his own lower lip. The lithe Hoxian tensed, bright linen layers rustling as if he was preparing to say something, even if there simply was no taking back the truth—

But the door opened and Ezre startled instead, inhaling sharply. He felt the tickle of cautious eyes on him again, and the young Guide simply looked back down to his book, finding the weight of Ms. Wheelwright's stare far more bearable than the force of Aletha Kuleda's mahogany glare. Her words came back to him in the pause, floating into his thoughts like the steam that rose from each poured cup of tea.

He watched the raen's hands and watched the way the firelight caught the teapot, dancing in the shapes of the flowers.

Tom Cooke served him. Lilanee's mother had not.

She'd insulted and belittled and embarrassed and—

The Hoxian exhaled through his teeth, pushing back the heat of it all, back into his tattooed chest, reaching for the cup that was passed to him with hands trying their hardest to stay steady. The fiery hurt against his sternum flavored his admission that the entire situation wasn't ideal, soured the tone of his words, and clung to the back of his throat like so much volcanic ash.

He curled around the tea, taking a sip despite its temperature before melting against the table, sloughing against one forearm. Ezre looked up at Tom from over the rim of his cup, smirking appreciatively at his promise, unwilling to venture his theory that perhaps no one had been asking the right questions, not yet,

"A plot is also for focus, not just for protection, but the prodigium is specifically so that our minds will work in harmony during the careful spellwork. All of the foci will be personal effects of Emmett-vumash, but also Lilanee is his offspring. I have yet to ask, but it is likely I will be drawing some of the linework with, well—" He trailed off quietly, leaving the obvious hint at his unconventional use of blood unsaid even if he'd nodded at the raen's just as indirectly spoken fear.

Ezre forced himself to lean up again. He paused for more tea, seemingly not affected by searing liquid temperatures, surprisingly not once looking at the scones even if he could smell the delicious hints of lavender, of lemon, and of just a touch of sugar. He ignored the call of hunger, denying himself for the sake of someone else, and instead let inked fingers reach for one of his packages again. He rifled through the various contents and set a few other supplies on the table, all of them far costlier expenses than he cared to admit:

He set out two small vials, one metal, one glass. The glass vial contained a rather curiously minuscule amount of what looked like blue salt. Lastly, he set out a twine-bound brace of very small, crystalline balls and an envelope of wax paper that appeared to contain some sort of powder. He'd already admitted to shopping for personal comfort, but it appeared he also did some practical buying as well,

"I did not think it necessary to need any of this for your company, specifically, but the risks of combined spell-casting and the distance I am attempting to travel mean the chances of backlash are not minimal. I have thought on how best to compensate for it all, considering some of the unusual effects of casting with you in the East Garden. I have attempted to consider scenarios, but, honestly, it is very difficult to plan."

Ezre looked back up from his supplies to drink more tea, meeting Tom's sidelong glance with a hint of amusement in his dark eyes. He let his attention shift for a moment to the tall clock, then allowed another slow smile, this one far more cautious than the first as his fingers curled more comfortably around his tea cup, giving the raen an opportunity to explore all he'd laid between them, unsure of whether or not he recognized the metal vial of shaved aetherium or the powdered crystals of nicum or the hyperoscillators.

The powder in the envelope was not from the small magic shop he'd spent so much coin at, but instead from the herbalist. The strong, pungent scent was just barely similar to a particular genus of chan, yet it seemed like too small an amount to brew into anything useful,

"I would not say no. I can stay a little while longer, if you are asking, Tom. It would only be good preparation to sit together and seek to align ourselves in such a way. Though, it is most unfortunate you do not know Deftung." He chuckled, self-deprecating, but then looked back to the clock with a nod, "I have—I sort of—I—" The young Guide glanced down into the dark fragrant liquid as if he wanted to crawl into it, "—I left the Kuleda house very early this morning and I purposefully went alone. Lilanee does not need to be left to deal with her mother for as long as I allowed, and I have been selfish. I just—needed a moment."

There was a hint of pain, of sadness in his voice, but perhaps it was also disappointment, looking back to meet Tom's gaze with only a slight reluctance,

"It would be nice to find a bit of quiet and peace, zjai, before you send me back with the proper address, though I am not much of a welcome guest there."

The Hoxian remembered the raen's kind offer, but he'd already imposed enough on everyone in his own mind and so he said nothing. He had to cast in the Kuleda house, anyway, quite sure that no matter what answers they received, he'd be asked to leave soon after.

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

B
ottles and things. Tom watched them appear in inked fingers, catch the flickering light. He adjusted his glasses on his nose; he creaked forward to look at them spread out on the table, among tea-things and uneaten shortbread, beside the open grimoire. He caught a whiff of something like earthy chan, as strangely unfamiliar as it was unmistakable.

The aetherium indeed he knew, though not shaved so fine. It glittered inside.

He remembered the Breckinridge refinery in the Rose, though the memories were made vague by the passage of a few years now, and death, and a host of other colors and shapes; still, he remembered some of what went into the making of the stuff. And what a late shipment had nearly led to.

The other vial, he didn’t know, and couldn’t guess.

