[Closed] A Rose to the Living

[Tom Cooke]

Headed to the East Garden • Brunnhold

Late Morning on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

ABBC3_OFFTOPIC

Continued from Myths & Legends: A Brunnholdian Tale.

Tom followed after Ezre, matter-of-fact, ’cause of course he didn’t know where the godsdamn East Garden was.

They followed the gentle curve of the sidewalk round the shed, across the fresh-trimmed lawn, through the breezy Roalis afternoon. Over the treetops, he could see the sloping rooftops of the townhouses in the neighborhoods round campus, red brick and plum siding and robin’s-egg blue; the sky above was clear and empty as a lake, except for a few drifting clouds like fluffy white boats. Something about the calm of it, the rhythmic scuffle and click of their shoes on the stones, made Tom even angrier.

He kept his head up, and he kept that thin, pleasant smile on his face; he kept his hands clasped behind his back, and he kept their leisurely, strolling pace. Anybody who saw them, he reckoned, would see a tenth-form – with a budding interest in politics, no doubt – pleasantly escorting some kind of dignitary across campus, and that was the way it ought to be. Tom kept his eye out, traced the shapes of scattered students milling about, nodded at professors as they bustled by.

It was a time before either of them spoke, and by then, they’d come to a quieter place, more thickly spotted with trees and shrubs. The path twisted here and there, and through the greenery, Tom thought he could see snatches of wrought-iron bars, the warped heads of spears. There was a heady smell of growing things left untended.

As Ezre spoke, the smile fell off of Tom’s face. His mouth, now, was a thin, pale twist, and his brow was knit, and the lines round his eyes were tight with strain.

“I am displeased,” he echoed softly, “and full of questions.” The words came out in the shape of a Viendan politician’s, neat and well-enunciated. It was second nature, now, with all the months he’d spent playing his part in the capital, with the hour he’d spent today, playing it with a bunch of students. It irked him more, reaching for his old voice, in his anger, and being unable to find it.

After a few more steps, he stopped, turning to look down at the student. He was only an inch and a half taller, must’ve been – if that – but the fact that his eyes were at the level of Ezre’s dark hairline was somehow pleasant to him, pleasant in a petty sort of way.

His mouth pulled into an even deeper frown. “I don’t know what I expected from a Hexxos acolyte.” He studied Ezre’s dark eyes, and then something like amusement tickled at his expression; it was almost a sneer, and it looked right at home in the lines of Anatole’s face. “No – what is it – a guide, now? A Hexxos guide,” he pronounced, toffin-proper. “I come at your call, Vks-vumash, thinking I’m to have an hour’s reprieve from hiding behind another man’s face for months on end, and find myself surrounded by a bunch of lovely young ladies who haven’t got a clue what you’re getting them into. How old is the one with the braid? Twelve?”

It was a rush of words, quick and clipped, and by the end of it, there was a flush in his cheeks. He found he was gritting his teeth, and he forced himself to relax. He glanced away, then looked up, searching the blue sky, scanning the foliage, the roofs and spires of old classroom buildings glimpsed above the treetops. He forced himself to breathe even-like, in, out, in, out.

Blinking, he looked back at Ezre. His throat bobbed in a pained swallow. “What the hell is happening here, lad?” There it was, finally, creeping into Anatole’s deep voice, breaking up his practiced, Uptown accent. His voice wavered. There was hurt in his eyes. “Why am I here? Your – your girlfriend, does she know? About me? Did you tell her, Ezre?”

He shot a glance up and down the path, paranoid even now. Most of the anger had gone from his expression, as if he’d exorcised it with that faint touch of the Rose in his voice. It’d been replaced by pain and fear and uncertainty.

“Bash’s immovable patience, lad,” he breathed, letting out a sigh. “If any harm comes to either of these lasses, with – with all this ghostly garmonshit…”

[Ezre Vks]

Campus Grounds

Midday on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

The Kingdom of Anaxas' climate was nearly as oppressive as its politics, Ezre decided, silently, leading the way across the well-kept, well-marked paths of Brunnhold's campus. He had been away just long enough for his lungs to have grown accustomed to the high altitudes of his homeland, the thin, cold air of Hoxian summer never as oppressively humid as this coastal Midland location. The sun was the same and yet it seemed to shine with some ridiculous intensity, searing through his bright-colored linen layers and gnawing at his tattooed skin. He was tired from days of ambiguous travel, a layover due to engine issues in the Harbor of all places, and now—

Well.

Now the mess he'd left behind had certainly waited for his return.

It did not help that the raen he'd looked forward to seeing again had been tossed into the same unexpectedly awkward situation he had, and the other man's displeased emotions were so tangible in his entropic mess of a field that the dark-haired boy could only push through the dizziness that washed over him and speak the truth, quietly, with an urgent desire to bring peace, one person at a time.

It would not be easy.

He'd attempted to walk just a little longer, to hopefully reach the distraction of the East Garden, to find some common ground in the shade of overgrown latticework and purposefully ignored hedgerows. But, it was too far.

Tom stopped walking and Ezre wavered with an unsteady step, turning on his heel to face the borrowed galdor body of the once-Incumbent whose tone of voice was such thinly veiled propriety that had he been less of a Hoxian, he would have winced. Instead, there was a hint of sadness, the flicker of hurt in those pools of darkness that were his eyes and then, with an exhale, the boy's face was a mask of emotionless self control, that barrier of well-practiced rhakor rising between himself and the raen he'd called his friend without hesitation.

