Fri Jul 13, 2018 10:22 am
27th Bethas, 2718
"Ne, don't let her fool ye, Loyan. She found me, kicked th' dirt off o' me, an' still doesn't seem t' mind th' sight o' me. No' even after gettin' in th' kind o' trouble y' know I get into." Tristaan's grin was broad and yet shy at the same time, but he seemed eager not to dwell on the tall wick's direction of questioning. He made it clear that he cared for Sarinah far more than perhaps he should have so soon, however, tangling their fingers together again, but he chose not to give his friend and Crow fami any clear definition of their relationship.
Not because he didn't want to.
More because he was afraid to.
It wasn't as though he knew entirely what to call things between himself and the lovely witch anyway. By Alioe, they had a connection, and it ran far deeper than just the heated, once-forbidden passions they'd shared with their bodies. Far too many of their life stories overlapped in ways that Tristaanian couldn't always properly express in words, and the danger and violence and near death experiences had perhaps only further solidified in the dark-haired passive's protective, hopeful heart just how much it felt as though more than mere coincidence had brought the two of them together.
It was the where to go from here part that seemed to keep getting stuck in the scarred hull of his chest: the fear of wanting more, of feeling more, of hoping for something new and beautiful that terrified him, especially with the memory of his diablerie far too fresh.
Still, Tristaan forced away his distracting doubts and fears and offered Loyan a laugh,
"Yats? Y' know I can't say ne. We ent ate yet—been travelin' up th' Arova with some Deep Water tekaa all th' way from Old Rose Harbor. Ent been but a day since we've been here. Boemo, I won't complain 'bout a meal with fami." He allowed some hope and excitement to fill him, to warm his words and burn away the dark thoughts that haunted him, tugging on Sarinah's hand as the tall wick laughed in return and waved them in the direction of the Red Crow camp that the passive would find familiar.
"Oes, good. Guaril won't know what t' do with himself, Tristaan, when he sees yer face. Yer gonna make that poor ol' Da o' yers think he's seen a clockin' ghost." Half-teasing, half-serious, the tall wick shrugged his tattooed shoulders and waggled his fingers, leading them through the crowd and toward the kints arranged in a half moon around a large, smoldering bonfire and a few smaller cook fires. The family unit that had taken the passive in just over six years ago was on the smaller side for a group of Red Crow, mostly because when Tristaan left, he left with a group of their youth, a group of tyat.
Some of the younger children had stayed, not wanting to share their elder siblings' fate when no word came and no one ever visited.
Loyan tilted his head to smile in Sarinah's direction, "Y' a Deep Water, then, rosh? Ent seen many 'f 'em m'self. But I don't swim."
The dark-haired passive only smirked, allowing the lithe dancer to answer for herself, though aware that the sting of just a fistful of minutes before would still be fresh.
"—No' like 't matters." He'd offer at the end of her words, elbowing the taller wick in a mixture of familiar playfulness as well as a warning not to push the typical tribal rhetoric, "Th' heart does what 't wants, ye chen."
The dark-haired passive couldn't help but slow his steps and feel the weight of his sole survivorship suddenly sink into his bones and turn them into lead. He sighed, the breath of ghosts whispering against the back of his neck the memories of those he'd failed to protect. His friends and peers, his fami, out-gunned and out-matched by a handful of Bad Brothers. He was replaying the scene in his mind, heart racing wildly, when Loyan shouted and shattered his thoughts to pieces like the glass face of the old broken pocket watch he wore hidden in his vest,
"Junta! Guaril! Ye have a visitor, ol' man!" The tall, amber-eyed wick was grinning almost stupidly, motioning to the young couple the direction of the old wick's kint, near the center of the small arrangement.
Tristaan couldn't help the smile despite the anticipation that filled the scarred hull of his chest, the awareness that he'd left the only man he'd ever considered worthy of being his father figure, who'd taken the time to tame and direct the angry boy he'd once been. He'd left his da to hurt people and steal things and he'd paid the price. The dark-haired passive didn't have a field to express his nervousness, didn't have an aura full of mona to reveal his internal struggles. Only a briefly tighter squeeze of Sarinah's hand and a momentary falter in his warm expression before he tugged on the lovely witch gently to lead her in the direction Loyan pointed.
"I'll get somethin' warmed up for y' both." The tall wick sent them off with that assurance, amber gaze knowing and curious before he turned toward the cook fires.
"Guaril's th' only man I've ever called da who deserves 't." Tristaan admitted heavily in a whisper, as if the admission explained everything. He'd said it before, but saying it again was somehow meant to make him feel a bit more confident and a bit less guilty. It didn't work.
"Visitor! Who be a'knockin' a' this hou—" The brightly painted door to the kint, carved with intricate scenes of mythical beasts together, and a tanned, gnarled older wick burst forth, brown eyes immediately widening within the warm field of wrinkles, "Tristaanian!"
There was no moment of hesitation or anger, the spry aged man all but hopping down the two steps from the threshold of his kint to embrace the dark-haired passive as if he was something precious thought lost. Tristaan couldn't help but release Sarinah's hand to embrace the man back even as Guaril's tattooed arms squeezed the breath from his lungs while his gravelly voice laughed in order to cover the tears that immediately filled his eyes,
"Junta, boch. Y'ent some unmarked grave b'tween Vienda an' th' Harbor after all. Th' Lady b' kind, mujo ma."
The passive didn't reply, not right away. His first words would have been an apology, anyway, had he not simply tried to disappear in the old man's hug with a broken sound. He'd betrayed the wick's trust and love, he'd ignored his hard lessons, and yet the wily old thing simply welcomed him home as if he'd gone for a walk.
Thank the gods.
"Epaemo."
He finally managed, pulling away to rub the backs of his calloused hands over his face like some overgrown man child, grinning stupidly, "Epaemo, da."
"Shut yer head, boy. Yer alive an' come t' see yer old man. Tell me all th' sad tales an' excitin' adventures later—" Guaril gave Sarinah the most obvious and mischievous wink possible, ignoring the moisture that clung to his wrinkled face, already reaching for the olive-skinned dancer to take her hand in his gnarled, calloused one, "—Whose this? Y'ent drifted jus' t' get hitched, didja?"
"Wha—n-ne." Tristaan laughed awkwardly, heart caught in the scarred cavity of his chest, cheeks moist with tears bright with a blush, "We ent—no' ye—t—" He blinked, finding his footing slowly while stumbling over his words, "This be Sarinah Lissden, da. She found me in th' Rose an', well, we got ourselves out together."
"Out, eh?" Guaril furrowed his brow as if he spoke the passive's language without the dark-haired man needing words. He knew what that meant, but he offered the lovely witch a welcoming grin anyway, "Issat how 't went, rosh? Well, good on y' both. Ent nothin' but trouble in th' Harbor. Y' a tsat, then? First time travelin'?"
Sometimes we are born with the keys
to doors we were not meant to open.
— Passive Proverb