Then – the cluster of what must’ve been hyperoscillators, all trussed up in twine like caught fish. He let his fingertips graze them.

He grunted, nodding. When he glanced up, Ezre was looking away. The light played over his face, making him look something like bemused. Tom looked back at the table, at the last of the items, the small wax envelope.

It must have been chan. Or something like chan. It didn’t look like enough, but Tom Cooke had had a qalqa, once. Many things came in little envelopes.

More nodding; he sipped tea, and the Hexx’s words sank in. “I see,” he grunted. “Emmett’s personal effects. Inanimate and otherwise.”

Just one sharp look, was all.

His brow furrowed. “Is this the chan, Ezre-xî?” His curiosity had got the best of him. He tapped the envelope, sucking at a tooth. “I’ve never known it taken any other way than drinking,” he mused. “Then again, I was never very adventurous. With chan, at least.”

He looked back up, finally, when Ezre spoke again. His brow furrowed deeper. Ezre looked like he might’ve been shrinking in all that bright elaborate wool. Tom took in the downcast eyes, the bitten lip; he hung quiet in the gap left by the teenager’s stumbling sort of, a break in that smooth, even Hexxos eloquence.

That fucking bad, huh?

He didn’t say anything ‘til the Hexx finished, though his face was faintly pinched with concern. He smiled at Ezre’s lament. There’s time, he half wanted to say, to learn Deftung and more. There’s lifetimes.

“I appreciate it,” Tom murmured with another friendly little pulse of his field, taking a sip of tea. “Perhaps you can teach me a little.”

He set the cup back down, sitting and looking at the open book. “You might find my method of meditation – uh – unorthodox,” and he flashed Ezre a brief grin. “I’ve never told you. Warding the undead without a self-exclusion clause has… interesting – humbling – effects.”

He paused. Left to deal with her mother, Ezre’d said, as if, as if. Tom glanced at the clock, too.

He had thought something seemed off about Ezre, from the moment he’d seen the shape perched on his steps in the early evening sun. For all it’d been unexpected, the space between them now felt warmer, easier to breathe; but it was still there, that tension, like Tom imagined the low hum of shifting rock beneath your feet. There was more in those words, welcome guest, than he thought Ezre might have wanted there to be.

The concern leached back into his face. He took off his glasses. “Are you sure you’re all right to stay with Mrs. Kuleda? Is - Is Lilanee? I don’t know much of her, but the situation you’ve found yourself in troubles me, Ezre-xî.”

There was a wry edge to his voice. Matter of fact, he took up the teapot again and topped off the Hexx’s cup, sending up plumes.