Sweat trailed down his inked face and sparkled in the midday sun from among the stubble of the shaved sides of his head. The Hexxos Guide heard the Anaxi attempt to use his new position within the Hexxos as an excuse but did not frown, instead tucking one hand inside the folds of his shirt as if it were meant to be a pocket, the other curling fingers into a scarred palm,

"You would not know what to expect from any Carrier of the Dead, of any Hexxos, Vauquelin-vumash, considering you hardly knew what to expect of yourself before knowing what you were. What I was and what I have become are clearly not the issue here for either of us." Calm, irritatingly so, was the boy's soft, consonant-heavy accented voice, an accent that was thicker now than it had been months ago. Steady and even on the surface while he hid from view how the other man's irritation simply rubbed salt into an ego already injured by Lilanee's barely disguised anger that had festered in his absence, "The middle Gosselin is a sixth form, not a second. I did not invite her, in my meager self defense. I have been away, and—"

Ezre fell quiet, not wanting to make excuses for himself. He cut his own words short the kind of personal discipline his people were known for. He watched all the emotions play out across the not-Incumbents middle-aged features, his dark eyes not missing the needful searching of a sky that held no mercies for either of them, feeling sweat dribble between his shoulder blades and pool against the small of his back where his wide belt held his layers of clothing in place.

Tom began to emerge from his Vauquelin disguise, but there was no comfort in the shift in tone. Instead, the boy's lack of an expression faltered at the worry, at the mention of the Hessean who was most likely not at all interested in being his anything after over half a season apart.

"I have said nothing of you from Bethas until now. Did you not see her surprise at your arrival and introduction? I have withheld the truth from Lilanee Kuleda for long enough, and it was indeed my intention to share with her yourself and my real self today—together—so you could simply be you in our company. I have kept too much to myself. I have hurt her—I told you I would. The very thing I did not want—" Ezre's eyes narrowed and his delicate features were strained for a moment, holding himself in check with a clench of his jaw and a slow exhale. He would not over-express the emotions that churned within, not when the raen expressed enough already for the both of them, "—I did not expect additional company, especially not company so ill-prepared for our collective knowledge of the unseen, but I also believe there is more to Madeleine than meets the eye despite her immaturity. She does not know the size of the world yet beyond her textbooks, that is all."

He swallowed, following Tom's anxious attention by looking back down the path from where they'd come from and seeing no one. He finally reached up and wiped a hand over his face, across his forehead, and raked fingers over the shaved side of his head,

"Why would any harm come to anyone? I am here, and across campus are some of the most educated Clairvoyant Professors Brunnhold has to offer, whether they believe in ghosts or not. Unless it is a long-bodiless raen in the East Garden, the unpleasantness of mere possession has not been documented to be fatal. Often." There was a hint of mischievousness that crept into the Hoxian's tone, the flicker of amusement over his otherwise deadpan face. He spoke with experience of one subject to someone with experience of the other and blinked, slowly, tilting his tattooed chin with a bit of boyish self-confidence while he squared his narrow shoulders. It was his turn to allow hurt to be audible in his voice,

"We are investigating today, Incumbent, not attempting to make contact. Accidents do happen, but I feel sufficiently more prepared than when I met you in the winter, my friend."

[Tom Cooke]

Headed to the East Garden • Brunnhold

Late Morning on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

Tom saw the flicker of pain in Ezre’s eyes, but it was gone in a second, replaced by his blasted rhakor. He didn’t know how he did it. Oes, Tom had a public face – the gods only knew how flooding much of a public face Tom had; so much of one, in fact, that he got to wear another man’s face like a mask! – but it was full of pleasant smiles, full of twitches and sneers, full of dips in his voice and laughs. In the same way he couldn’t conjure a facade out of nowhere, he couldn’t smooth himself over completely.

And even now, he was feeling so many things he couldn’t even put a name to all of them. He couldn’t hope to staunch the tide. He was keeping himself composed enough, but his stern reprimand was nothing to the flat wall of Ezre’s rhakor. And for what? He studied the lad’s face, the new lines that traced their way from his bottom lip to his chin, the lines that crept out from the noonday shadows underneath his chin and down his neck. He studied the sweat that glistened on his brow, and forced himself stubbornly not to feel a pang of sympathy. He studied the lad’s eyes, most of all, searched for a hint of that pain he’d seen before, a spark of anger.

It was like fighting with a river, or a tree.

That Vauquelin-vumash broke across him, making his lip curl. But he stood, and he listened to Ezre’s low, even voice, just audible above the twitter of the birds and the rustle of the leaves and the chirp of the summer bugs. He stood stiffly, and he swallowed another lump. Sixth form? What the hell did it matter if the little chip was sixteen or twelve? If Ezre hadn’t invited her, who had? Had he planned on having a little party, just the three of them, Ezre and his mad-as-hell girlfriend and Tom, stuck awkwardly between them, your friendly clocking neighborhood ghost?

Finally, at friend, he heaved a sigh and cursed vividly under his breath. There it was, the hurt, and he was sure Ezre’d meant for him to hear it. He couldn’t stand to look at the lad anymore, with everything he was feeling, so he looked away. He ran one hand through his hair, tousling it. Pressing his palm to his forehead, he stood silently and tried to find the shape of the words he wanted to use.

Something in his heart – in some cruel part of his heart – told him to slide neatly back into Anatole’s voice and have done with it all. It wouldn’t be hard, and that was what frightened him. What with the last half of the month, what with the mess at Pendulum, he reckoned he’d spent more time being Anatole than he had Tom. What a mess he was, and he knew it; he thought they both knew it, and he felt a tickle of shame, too. Puffing out another breath, he let his hand drop and looked at Ezre again.

“I’m sure,” he said, frowning deeply, “Madeleine Gosselin has plenty of potential. I just hope she lives to see it.” His frown twitched. “Well, hell, Ezre, you’re right. I don’t half know what to expect from anything anymore, so I don’t see how you can expect me to be anything but a fish gasping on land. Investigation, contact, I don’t know shit about any of it. You’re the expert, and that’s what I’m counting on you to be. So when I show up and there’s all this vodundun I’m not prepared for, what do you expect me to be, except chroveshit-mad? And scared?”

Tom’s voice wavered on the last word, scared. Shutting his eyes, he took another deep breath; he managed to breathe a little more evenly. “And oes,” he added, lower, “I reckon it’s true you haven’t told a soul since Bethas, on a technicality. I’m guessing it was in Bethas that you dobbed to Drezda Ecks.”

With another half-audible mutter, something that sounded like fuck it, he half-turned, looking up the path. The pulse in his ears was quieter, though his headache hadn’t laid off much. Still, the breeze stirred down the lane, making the greenery shiver – shhhh – and the dappling of sunlight shifted over the stones, glimmering. Tom looked more tired than angry, now. He felt like he was about to slough off of his bones.

“Hulali’s tits, I don’t want to fight,” he sighed. He looked back at Ezre and let out a ragged scrap of a laugh, then gestured up the path. “The ladies’ll be expecting you and the incumbent back at the library soon enough, and it’d be a crying shame to disappoint them. Especially when that Kuleda looks like she’s not in the best of moods to begin with.”

[Ezre Vks]

Campus Grounds

Midday on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

Insects hummed the soft songs of summer and leaves rustled in response to the hot breath of a breeze. The Hexxos stood still in it all, attempting to carefully listen to the raen in front of him, attempting to sift through his tone of voice and hear the real meaning of the other man's words.

He had made a mistake. He had made too many mistakes.

Like some little dark bird disturbed, Ezre's field rippled, pulsed, and ruffled in its feathery lightness, the boy's otherwise unexpressive face faltering slightly, eyes widening, at the mention of Drezda Ecks, only for those same delicate features to draw together again, eyes narrowing. He made a noise, just consonants ground between his teeth and escaping against his tattooed lower lip, a Deftung noise of impatience and disapproval.

"Tzzzch. Ecks-vumein is a representative of my Kingdom and her mother is—was—Hexxos. While I do not desire to play a political game, my service is contingent on the continued support of my homeland. I did not tell her more than she already knew, only corrected her assumption: Incumbent Anatole Vauquelin is not merely possessed—he is dead. The difference there is subtle, as you and I both know. She told me not to trust you. She counseled me not to be so naive with my extension of friendship to a lost soul such as yourself. It is my duty to offer you guidance, but in my immature optimism, I see now that maybe I have, indeed, made poor choices. I—"

The Hoxian paused, not desiring to let too much emotion creep into his soft, even tone of voice, and he swallowed, hard, as if the bodily reflex had some metaphorical power over the thoughts and feelings that burned against his tongue. He blinked, reaching for his quiet center, clinging to that calm he'd honed so smoothly and painfully beneath the sting of inking needles and out in the frigid, thin air of the Spondola Mountains through practice and meditation, self-discipline and self-denial.

"I am sorry I betrayed your trust when instead I had truly wanted to garner for your protection. Ecks-vumein assured me she would not use our exchange against you. Has she? I will go to Vienda myself if I must take care of matters. I am sorry I wanted to include you here—I do not have a why—I just—I thought—I assumed—" Ezre frowned, unable to find the right words to describe his hopeful feelings of friendship, tangled as they were with a deep attachment to the raen he called his mother and a nostalgia that seemed to cloud his ability to see clearly,

"I am sorry I mistook the illusion of familiarity for friendship. I deeply apologize for the inconvenience of my company and the company of my friends. It was not my intention to put you in danger. You believe not only because you have to, but also because you have seen what so many others have not. I thought that I could trust you to—well—I—perhaps Ecks-vumein was correct in her warning." Hard words to say, made harder still by the deadpan delivery despite a bit of stuttering. Searching for the right way to phrase things on the fly was very difficult for the Hoxian who was otherwise not skilled in the arts of immediate conversation like Lilanee who could fill any void with the blossoming flowers of her thoughts as shamelessly as they surfaced. The dark-haired boy's jaw clenched and he looked away, hiding a wince at Tom's laughter, the sound of it jarring in the humid shade,

"I did not invite Lilanee to Hox when I returned in the beginning of Roalis. I was unsure if—I was afraid to—" Ezre was scowling now and he simply shook his head, biting his lip to keep from offering the raen anymore of himself as he'd already given too much. Turning on his heel, he moved to begin walking again, hiding the hurt that flickered across his tattooed face by not showing it to the other man, choosing instead to slowly relax the field he'd gathered so close to his inked skin like a barrier, extending the airy sensation of it in generous self-expression,

"—she has every right to be as angry with me as you are."

The Hexxos Guide admitted, the words almost a sigh as he wilted both visibly in his posture and invisibly in the secret garden of his rhakor-guarded heart, not looking back over his shoulder at the middle-aged galdor body to see if Tom was following or not. He needed to find his focus, else even walking through this sweltering Anaxi summer, slogging sweatily across Brunnhold's Campus all the way to the East Gardens, would just be a distracted waste of time.

"It is not fighting if I acquiesce any desire to resist your arguments. If I am at fault, I can accept the consequences." Ezre added without specifying who he was willing to accept the burden of being the source of displeasure to, though he probably meant both the raen and the Hessean. His tattooed fingers smoothed over the bright layers of linen he wore listlessly, frustrated by how little there was to do to mitigate the oppressive heat without stooping to magical means or without simply beginning to shed clothing. His eyes fluttered briefly, curve of his lips a thin line as he sifted through his own thoughts, imposing order in sudden silence, beginning to note how the usual well-kept appearance of Campus had begun to give way to more than usually acceptable overgrowth, a sign that they'd reached the unspoken and otherwise unmarked edge of the East Garden.

A low, red stone wall marked off the border of the impressive, park-like section of campus, the iron archway decorated with hand-wrought decorations of frolicking birds and soldered floral shapes. The sidewalk they'd traveled on beneath the intermittent shade of cared for trees began to show signs of purposeful ignorance: tufts of weeds in the cracks and a few places where a root had attempted to shove its way up beneath the centuries-old probably passive-laid stonework. From a distance, it was clear the West Garden's opposite was beautiful and well-planned, if not visibly overgrown, but it was midday and the sun was shining.

Perhaps it would have been that much more imposing in the dark.

[Tom Cooke]

Headed to the East Garden • Brunnhold

Late Morning on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

Ezre turned, and Tom watched the back of his head for a few moments, bobbing down the path and away.