[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." Ezre agreed to the and otherwise Tom inserted with so much gruff tact, nodding as he watched the raen's hands wander over all of the things he'd laid on the table in some semblance of an explanation, in some semblance of a plan. Before he'd arrived in Vienda, he'd wanted everything to work for Lilanee's sake—to honor the brightness of her hope and the warmth of her love for her father. Now that he was here? Now, he knew he wanted to prove something, suddenly worried he ran the risk of making it all too personal should he let anything pry too deeply beneath the hardened exterior of his rhakor.
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​​His mind wandered, weighing the dangers of misplaced intent, chest suddenly tight at the realization, but Tom moved and tapped the envelope. The young Guide inhaled, shaking his head gently, puzzling his inexperienced, immature way through what, exactly the other man was implying, what all of his adventures might have meant,
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​​"Oh—ah—zjai, it is chan. Or, more specifically, the root of a particular sub-species only found in Gior, if I remember correctly. Dried. Powdered." Dark eyes widened, understanding dawning. He scoffed. He almost giggled, "I have also only imbibed chan as liquid. This is not meant to be taken on its own. It is surely too strong should someone decide to drink it or ... what? Adventurous? What do you think it is for—inhaling?"
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​​He paused, staring at the envelope with all the dangerous curiosity of a nineteen-year-old who already knew more about the strange than the mundane. He hummed, clearly considering the possibilities, inked fingers straying to rub at his nose with the thought before he made a face about it all,
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​​"I would say it would be an awful experience, but, then again, maybe not? The potential for a—what would be the Estuan?—a bad trip is almost guaranteed with this if used improperly. Dru, this is meant as an additive during the brewing process. One could say I am aiming for a rather thorough distancing from reality for this spellwork, safety regards aside. It took a bit of convincing to make the purchase, but it appears that facial tattoos and strange accents can be intimidating in Anaxas' capitol when coming from a galdor and not a wick."
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​​Ezre didn't say those things with the same humor he might have in any other context, smile having already faded from his once-again stoic features. He knew he way Ms. Wheelwright had looked at him. He knew the way Alethia Kuleda had looked at him, too. Sitting up a little more, he moved to tuck things away into the package he'd taken them from before settling again around his tea,
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​​"You have proven yourself keen on learning what is important in my language already." The dark-haired cxîl riposted quieter still, warmed a little by the very thought, warmed just as much by the self-expression Tom was capable of with his field. He looked up at the word unorthodox, tilting his head with obvious surprise written without subtleties on his face,
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​​"You—" The Hexxos Guide blinked slowly. More than once. Working through the implications of the raen's methodology, of the unspoken depths of his admission. In the taming of spinewolves, it was nearly impossible to convince an adult from the wild to submit to the will of a master—one had to risk their lives and steal pups right from the mother's den. Raising them from captivity was the only way to gain their trust and form a bond, and while selective breeding had produced less feral offspring, it was always still a risk that they would turn on their handlers.
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​​"—you read the books I gave you, but you leave out the clause for—yourself. Well.” Ezre nodded. He couldn't quite imagine the results, not entirely, but he assumed it felt very much like being pinned by an opponent in hand-to-hand combat, only he hoped it was, perhaps, a little more gentle, "Humbling is one way to describe what it must be like, zjai. Now I understand some of the foundations of your progress, Tom."
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​​He was almost coy from over the rim of his cup before he drank some more, but his humor was brief, overshadowed by the lack of peace he'd felt since arriving in Vienda. The Hoxian read easily the concern as it creased its way into the raen's galdor face, emphasizing the sharpness of his middle-aged Anaxi features with the way his fair eyebrows drew together. He set his tea back down again, inked fingers listless over the dainty hand-painted flowers,
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​​"I am not alright. I do not know how to put into words the depths of hurtful offense Alethia Kuleda greeted me with upon our arrival, let alone the shame and embarrassment I have felt in her home. I am not sure if Lilanee is even aware, and I thought—"
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​​He paused, sighing and watching the way his swift exhale made steam flutter and drift in odd directions. He'd just admitted to all the things he thought he felt, all the things he thought he knew in the enclosed space that Brunnhold seemed to be, its red stone fortifications a shelter to a unique culture and a way of living that perhaps was nothing more than a mockery of real life, an illusion. Ezre looked down, not wanting the full extent of the thawing of his rhakor to be so visible when he frowned. He stared at his fingers still on the teacup, seconds untouched,
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​​"—Lilanee seeks to honor her parents, and I cannot begrudge her that. I seek to do the same with my own, I believe, even this far from Hox. She was raised in that home, which I now see is how her upbringing was so opposite of my own. Hesseans are irreligious—heathens would be the Estuan translation of our many Deftung slurs—dismissing the Circle as fairy tale justification for galdori dominance and insisting it is simply pure power that has allowed us our magical place in the world. I am an anathema as a Hoxian, more so as Hexxos. I have filled Alethia's daughter's head with hope and nonsense—her kindest words to me. I thought we were above such shallow things in our more-than-friendship, but I understand that emotions and desires sometimes cloud the truth if one is not careful. Brunnhold makes it easy to forget what the rest of the world is like, sheltered in our studies as if I was not already sheltered enough as a child. Perhaps I should have known before, perhaps I have made a mistake in our friendship, but I do not want—"
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​​Ezre was not about to cry, not here, not now, even if he'd been given unspoken permission with Tom's own self-expression. He held it in, but his voice broke anyway. He set his jaw for a moment, scowling at his tea instead of looking up, finally reaching up to press both scarred palms into his eye sockets and breathe in the rich scents of incense and tea. Composing himself behind his hands, he murmured,
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​​“—Clairvoyance has taught me that one cannot always trust their interpretation of what a vision shows them, that sometimes we see more of what we want to see than what really is there. I suppose it is a lesson I should take to heart.”
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​​Sliding his hands from his face, Ezre curled up around his tea again, letting the heat of the refreshed cup sear against moist fingertips. He looked at the raen again finally, rolling his narrow shoulders in a shrug even while he carefully found the balance in his voice again, steadying himself with tea,
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​​"I must cast there in the house with Emmett-vumash's personal effects. I can stay one more night. Just one. After tomorrow, regardless of the results, I may need to leave, with or without Lilanee. I wanted to find a way to help with the funeral, should it—should it be needed, but now I know getting out of the way is my most acceptable form of service to Lilanee and to her family." The young Guide made some harsh sound of dismissal against the back of his teeth, trying to wrest himself from the grip of disappointment and offense that weighed him down, unfolding himself from his seated position on the floor to stretch and pretend it didn’t remind him his joints ached,
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​​”I cannot say the methods of meditation I know are all considered orthodox in practice, either, at least by Anaxi standards. Though in this small space, I suppose I will have to be still instead. ”
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[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

H
avakda,” muttered Tom, more a grumble than a word. He cleared his throat, raising his eyebrow at Ezre.

You might not’ve described belladonna as a good trip, either – though in retrospect, Tom wasn’t sure why he’d been so keen on it, seeing as he always wound up worrying he was going to die halfway through. He swallowed tightly, thinking of Ezre, the chan, and a washtub brimming; there were more than a few reasons not to leave this to two casters, much less two flooding teenagers.

He could’ve known what was coming, just by the way of Ezre’s voice when he spoke of intimidating. His frown deepened.

He’d never thought of it, though he knew he should’ve. It shot a pang of sympathy right between two ribs, right into the heart of him, like a well-placed dirk. It was even harder sitting among incense and tea, by a crackling fire.

He knew something of being marked, being traced with lines that stood you apart. Scars, tattoos. Now he had lines that were unfamiliar even to him; he was a stranger in the country of his body.

Once, in an Uptown spice shop, they’d’ve followed him round to make sure his blunt natt hands didn’t steal. He’d bought his incense in the Rose in the Court, sometimes, in Cantile or the finer bits of West-and-Long, when he’d had the extra ging. He knew the looks. Once, he’d raised a hand in an idle gesture, and the tsat lass who ran the shop had flinched.

He looked down at his lap, at the pale galdor hands that got him in trouble in the Dives and the Rose, and thought Ezre was brave. Plenty of times, he’d left places without buying anything, tucked himself back into his coat and fled like a wanted man. He knew what it was to be not quite one thing and not quite another, anywhere you went.

As the Hexx went on, the last of the humor – frail already – the amused surprise, that’d warmed Tom just a little with pride – drained down into the teacups, dispersed into the chill, and the words were spilling out of Ezre like a flood. Hope and nonsense. If his eyes widened slightly at heathen, the set of his jaw tightened, and his brow was still furrowed.

Ezre’s face was still downcast, and Tom thought it wrong to look a man in the eye when he wasn’t looking at yours; but when he followed Ezre’s down, all he saw was thin fingers curled round the teacup as if frozen there, as if carved. Traced with lines, like Tom had never seen any galdori before that morning in Bethas.

That morning in Bethas, the line between the Tom that knew the word raen and the Tom that thought he was alone. A shiver went down his spine.

Perhaps I have made a mistake in our friendship – Ezre’s face sank into his hands, and that soft, even voice broke, like any teenager’s might.

Tom shifted, set his own teacup on the table. “I don’t think she’d let you leave without her,” he said softly. “And if she did, I don’t think she deserved you in the first place. You know you’ve a warm hearth Uptown, regardless. I’ll break out the whisky for a broken heart any day.”

His voice was firm, for all its quietness. A little of his brogue had crept back into his accent. It felt thin, paper-thin, still, and as useful as a moth’s wings.

“I don’t know much of Hesse, either,” he added. “The Circle means more to me than galdori domination.” He glanced away at the heavy mahogany desk, the shelves full of books, the galdor’s study. “My lass,” he said carefully, shutting his eyes, “was interested in Vita, but I’ve always known the Circle, when I cared to think of it. I suspect she’d’ve argued that was because of the gollies; she’d shudder to see me now. Not the man who raised her.”

He trailed off, opening his eyes. He took another sip of tea. “Boemo, Ezre. It’s not hope and nonsense. Not to me, not to you. That’s what matters.”

He shrugged. The teacup clicked, clattered a little, as he brought it back down to the table; his hand was shaking slightly again.

The Hexx was creaking to his feet with more bitter words. Tom looked up at him, finally. He frowned, sucking at a tooth. Ezre didn’t look like he needed to sit still.

And Tom had had his fill of being held in place; he weighed it, and he thought, this time, there was something different to be learned. He heaved himself to his feet with a wince, rolling his aching shoulders.

“You’d be surprised how big this space is, once you get all this rubbish out of the way. I roll up the carpet and move the chairs for the plot, anyway,” he said brusquely, shrugging. “Provided an old Anaxi and his aching hip won’t slow you down.”

[Ezre Vks]

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three twelve willow avenue

​​

Early Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

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​​

Ezre looked down into his teacup, through the steam, hearing Tom's words follow his own, and some dark, blurred blob of a reflection stared back at the Hoxian—a mirror of his foolishness. He hummed a noise of acknowledgement, heels of his hands digging into his eye sockets when he lifted them to his face, aware of how new and strange and untraveled these sorts of paths were for himself: deeper relationships than mere friendships, deeper feelings than those he'd already learned to hold at bay with the comforting mask of the rhakor he'd been taught to wear. He was seeing it all from such a narrow point of view, and the divinipotent student should have known better—

Broken heart.

Since when did he wear his on his sleeve?

"We are very different, Lilanee and myself, and I must recognize my contribution to that which is challenging between us. Alethia Kuleda is not my fault, but, ultimately, she is not Lilanee's fault either. That does not mean some things are not worthwhile, and I must keep that in mind. It is not about deserving, nor being deserved. I do not think, anyway, but perhaps I am being childish, selfish—both. Those who are comfortable in the valleys do not reach the tops of mountains to see the stars, say the Mhoren Basheva proverbs."

The young Guide didn't laugh, but he smirked, sliding hands away from his face, immediately self-aware of how much of his heart he'd just put on display. Ezre might have even been blushing or it might have just been the pressure from tea-warmed hands against his cheeks—thank the Circle it was hard to tell! He caught his breath, chagrined but not truly ashamed, finding his voice a little firmer, a little more determined, a little less dramatic when he spoke of how he knew he had to cast in the Kuleda home, welcome or not.