All that, and the lad’s argument was, in effect, I guess you're not my friend. Tom wasn’t mung; he’d caught the stutter. Ezre’d practically fumbled with his words. Tom wondered how hard it was, keeping your voice all flat and even, when everything you used it to say was petty and emotional. The breath he’d managed to wrangle command of was thinning again in his lungs, tightening, and he felt heat in his cheeks. Selfish, he kept thinking. Even the acquiescence, even the self-deprecation, calculated to make him regret voicing what were still, he thought, reasonable worries; it was all just so clocking –

Juvenile. Tom swallowed a lump of sour spittle, forcing himself to unclench his jaw. It didn’t much help the headache; he still felt like some kov was gleefully ringing a bell against his skull. He tried to relax the muscles in his shoulders.

He was still – what? Eighteen, nineteen? Wasn’t even graduated from Brunnhold. Of course it was juvenile. He was a nineteen-year-old boy whose ladyfriend’d just broken it off with him. Oes, the Hexxos had made sure he had all the trappings of rhakor down, and that made it easy to forget.

Nineteen and saddled, Tom reminded himself, with a mant fucking responsibility. It was still an effort to keep his jaw unclenched, but Tom managed. Sighing deeply, he kicked himself into motion, jogging through the soft breeze and dappled light and the twittering of the birds. He slowed to a trot when he could see the light glancing off Ezre’s face.

Wasn’t long before he was bobbing along beside Hexx. “You needn’t go to Vienda.” He had to catch his breath, just then, and his voice was a pina strained with the brusque pace. He ran a hand through his hair, tousling it even worse. “Ecks isn’t going to do anything stupid. But she’s angry at me, Ezre, fair angry, and the whole situation was a fucking disaster. Completely out of my control. In the middle of the rainy season, Vienda swarming with every politician in the Six Kingdoms, and I have to clean up after her. With that Shr– with Legislative Affairs breathing down my neck.”

There was sweat prickling at the back of his neck; he plucked uncomfortably at his cravat, adjusted his sleeve. He shot a look sideways at the shaved side of Ezre’s head, grimacing.

“Lad,” he grated. “I haven’t violated your trust, and I won’t. And I’ll catch up with all this vodundun. I just think – godsdamn it, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you should think before you leap. And make time to tell people – to tell your friends – what they’re getting into.” A soft huff.

The organization of Brunnhold’s main campus was dissolving around them. Tom studied the iron gate as they passed; he followed the swirls of flowers with his eyes, the heads and wings of birds, dancing half-hidden in the metalwork. All that macha detail.

Old, maybe, worn and neglected, but Tom didn’t see nothing ghostly. Not yet, anyway. Even angry as he’d been, he couldn’t keep the curiosity off his face as he looked round. He spoke again as he searched the greenery with his eyes, not half knowing what he was looking for in the shivering leaves and their rich midday shadows.

“You didn’t invite her to Hox. How long’ve you known each other? You have secrets to keep. Permission to ask. It’s important shit, and if she doesn’t understand that, then –” He broke off, shaking his head. He sucked at a tooth, breathing in deep. “There was a lot my hama never asked about,” he added, quieter. “We had an understanding. There were limits. The kind of work I did, the kind of man I was, the kind of men me and hama were” – the slightest pause – “we couldn’t share everything, just for safety. You had boundaries, Ezre. Everyone does.”

[Ezre Vks]

The East Garden

Midday on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

"To be honest, I do not think that Ecks-vumein's anger originates with you. Or any politician, living or dead, for that matter. Her pain, brief though my glimpse was because she is still Hoxian, is much deeper than mere government affairs." Ezre offered practically under his breath, just the briefest flicker of insight the boy had no right to be in possession of at his age. He was still ruffled, still desperate for an outlet to express feelings he did not entirely understand, allowing his youth to flavor his consonant-grinding accent, "From what I have heard in my short life, Symvoulio politics near the end of a cycle are always a disaster, especially when the cycle is in Anaxas."

He was still frowning, so hot and so tired and so incapable of navigating this moment as well as he would have liked, ungraceful in his attempts to sift through layers of emotion in order to separate what was necessary and what was superfluous. Tom Cooke did not need his burdens: the raen carried an entire body that did not belong to him, a body with a wife and children, with a career and expectations, with an entire Kingdom looking to him to perform in a way that his previous existence had not prepared him for. Not properly, anyway. The cut-throat nature of an Incumbent's life was probably in some ways not quite as dissimilar as it seemed to the outside observer, had the boy known anything about Tom as a Bad Brother.

Excited by what he'd assumed was a rare discovery when they'd met in Bethas, eager to make something of himself so far away from home, and yearning for friendships with those who did not think him antiquated or strange, Ezre had made a fool of himself instead. He tasted it with the salty tang of sweat, tongue against the inked line of his lower lip in thought, and let the sting of it linger while he completely ignored all of Tom's worries about danger.

Raising a hand, the Hexxos Guide waved tattooed fingers for attention before using them to count, pinky first as if even the Hoxian use of digits was so unbelievably different than in Anaxas, "Let me make sure I understand you correctly, Cooke-vumash."

It was easy for the dark-haired boy to hide even the smallest hint of a smile, though he kept his voice so aloof and unemotional that he might as well have still been sulking or scolding or both, "First, you advise me to jump into things, whole-heartedly and without deliberation. Second, you advise me to stop and consider other things before taking any further action. While the situations are, indeed, very different—"

Ezre's delicate eyebrow quirked just so and he tilted his inked chin, glancing over at the not-Incumbent who was only slightly taller than himself, carefully weighing his words while the other man's fingers ran through fading red hair,

"—my relationship with a young woman and my suspicions on the haunting of the East Garden by ghosts are hardly similar subjects, which choice is more favorable?"