He began to unfurl from behind his tea, from his seated position, pausing when the raen spoke of the life he'd once lived, not entirely wanting to let the mention of family pass by in the moment like leaves caught in a swift-flowing stream, but Tom opened his eyes and the Hoxian's briefly surprised expression faded, faltered in the kind, unexpected and undeserved statement of spiritual solidarity he chose to offer,

"I am aware that I am not a typical galdor—not in Anaxas, especially, but not even in my homeland of Hox. I cannot say the Circle gods ever meant for themselves to become symbols of divine right to anything, but, I also cannot say I understand how everyone is supposed to fit together into the greater vision for all things, into zkratas. I believe there are reasons for the way things are, but I am afraid we have lost touch with those reasons in favor of serving ourselves. That is the real nonsense, if you ask me."

The Hexxos Guide offered a wry sort of smile, just a flash of some abstract sense of camaraderie, shaking his head gently. The invitation to search for perspective was not an unwelcome one, and Ezre stood, glancing about the study full of someone else's belongings, someone else's life that Tom had accidentally inherited in his tumultuous existence in the form of someone else's books—books Tom hadn't collected for himself—and someone else's decor—furnishings Tom certainly hadn't purchased, either.

"You left family behind you." He murmured with a hint of curiosity even if it was not framed as a question, not wanting to become a stone in the flow of their river of conversation but unable to ignore his interest, entangled already in too many emotions that it didn't feel like too strange a distraction.

He heard the clatter of the cup, noting how the raen's own inner self seeped its subtle ways into view through his expressions, through his borrowed body. He might have also watched the way the not-Incumbent struggled to his feet, quite sure the galdor shape the once-human had taken as a vessel wasn't that far in years from his own parents back in Hox. Anaxi galdor lives were different, of course, in terms of laborious living when compared to their Hoxian counterparts, but he absently wondered how frustrating it must have been for a once-active human to find themselves stuck in something magic and privilege had allowed to become so limited and so soft in comparison.

Tattooed hands smoothed over too many layers of clothing for free movement and without a word of warning, Ezre began to shed the thicker, charcoal outer layer, fingers finding ties instead of buttons and dark eyes sweeping toward the chairs and down to the rug. He shrugged off the light coat and then the saffron shirt beneath, also setting down the wide cloth wrap of a belt, moving with slow, ritualistic care as if also shedding layers of their conversation, setting even those things aside until the young Guide was left in a light cotton shirt and the voluminous saffron pants that were often mistaken for some kind of strange skirt by unassuming Anaxi. He stretched again, arms above his head, feeling something crack satisfyingly between his shoulder blades, sleeves falling behind his elbows to reveal the inked lines on his hands did not end at the cuffs but disappeared under his clothing at all angles. His remaining shirt was thin and breezy, fabric pale enough to allow a hazy glimpse of just how extensively the Hexxos marked their Guides,

"Your so-called old Anaxi hip most likely just needs more movement, not less. My otsur, my father, Tuhir, would say not to treat it so gently." Spoken like a true Hoxian, calm and deadpan, but there was a hint of amusement in Ezre's glance toward Tom's side, "I will make sure to leave you with some stretching techniques before I head back to Brunnhold. Perhaps some massage advice, but that is difficult to accomplish on your own. The politician most likely spent too much time in a chair despite how surprisingly pleasant it was to walk Vienda's streets today."

With that, the young guide almost tittered, giggled, shoving aside the weight of his emotional burdens with the sound. While it was unintentional to speak so casually of the life the raen had displaced, the Hexxos who prepared bodies for burial and was raised visiting the sacred internment site of Xerxes hardly had the same boundaries about mortality. He looked to Tom for instruction on how and where to move things in order to make space on the floor for the pair of them, willing to do most of the hard work as needed, young and spry. The student offered measurements of how much space would be required with the stretch of his arms and the flexing of his field,

"This will be beneficial meditation for you, with your growing monic expression. You have let the mona hold you, offering yourself, but these will be ideas on how to learn to relate to each other and move together—which is, I suppose, no easier than relating to other people."

Ezre was clearly taunting the raen as well as chiding himself, sifting the negative away and reaching instead for lightness, though his expression would have never let it show. He drew from one of his packages two pieces of fresh, new chalk, indicating for them both to make a simple circle large enough to stand in, arms outstretched, side by side, "I will go through all of the motions first so that you can mirror them, and then we will do them together. This is a very simple meditation of the body, one that walks through what would roughly translate in Estuan as Ten Houses. You will recognize references to the Circle gods, I am sure."

Taking his place in the space he'd drawn, he hinted that it would be easier for Tom to face him in his own space with a wave of inked fingers before he positioned himself in a comfortable (to the Hoxian) stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees relaxed, posture straight and balanced—waiting expectantly for the raen to attempt to mimic the younger galdor who clearly had practiced such body-oriented meditation for long enough that it was second nature,

"Breathing is important. You want to feel it here." One hand settled near his diaphragm for emphasis before he paused to roll up his sleeves, wanting to make sure he was a clear example, "As this is between you and the mona, so do not be shy about your field. I will do my best to pronounce as well as translate when you are ready for me to begin."

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[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

N
ot about deserving. He didn’t think he could argue with that; he didn’t think any man could. In the low light, it was hard to tell, but he thought there was some color in Ezre’s cheeks, as the Hexx took his hands away from his face.