There, for just a breath or two, was the flicker of an impish grin; a flare of young rebellion; an edge of sarcastic, teenaged judgment; an offering of peace. His hand remained raised between them, two fingers poised with what could only be described as ritualized, mechanical precision, the lines beneath his tawny skin meeting in a specific pattern, though their thickness and angles gave no hint to their meaning,

"I am not very good at deciding which of these two options best applies to each situation, apparently, but I would be interested in hearing how you would propose I prepare anyone for what could be going on here and in the East Garden. Given your political experience, surely you must be better at proposing solutions to complicated problems than I am, zjai? Am I wrong in thinking some unknowns you must face in the moment? By the nature of your existence, you believe in things that I often cannot even broach with others. I asked you here for two reasons: one, against all counsel, I trust you. Two, you cannot be possessed. In theory, anyway. I might even, as some bonus third item, out of very selfish and idealistic bias, enjoy your company."

Dark eyes shifted to meet the raen's much paler hues, such honesty and forwardness a gift from the Hoxian who otherwise kept his innermost self hidden from view, "And, finally, as a small mercy, I do not mind giving you an escape from your, uh, professional expectations. You are an adult in a considerable position of power above me, however, and can certainly choose to not meddle in the affairs of children like myself. You are free to leave at any time."

Ezre laughed then, shaking his head and lowering his hand, tucking it back into the folds of his bright saffron linen layers, pausing to look around the slowly deteriorating lawn care while he added quietly,

"Lilanee believes because she has seen for herself a restless spirit in the Crypts with me—her world view was challenged in my company. She would think me foolish had she not been confronted with the truth, so focused on the secular side of science as she is. But now, of all my acquaintances, her knowing the truth makes her valuable support. Madeleine does not even believe either of us are sincere in our offer of friendship, waiting for us to reveal we are simply playing a joke to hurt her feelings when we are not. I—I could have done all of this alone, I suppose. I should have."

Any expression that had crept into his face faded slowly, needs and wants and desires churning beneath the decorated, sweaty surface of his skin. This garden was very reluctantly cared for, but from what the Hexxos Guide could tell of the landscaping, it was with half-hearted effort. Tall hedgerows formed a walking path, perhaps once meant to be meditative and pleasant, an escape for students whose minds were burdened by exams and trials.

Ezre did not see any immediate sign of roses, listening to Tom shift from admonishing the boy to sharing matters of the heart. He blinked, looking at faded benches and watching a few reluctant butterflies dance around the overgrown sections of beautiful summer flowers, unsure of whether he was just projecting expectations of some looming sense of fear over the place where the pair slowly began to meander or if it had been there waiting for them before they arrived,

"How long? We have shared classes here and there since I transferred to Brunnhold three years ago. We have been friends since Ophus of last year, uh, as in, actively seeking each others' company. I would like to believe she understands. Or she will understand, once we actually have a moment to talk, considering I can still hear the hum of airship engines from last night. I would like to hope our friendship—or our not-just-friendship—is rooted deeply enough to withstand our differences. It is obvious that, much like this moment you find yourself in with me, I handled things poorly. Indelicately. Without regard to the feelings of others, which are admittedly difficult for me as it is. But also, zjai, there are things, at this time, that I just cannot share—even if—"

He thought to ask about the kind of work Tom Cooke was once involved in before his death, but even if it was physical violence—as it seemed from the careful way the other man skirted around things in the young galdori student's company—it was only a shade different from how he pictured the life of an Incumbent, after all.

The boy watched the older galdor's face with his typical gentle steadiness, Anatole Vauquelin's features contorting to express Tom Cooke's emotional memories in a way that he was sure probably felt lacking. He did not miss the emphasis or the pause, the admission of further details that the raen had kept closer to his chest in Bethas. Ezre's expression was soft and held no judgment—Anaxi racial differences in ridiculous normative standards confusing to the temple-raised Hexx'en who had willingly surrendered his attachment to identity in order to touch the bodies of the deceased. Though, even he was aware he'd perhaps not surrendered as fully as he could have, still rather unwilling to give up physical desire completely.

"—I never questioned the solidity of my boundaries until I allowed someone like Kuleda-vumien to walk so closely to them, to touch the lines of separation drawn in my life. Deciding what to yield and what to hold onto is difficult. It was, from the sound of things, no different for you and the man you cared about. Cultural expectations were the least of your concerns." He admitted, squinting in the bright Roalis midday sun, noting the hum of insects that had played accompaniment to their previously heated exchange had grown quiet here in the East Garden. There were no birds, either.

A warm breath of a breeze still tickled the leaves, but the sound of the natural world felt muted. The flowers were still beautiful, if not a little more wild than most galdori liked to see them. This garden indeed was intrinsically different.

"I do not yet see roses." Ezre observed in afterthought, undaunted in taking one of the unkept paths that led toward the tall hedgerows, aware of where other students had stumbled into strange experiences, "Nor do I see any visitors save for us."

[Tom Cooke]

Headed to the East Garden • Brunnhold

Late Morning on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

Well, it was a different man who gave you that advice. Maybe a different man whose company you might have enjoyed.”

His eyes lingered on Ezre’s raised hand for a moment; his lip twitched. He’d never seen anybody count from their pinky before, and being honest, he’d half-expected Ezre was flipping him some Hoxian equivalent to the bird. As he went on, Tom looked down and away, and a smile cracked his stony face. He shook his head, rubbing his eyes.

“I’ve become paranoid. How fitting, for an Anaxi politician.” Soft, bitter laughter. He looked up at the blue wash of the sky, shrugging. “I’m sorry, Ezre. You have to know what this is like, after the last three months. It’s all rotten in the capital, it’s all… It’s worse than anything I had to do for th— before,” he breathed, swallowing the mention of his King. “I look around, and I see – listeners and traitors. I look at airships and auditoriums, and I see assassination. I look at – young people – and I see collateral damage. I’m turning into an old galdor, Ezre. Forgive me for being a stick in the mud.”

How it clung on, that enunciation, that cultured Vienda voice; how it crept back in no matter what he did. He didn’t know how to say these words like himself. He didn’t remember.

Sweat still glistened on Ezre’s brow. Tom walked on beside him, his eyes on the stones underneath their feet, now. It was warm, but a pleasant breeze ruffled his hair, and he was fair comfortable; he was cold so much of the time now, a kind of cold you couldn’t wrap yourself up to fight, a kind that ached. He’d dreaded Roalis as the season when he’d died, the season it’d become a full year he was what he was. Now that it was here, despite all the laoso that’d happened early in the month, he was just grateful for the warmth.

There was still something setting him off, something he couldn’t put his finger on. The absence of something that’d been there not too long ago. It almost reminded him of the phasmonia, if he –

Dze. Wasn’t going to get started with that chroveshit. There was nothing here; if his strained nerves were playing tricks on his head, he wouldn’t drag Ezre down with him by bringing it up. The last thing they needed was for the both of them to go out of their mung heads with fear over something they’d made up. Gods knew both their imaginations had fodder enough for it.

He glanced up suddenly. “She – you already – she saw a ghost with you?” Why am I surprised? He let out a sigh, rolling his shoulders. Up ahead, the path curved among rows of hedges; his eyes lingered on a pair of worn stone benches. As they moved past, he turned his head, eyes lingering on them longingly. His hip was giving him hell. But his eyes moved back to Ezre’s face, and his brow furrowed.

“You’ve got a lot to handle,” he relented with a shrug, looking back ahead. It wasn’t lost on him, how Ezre’d moved fluidly through the man you cared about, like there was nothing wrong with it. “A lot on your mind. I reckon you don’t get it all right the first time. I don’t know. I hope she comes around, for your sake. Gods, cultural expectations.” He laughed. “He was the first spoke I ever met. But then, I never had rhakor to think about, or dead people’s secrets. If I’d had your responsibilities when I was nineteen, I don’t know what I’d’ve – where are we going?” he asked suddenly, sharply.

Tom didn’t slow his pace beside Ezre, though he cast another wistful look back at the benches. Too late now. He blinked over at the Hexx, then squinted ahead, at the tall hedgerows. The prickling on the back of his neck wasn’t getting any better. That was it: no cicadas. No birds. No nothing.

“I don’t see any roses, either. Maybe we ought to – I think the ladies are probably having better luck in the library,” he tried with a tight smile.

The smile slid off his face soon as they entered the hedges.

“Wait. You know that for sure? You know I can’t be possessed?”

[Raksha]

65th Roalis, 2719
THE EAST GARDEN | MORNING

Indeed, it seemed as though the roses Yost had been so sure about were absent from the view of the two newcomers, hiding ruby faces from the morning sunshine. A breeze carried toward them from the slight curving of the hedgerows, thick and hot rather than cool and relieving, and both gentleman would swear they could hear the faintest of sounds on the wind. A whisper of words maybe, or quiet crying perhaps? It was impossible to say if it was even heard at all, as they were left there in the loud silence of the East Garden.
​​
​​A creaking of branches would drag slowly out from up ahead of them, rustling softly as a pretty girls skirts around her ankles, the hedgerows feeling decisively more oppressive as they stood there between them. Another gentle brush of wind, and yet, the leaves did not move on the foliage so overgrown and tangled. Across the path before them were a few vines, green or dry brittle brown, their length smattered with large unforgiving thorns.
​​
​​Again, the creaking of wood, like a tree bending in the wind sounded ahead, just beyond their view. Should curiosity get the better of them, the duo could walk a bit further ahead, where they would be presented with an almost welcoming view of the thickly overgrown maze. Had they really moved so far through the garden already? It seemed as though they’d only just entered a few precious moments ago. Yet, there it was, the maze of school myths and legends. A truth or dare players dream.

Or nightmare.
​​
​​And it was covered in roses. Ruby red, full and luscious, like a lovers lips poised for a kiss. It looked so perfectly inviting, the entrance an archway lined with those pristine red blooms. A romantics dream escape, a secret hideaway for those who wished it.
​​
​​All one had to do, was step inside.
​​

[Ezre Vks]

The East Garden

Midday on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

"Have you changed so much since Bethas?" Ezre riposted with the arch of a delicate eyebrow, watching as the raen glanced at his raised hand, counting. The Hexxos shook his head, gently and full of expression despite how brief the motion, "You must hide what you are and yet the body you have found yourself in is not a private figure. I cannot truly understand, but I can imagine, I suppose."

Politics did not interest the boy, nor was he at all a criminal, considering he never locked his own door. He moved through life with a graceful awareness of death, albeit perhaps a romanticized one, aloof from the many nefarious paths that led to one being a cold corpse in Brunnhold's student-accessible morgue. He knew what the living were capable of, even his own kind, but such realities were not a part of his current life. Not really. Esoteric and isolated both in the temples and libraries of Kzecka as well as in the Crypts and classrooms of Anaxas' university, Ezre Vks had absolutely no concept of the dealings of Silas Hawke and only a culturally-skewed concept of politics from a Hoxian perspective.

What burdens Tom Cooke bore as Anatole Vauquelin were mysteries, but even the Guide could see they were heavy, could hear their strain on the man's borrowed voice.

"This is not an international danger, this potential haunting, but that does not mean it is not dangerous at all. It has clearly been left to fester for too long already, however, which is a concern worth noting." He murmured, inked fingers tracing along the back of his neck, wiping sweat and attempting to dismiss the tingle of sensation that came from that eerie unsettling atmosphere that seemed to permeate the garden.

Did Tom notice, too?

He couldn't help but smirk at the other man's reaction to his admission that he'd shared supernatural experiences with others, with Lilanee most importantly, and he returned the shrug in an almost casual dismissal. Of course he had. Perhaps it was the dark-haired boy's way of vetting his friendships, some sort of extra layer to his already well-honed rhakor that so few managed to pass through as it was, "It was not intentional, of course. I was going to explore the purposefully closed sections of the Crypts alone, but Lilanee is an archaeologist at heart and I could not refuse her—"

Ezre paused, realizing that the ghost they'd met in Intas was still down there. He remembered its power, recalling how it twisted their very emotions as if it warped the leyfabric mona flowed on by its very existence,

"—it was not a safe misadventure. She is aware of the risks here, and I suppose I assumed you would be aware also—I—I am sorry." The Hexxos Guide apologized simply, but it was clear by the way he held his tattooed chin that he wasn't afraid of whatever they were willing to investigate (or unwilling). It must have been youthful foolishness or boyish bravado or the price of knowing too much without enough experience to balance it all properly, but he was at least enthusiastic about it.