Tom was still thinking about what Ezre’d said as he rose. Tom wasn’t half ready to; he shifted, the chair creaking underneath him. A sharp ache still rattled round his head.

Most surprising was the wash of gratefulness. It wasn’t that he’d expected Ezre to laugh, exactly – the Hexx wasn’t in a laughing mood, and his rhakor would’ve rarely permitted anything so crude – but he’d dug under his heart and given up something raw, something still-bleeding; he’d half-rued bringing it out into the light, for all it beat weakly and strangely between them.

But Ezre offered up something of his own, something of himself, in return. There was no mockery in his voice. There were no sharp, coy comments, no smirks, for a Circlist human in a galdor’s skin. Ezre was standing and looking about his study, as if from a new angle.

It was hard to tell, even-toned as it was, resolved already from the breaking waver of a few moments ago. Still, it sounded vexed; it sounded like somebody admitting there was much he didn’t understand.

It brought a small, sad smile to Tom’s face. It was subtle and tactful, the way Ezre nudged the family-shaped hornet’s nest, this time. Gentle. Tom thought he owed the Hexx a little more than he’d given; he levered himself to his feet, wincing.

“You could say that, Ezre-xî,” he said softly. The Hexx was unfastening his coat, pulling off the brightly-colored overshirt underneath it.

Under a layer of light linen, the Vjer’a was whipcord, better-muscled than Tom had imagined, though he knew something of Ezre’s strength. Whatever envy he might’ve felt was swamped by the sight of those lines; he could see the faint impression of them underneath the shirt, disappearing up the sleeves.

Lot of flooding ink, for a galdor. He tried to imagine Ezre sitting for it, rhakor unbroken. He’d had one himself, once; a spoke, a friend of Ishma’s, had done it. He remembered the pain of it, blotting out the scent of patchouli and eucalyptus in the small, cluttered kint. He reckoned it’d be different, in Kzecka.

With a sigh, he followed suit, slipping off his jacket and unbuttoning his waistcoat. His shoulders ached; his hip ached. In his shirtsleeves, he felt small and cold.

“She wasn’t my daughter, not by birth,” he said, as they started moving the furniture. “Her da was cold; I don’t know how it happened. She never spoke of it. I took her in, and she stayed with me off and on for years. There were others I left – my lover of ten years. My brother, who’s still around the Rose.”

Despite the pain in his back, he drew his own circle with practiced grace. He knew how to let his shoulder guide his hand; he held his wrist steady by not holding it at all.

He grimaced through the concentration. He might’ve spoken sharply, but Ezre’s giggle banished the urge; he sighed instead. “Being honest, stretches would be helpful, and I’d kill for a massage.” If I could get comfortable with the idea, that is. He still felt like vreska at the public baths; he’d never been.

(Otsur, Ezre’d said. Somehow, Tom had never thought about it; he preferred not to, still. He reckoned he thought the Hexx had sprung from Lreya’s head. What kind of kov had a raen for a lover?

Shit. Never mind.)

As they took their places opposite one another, he nodded. Meditation of the body, Ezre said. Whose body? Tom frowned, chewing through the idea; he said nothing. Ezre took up his position, and Tom followed suit, or tried to.

“Posture isn’t hard,” he murmured, “not in this body. Or diaphragm-breathing. The Incumbent had a penchant for singing opera.”

It was his knees and hip that ached; he didn’t say that, but there was a slight flush of pain in his cheeks, a pinch in the lines of his face.

He breathed in deeply. It came easy, as it always had, easier than it ever had when he was alive. Breathing, speaking, holding himself upright. He’d slumped for a long time, when he’d first found himself like this; he’d only realized later, during lessons with Ava, how much easier it was to let his shoulders settle back, as if the bones had been pulling them in that direction all along.

In life, he couldn’t’ve straightened up this far at all. Maybe as a boch, but not as a man, and less and less as the years went on. His voice had been thin and high, breathy, without much resonance behind it; he remembered the laoso coughs he’d got as a boch from the woodrot in the tenements.

Now, there was no tightness in his diaphragm, no ache in his throat. It was almost easy to let his field expand outward, washing to the edges of the circle, as if his ley lines remembered.

It was comfortable.

Tom’s breath hitched, once. He grimaced; his heart raced. Across from him, Ezre was a mirror, wiry shoulders and voluminous cloth limned with the hearth. He looked comfortable.

“I don’t know that I can,” Tom said tightly. “This isn’t me, Ezre-xî. This is wrong. The mona know that; it’s why self-warding works. Maybe what works for a galdor doesn’t work for a raen, I –”

He shut his eyes. “I’m afraid to be comfortable like this,” he admitted, very softly.

[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 must be difficult to not have the family connection. That is, admittedly, outside of my frame of reference considering the relationship between Hexxos and raen, but I am not without imagination." Ezre had been raised in community—what few Hexxos children there were spent enough time together to feel more like siblings than strangers, and the tight-knit culture of Kzecka (and, by extension, Xerxes), was most likely an experience unique to Hox and alien to Anaxas. The young Guide had no biological siblings, though Lreya, his mother, had admitted once or twice in quiet conversation that it had not been for lack of desire to have other children. The nature of her existence had made pregnancy difficult, and truth be told, even Ezre knew he was an unexpected gift.