Tom's assessment of his young life made it sound difficult and he flashed him the briefest of impish smiles, quite certain that his was not at all more difficult than the raen's. There was so little common ground, and it could be theorized that it was this strange middle ground they’d found anyway that fascinated Ezre too much—

"Spoke? Ah."

The word stuck out to the Hoxian and it took him a moment to filter through the languages he knew and the implications of what he didn't. Tom had been a human and Ezre had already made the assumption based upon the raen's quiet reticence about sharing too many details that humanity in Anaxas was bound even more tightly by gender roles and sexual expectations, but he also knew, mostly through his own galdori upbringing, that wicks cared little for either of those things—they were just as wild and free as they were half-bred and untrustworthy. At least, that was what he'd been told. Whether he believed any of it was uncertain, for Ezre saw the world and its races through the spiritual lens of a Cycle that did not discriminate when it came to death and rebirth.

Unless, of course, the idea of spiritual merit and racial placement was true, but there was something inside the dark-haired boy that recoiled at the thought. It felt wrong, but he had only the life he knew in this moment as reference alongside dusty old books and raen like Tom and none of it felt like enough. Not yet.

"I exist within my own cultural burdens, zjai, and some of them must seem very strange to outsiders. Hoxians are not concerned with how one chooses to express oneself physically with another, though galdorkind lives without contact with humanity almost entirely. Before transferring to Brunnhold, I admit that I had never met a human nor a wick. Here—" The boy made some noise that couldn't be translated from Deftung into Estuan, but it was clear by the inflection it was one of confusion, "—the races mingle in ways I had not imagined, and yet you are so rigid in your roles as if that is what matters. Male and female. Who you must be and how you must act. As Hexxos, I am no longer either of tho—oh."

He startled and bit his lip at Tom's question, slowing his steps as if suddenly more than just self-aware. Dark eyes followed the not-Incumbent's wistful gaze toward the benches and while he'd not missed the borrowed body's gait, he'd not entirely considered the potential complications Anatole had left for Tom to navigate. His umah had shared her difficulties in conceiving and keeping a child, both out of affection and gratitude but also to make sure Ezre understood his place among his people.

The lack of any sign of roses was decidedly disappointing, and the Hoxian thought to admit he wasn't willing to leave until he found at least one, but he heard the edge the raen's tone. He did feel the strangeness of the place; it had crawled past their banter and sunk into their senses now.

"Perhaps. Would you like to wait here while I look for some sign of rose bushes?" Ezre attempted to make light of things, though his deadpan delivery made the humor difficult to discern. He did chuckle, however, as Tom brought up his previous comment, "Do I know anything for certain? Dru. It is a theory, like everything else, but one I am rather confident in based on previous experience as reference."

He paused, listening as another hot, uncomfortable breeze tickled loose strands of dark hair and mocked the sweat that drenched his linen layers. Was someone else in the East Garden after all? Was that an actual voice or just his subconscious wishing it were so? Either was possible. He frowned, but did not stop walking until they were within the hedges, overgrown and tangled. He took in the vines and the thorns, straining to discern what he was hearing and feeling.

The raen would feel the shift in the airy lightness of Ezre's field as he gathered it closer, rolling his shoulders and shifting his posture. He exhaled and the Clairvoyant mona that clung to his magical existence sigiled,

"The ghost in Bethas knew you for what you were, or, at least, it seemed that way. I do not, exactly, know what that means for your borrowed body and possession, but I am basically assuming the living are more attractive, if only because of your monic entropy. That said, you have been casting—and—regardless, I am taking a flower."

He realized he was getting carried away, the flutter of insatiable curiosity finally bringing him into fiery focus. Tilting his head to look at the not-Incumbent, one hand reached into a pocket in the wide belt that held his bright linen layers in place and drew out a small, bone-handled folding blade. Was it surprising he was just another teenaged boy with a pocket knife? Only if anyone knew the actual reason why he carried it. It was not to trim the hedges.

He offered the well-crafted thing between two tattooed fingers to the other man, "Or, more precisely, you can take us a clipping and I will make a Ward. My umah gave me insight on how to include your kind safely within a boundary. You can repeat my Monite if you feel comfortable in doing so—casting in chorus, we call it, Incumbent—but let us be careful."

Ezre was serious, whether or not Tom took the knife. He paused to listen, one more time, attempting to discern whether or not they really were alone, and quite certain they were, unfortunately, the only living (mostly living) bodies in the East Garden at this house, at this moment, the Hexxos Guide began to cast. He spoke with the same kind of confident grace he carried himself with in public view, though his tone was still soft spoken, almost gentle, and he made sure that his spellwork was said aloud at a pace that Tom could actually catch onto should he want to, even if he may not have understood the change clause or the curious Quantitative ley bridge that was meant to turn the raen into a unique object of monic attention, an exception to the rule he was setting in magic around them.

SpellworkShow

AvraeBOTToday at 4:24 PM
Muse
Result: 1d6 (6)
Total: 6

Ezre is using a ward similar to the one he read in the Crypts with Lilanee, basically. He has worked in a Quantitative clause to make an exception for Tom, specifically, so while the spell is successful, I would venture to say it's theoretically rather unstable.

Like most wards, his spell asked the mona to deny something, to push away, to repel, or to disrupt: in this case, the peculiar entropic existence of restless spirits. He was very specific, having been in the presence of ghosts before and having been possessed by one, extending the all-seeing nature of Clairvoyant mona outward from his person in a small sphere, one that twinged with a hint of objection at the raen, though Ezre endured the ashen taste on his tongue and the twinge in his chest as the mona moved with reluctance to include the unliving, living other man inside the boundary of his protection instead of outside it.

Tom would feel a flutter, too—a pressure as if someone leaned against his whole being heavily for just a moment, just a single breath, and then his ears would pop like he was in an airship coming down for a landing. And that was it.

Ezre's face was one of concentration, but it was not a powerful or particularly difficult spell to maintain. It was simply a boundary a ghost's incorporeal form could not cross, the strange remnants of its once spiritual existence enough of a material to the mona to hold at bay. The ward would not counter any strange effects should a ghost be as powerful as the one he'd met in the Crypts, but truth be told, the boy hoped to see nothing at all, much more interested in clipping a couple of flowers and leaving to the library than actually waiting around for whatever haunted the East Garden to show up.

"You do hear things, do you not?" He decided solidarity was a better course of action than keeping such observations to himself, "Or perhaps I am just purposefully imagining things to be more worrisome than they are because I am interested. That said, I am more interested in meeting our companions in the Library than I am lingering in the garden, so ... just one rose, zjai? Maybe two."

[Tom Cooke]

Headed to the East Garden • Brunnhold

Late Morning on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

Theory,” Tom muttered, a little numbly. “Confident.” Of course, he wasn’t thinking about possession, not anymore; he wasn’t thinking about much of anything, except what was suddenly in front of him. He raked his fingers through his hair again, then found himself rubbing his eyes, pressing his fingertips to his eyelids so splashes of colors spasmed across them in the darkness. He’d frozen in place, ’cause he could scarce believe what he saw. But when he opened them again, there it was, hanging in front of him like a hundred glistening droplets of blood scattered across the leafy green – or rubies, maybe.

Tom felt fair light-headed. But as his thoughts caught up with him, so did Ezre’s words, and he shook his head sharply. Like hell was he letting Ezre stroll in alone; like hell was he going to let a godsdamn labyrinth of shrubbery swallow Ezre whole, while he stood stock-still and did chroveshit.

So he kicked himself into motion, following Ezre on his aching hip – grimacing at the thick green walls around them, now teeming with roses and their curling, thorny stems. Careful not to touch. He was turning over what Ezre’d said in his head; at least, he thought dryly, the lad admitted he’d put Kuleda in danger, but then why in the hell –

The soft, light clairvoyant mona in Ezre’s field stirred and grew warm, like a pot of water just starting to boil. This time, Tom knew to call it a sigil. He turned, and Ezre was holding out a knife, polished ivory handle first. When he took it, he weighed it in his hand; it was solid, pleasingly heavy, and he felt a pang of familiarity, curling his fingers round the curve of the hilt. As Ezre went on, one red eyebrow shot up, but he nodded again, and his lip twitched in something like a half-smile.

He didn’t say anything, not ’til the poetry started. It dropped from Ezre’s lips slow-like, the syllables curling out crisp and clear.

At first, he tensed, remembering what’d happened the last time Ezre’d cast around him. But things’d changed. Tom found he knew enough of the words, this time, to follow Ezre’s lead. Soon enough, a second voice joined Ezre’s: Anatole’s, with its rasping edge; a politician’s deep, resonant voice, struggling through syllables of Monite like a first form student.

Tom felt it jangling in his nerves, fluttering underneath his heart. Once you started, you couldn’t stop; stopping was worse than finishing badly. And it was better, he knew, to fumble confidently, to lay yourself at the mona’s feet with all your ignorance on display. He felt it again, and it was no less of a shock than last time, that warm stirring in his field. In both their fields. He felt it inside him, too, in something he couldn’t name.

Roll

SidekickBOTToday at 9:05 PM
@ Graf: 1d6 = (2) = 2

Maybe it was because Ezre’s ward led him in a direction he didn’t know; maybe it was because he’d stopped recognizing the words. He knew he had to keep on, so he kept on fumbling, like it was just a forgotten verse in a song that’d gone up at the Dove. But the jangling in his nerves got louder, and though he didn’t stammer, he felt himself get less and less confident.

When their voices petered out, Tom felt the press of all that woobly against his skin, and he felt sure he’d find himself locked in place like last time. Or that he’d done something wrong, and maybe he’d find himself locked in place forever, trapped in the garden with whatever other lost spirits moaned and rustled the shrubs in the night. He felt more and more light-headed.

Then, his ears popped – and that was it.

Silence again. Tom shuddered and took a deep breath. He centered himself on the weight of the knife in his hand; he ran his thumb over the smooth, soft bone, over the ridge where the blade buried itself inside. Then he found that ridge with his thumbnail and flicked it open. The hinge clicked satisfyingly.

At the question, he paused. “Ezre Vks,” he grated, “if I stop and listen now, there’s no end to what I’m going to hear. And I don’t want to hear a damn thing.” He skimmed the roses with his eyes, then took a tentative step closer. “Two roses. I’m not leaving here without at least two roses.”

Being honest, he hadn’t heard anything except the silence, but he’d had plenty else to focus on; just thinking about it sent ice-water down his spine. A soft breeze rustled through the shrubs, and now that Ezre’d brought it up, he reckoned – but he couldn’t think about that. He hesitated for just a space, one shaky hand hovering over the head of one rose; then, gritting his teeth, he laid the edge of the knife against the thick stem, careful to avoid the thorns with his fingers.

It was fair quiet, now, without either of their voices. The leaves and the branches and all the tiny, dark spaces in-between whispered, and Tom would’ve sworn he could hear –

Couldn’t think about it. No point, he told himself. Ezre’d cast a ward. Hell, they’d cast a ward in chorus; he could still feel it, could still feel himself holding onto it, like last time. They were safe, he told himself. No point in thinking about it.

To make some sort of noise, he cleared his throat. Damn, but the stem was tough. He shot a glance over his shoulder at Ezre, standing there draped all elegant in the colorful folds of his tunic. Something popped into his head, something Ezre’d said earlier. “Lad. You said we were – stiff – in Anaxas. About some things, but not others. Things like, uh, what it means to be a man, or a woman.” He tried to keep his voice casual-like, but he couldn’t quite keep the interest from creeping into it. “You didn’t finish. You started saying something about being Hexxos, but you didn’t finish.”