"Incumbent Vauquelin's family are strangers, and you have had no choice but to pretend otherwise. That must be more than merely complicated, but uncomfortable as well." He all-but whispered while shedding layers of clothing, aware that while Tom mimicked his physical preparations, the raen was also generously shedding personal layers with his sharing of the past. The Hoxian didn't frown, but his expression was also unreadable for a moment, inked fingers lingering on bright fabric before he moved furniture and rolled rugs and drew circles, thoughts turning over sharp stones, smoothing their edges in a comfortable quiet.

Dark eyes watched the not-galdor trace his own circle, huffing with half a smile a few consonants of amusement at Tom's choice of words, "I will make sure you have some references," He held up chalky hands before dusting them off, making a not-so-subtle offer before he stood, albeit coyly, "and no one needs to find their mortal end for a massage. You only need to ask someone who knows what they are doing—I might."

Ezre kept that hint of a smile for a few more moments, gaze sweeping over the not-Incumbent's movements, noting the favoritism the raen gave to one side over the other despite his insistence on finding proper posture. He didn't miss the wince, listening in the pause to the breathing of the borrowed body next to him. Tom's expression of pain was, much like his removing of his waistcoat, more than just physical. The young Guide's rhakor may have limited his willingness to express himself in kind depending on the situation, but that didn't mean he was incapable of reading the expressions of others.

He felt the cautious, fledgling flexing of a still very strange, very unstable field. He felt the familiar brush of Clairvoyant mona and the tingle of monic entropy, of mysterious objection that felt like holding a handful of flies in cupped hands.

Tom hesitated and the Hoxian's smooth, tattooed face faltered. Tom spoke and the temple-born child of a raen heard the words, sighing deeply. Narrow shoulders sagged from their squared, ready stance, and he nodded, slow and heavy with the weight of empathy. It took a moment—maybe two—for Ezre to sift through the admission, swimming through depths of emotion, wading carefully into self-loathing, bravely putting feet into a miasma fear that he, himself, did not possess,

"Tom Cooke—"

The Hexxos Guide spoke the raen's full name just as softly, stepping from his circle of chalk on the floor and into the other man's personal space, rolling up loose sleeves. His hands moved gently to correct the raen's stance without judgment, fingers light over shoulders, trailing to turn the barely taller, older galdor's torso a degree or two. He might have also been searching for sources of tension, touch growing firmer as he moved toward the lower back, undeniably aware of what his hands had been prepared for outside of this particular moment as a Carrier of the Dead, "—I cannot tell you how to be comfortable in the existence you find yourself in because I do not share it, nor can I guide you in how to accept the body you did not choose so much as take out of desperation."

Ezre found points of resistance in the raen's borrowed body, in a body he'd not worn out but found himself forced to wear, kneading as he spoke, as unapologetic about relieving what hurt as he was about talking through it, "The mona knew you before. They know you now, though the conflict between what was and what is seems to trouble them greatly. I do not have answers to that, not yet. I want to find them, too, but, all I have is this for now—as a galdor, we are taught to find confidence, not comfort, in our relationship with the mona. Comfort leads to taking what we have been given for granted. Comfort leads to mistakes. Do not be comfortable."

The Hexxos Guide found his way to Tom's weaker side, and the edges of his vision blurred just a little. His eyes stung, careful with his words and realizing their applications were far more broad than just a kindness to a raen, aware of how easy it had been to place blame in his own personal difficulties. The clarity was unexpected, but he continued with all the intention of at least attempting to help his friend take steps toward some sense of new self while he sought to relieve physical discomfort for even a brief moment. He could be more thorough with his understanding of pressure points and massage had they both not been standing, he'd promised one thing and stood here suddenly offering another, chalk circles on the floor and prepared to lead through example. Willing to pause, he hovered a moment, caught in between,

"Something is wrong, Tom, zjai, but it is not you. This is not your fault. What has happened—what is happening—is wrong, but you are not. Can you accept the difference? Choices made behind you aside, there are still more ahead that can always be made anew."

Ezre slid his hands from their places, running one scarred palm over his face, wiping emotions away as if they'd been sweat on his brow even though he still felt them all keenly, woven as threads of color in their merged fields without any hint of shame, "The mona have acquiesced to hearing your voice, and while there is understandable caution on their part, you cannot change what you are now, what you have become. I wish—I do wish I knew how to better speak to these things, but I am not raen. Just the child of one. You should come to Hox some day, to Kzecka, and hear the voices of those who walk your same path. I can only help you to look inward to better ground yourself, but you must decide to make peace with what you find there."

He stepped his bare feet back within his hand-drawn circle, searching Tom's face in another moment of silence, "Galdori are not born with a field or with a relationship with the mona. They must make it on their own, if they are able. As much as some part of magic is inherent in the body, some of it is also inherent in intention. Your current body, even if you do not want it, even if you would never have chosen it, even if it is totally wrong in your arrangement with it, is inherently magical."

The Hoxian had never quite carried on conversation like this before, nor was he entirely sure he felt qualified. He did feel—so many things!—and so he simply continued. Shifting his body back into the stance he'd expected to be mirrored, Ezre added with such genuine softness, such generous honesty, that he hardly seemed able to speak above a whisper,

"The mona may find trouble with your misplaced soul, but apparently, they will never object to those who find set themselves true to a direction. From what I have come to understand of you, Tom, human though you were, you still possess a very admirable sense of intent underneath everything else. Why can you not simply start from there?"

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[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin House • Uptown

Evening on the 16th of Vortas, 2719

T
he dark behind his eyelids. The sensation, now, growing, of drifting outside himself like smoke; of the world tilting and shrinking under him, of unraveling, unfurling. If his heart was banging against his ribcage, he no longer paid it much heed. You could separate yourself in this way, from the panic and the pain – from all things the flesh pinned you to. The body, a butterfly pinned to corkboard; the soul, free.

Ezre’s voice, dragging him back down with a fistful of his hems: Tom Cooke –

His teeth were grit; he didn’t know for how long, but his jaw ached, faintly. He could tell by the hollow ache in his chest he hadn’t been breathing from his belly, not for a good minute. His field was no longer flexed, and he felt the brush of another, familiar and belike, as Ezre stepped out of his circle.

He didn’t hear the Hexx, padding softly as a cat; nothing could’ve prepared him for the brush of fingers on his shoulders, on his back, adjusting his stance. He resisted the urge to snap his eyes open. He was afraid of what he might see, what he might feel. Had he made that admission? It felt like a hundred years ago.

Tom adjusted his posture obediently, but he was still stiff. He didn’t realize how stiff until he felt the Guide’s probing fingers press a knotted muscle in his lower back. His breath caught; he ground his teeth. He thought he might’ve twisted round and given the kov a backhand –

“Accept…?” It was barely a breath.

The Vjer’a’s voice was soft and even – precisely-enunciated, even with its heavy, sharp Deftung consonants – not far off from the gentle lull of his casting. Like you’d speak to a frightened boch. No, not a boch; not patronizing, not sugary-sweet. Heavy and grim, with no assumptions, no beating-round-the-bush. Like you’d speak to the mona, maybe.

Or the dead.

Ezre’s hands were much the same. Not always gentle, not always kind; not comfortable, after all. Comfort leads to mistakes, Ezre said. A sharp pain shot through his lower back, and his lip curled; he snorted his breath through his nose. But it was a pain like a knot untangled, and it eased some tightness in him he hadn’t known he was holding. Do not, Ezre said, be comfortable.

It was easier, when Ezre’s hands drew away, to let himself fall into the correct stance. Close, anyway, as he could come; close as the Guide could guide him, by word and hand and example. He thought he felt the mirroring in every line of him.

Can you accept the difference? Ezre asked. Tom lifted his chin, his eyes still shut. He studied the strange patterns of light against his eyelids, flickering warm. He studied Ezre’s field through his own, merged, clairvoyant-clairvoyant. There was no more red shift, no more blue.

“I don’t know,” he murmured into the pause. He felt the rumble of Vauquelin’s voice in his chest; it wasn’t comfortable. “Maybe acceptance – is different from comfort.”

His body might’ve been comfortable like this. He thought of Anatole Vauquelin, straight-backed in his study. He had never seen Anatole, but he had seen Ava playing the role; she had slid into that dignified comfort like a second skin. He tried to imagine being comfortable, songbird-comfortable, with the deepness of his voice, with every line the life he lived had carved into his face, with hands that did not shake and signed his name in an elegant script of forty years’ practice.

Anatole Vauquelin had been a comfortable man, and he had been a rotten one. Tom had been a comfortable man, once – comfortable with his fists, leastways. Comfortable disappearing into a bottle, throwing his weight round in the Dove until men broke on his cliffs.

Comfortable men made mistakes.

“You’re right,” he said. Right about one thing, at least. Tom didn’t know where the fault lay; he wasn’t ready to shift it somewhere else. Nor did he know the wrongness wasn’t his. But he knew, at least, that there was some acceptance in discomfort. He’d known that for some time.

His furrowed brow relaxed; he breathed in deep through his diaphragm.

“Thank you, Ezre,” he said as the Hexx drew away. He rolled his shoulders once, found the position the Vjer’a had guided him to again. “I meant it, when I said you Hexx knew how to treat bobbers like me.” He didn’t smile, but one brow raised, briefly. “The next time you go to Kzecka, let me know. The turning’s busy, but I think I can carve out some time.”

His hip still ached, but he distributed the weight evenly, and the ache seemed to transform itself. It was not so difficult to bear. He thought there was a light at the end of that tunnel; there was something almost pleasant about the ache, now that some of the others had eased.

Admirable, Ezre said. Biased, Tom wanted to fling back at him, petulantly. He did not feel admirable, not when the mona pinned him in place and put him under their eye. But intent was not about feeling admirable; intent was about following through on what you offered.

When he opened his eyes, Ezre was a mirror opposite him. “Let’s start with intent, then,” he said, more evenly. “I’m ready – the Ten Houses?” he said, picking up the thread Ezre’d dropped with a steadier hand.