[Closed] A Rose to the Living

[Tom Cooke]

To the Library • Brunnhold

Late Morning on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

T
here was something that sounded like dru behind him, a soft fumbling voice, but he could barely hear anything over the rushing in his ears. He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know to think; he might’ve been sick, if he’d anything to be sick with. If it’d come sudden, this, whatever it was, Tom couldn’t account for it, except all of the sudden the bright sun and the sharp sky and the birds wheeling happy-go-lucky round the distant spires seemed like a mockery.

He kept picturing Madeleine Gosselin, thinking how he’d taken her aside and told her gentle-like as he could she didn’t have to be a part of this. This! Now, he thought, if she’d known, if they’d known –

I have misspoken, he heard behind him, quiet but clear as a bell. Tom blinked and swallowed dryly. He turned, halfway, enough to see Ezre standing a few paces away. The Hexx’s jaw was set. Tom didn’t know he’d seen this emotion playing out across his face, before – he didn’t quite know what it was. He didn’t know how to read Ezre, plain and simple. Even when he did smile, or frown, or laugh. It seemed to him in that moment he’d never known how to take it; it seemed to him in that moment that the shape of Ezre, from the worried – worried? – set of his jaw to the swaddle of bright-dyed wool round his slight frame was a word in a script he couldn’t read.

He looked toward the library, and Tom looked toward the library, too. He didn’t know why he’d stopped, but it forced him to catch his breath. He shut his eyes, wiping sweat from his brow. His cheeks were burning hot to the touch.

Such a public moment. Tom’s lips twitched. He could feel a heat welling up behind his eyes, and an awful, familiar prickling. He forced them down, but he knew they’d come back; they always did. He didn’t know how kov like Ezre got by. He envied his rhakor, in that moment, more than anything. He’d never known a thing about rhakor, though he'd've saved himself more than a few beatings, as a lad, if he could've been more of a man. He spilt everything he felt every which way, even wearing another man’s skin, and he didn’t know why. For what could’ve been the hundredth time, he wondered – this face wasn’t his, this body wasn’t his, so why wasn’t it easy to wipe every trace of himself off of them?

He was still flushed with embarrassment, but he’d managed to keep himself from crying. He took a deep breath and looked at Ezre, fitting something he hoped was a polite smile to his face. “I will find my balance again, Vks-cxîl. Please. But right now, I have to – I must –”

He broke off, looking down. His eyes followed the Hexx’s tattooed hand as it gestured between them. He was standing too close for Tom’s comfort – a kov halfway across the courtyard would’ve been standing too close for Tom’s comfort – but all he could do was watch the flash of the sun on his brightly-colored sleeve.

… you are a busy politician and we are children chasing ghost stories, after all.

“I am not a politician.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew he’d speak. He jumped at the sound of his own voice; a wince spasmed visibly across his face, and he cringed. Then he stiffened, knowing what he’d just given away with that wince, flushing with embarrassment. For a long moment, all he could do was stand across from Ezre, staring down at his feet with a set jaw. It took an immense effort to look up at his face.

But he saw no cruel humor in the galdor’s face, despite what’d seemed to him a cruel joke, all the crueler for how out-of-place it was. Ezre was watching him just as intently, his palms pressed together. Tom stood studying him, and slowly, once again, his breath eased, though his eyes stayed a little wide.

He glanced over at the path Ezre had nodded to, licking his lips again. When he looked back at Ezre, he looked first at his hands; he thought of the blood they’d shared, in the garden. He was still nauseous, and so, he realized, was Ezre, doubtless. They were both tired to the bones.

“All right,” he said a little hoarsely, turning toward the path. “I misspoke, too. I’m damned tired. I want to try to understand. I just don’t – you keep making light of it, of all of it, and I don’t know why. I don’t understand anything.”

[Ezre Vks]

Campus Proper

Midday on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

"Itwas not my intention to—" Ezre's disappointment (in himself, honestly) deepened further. It was his turn to scrunch up his tattooed, delicate, sweaty face into a scowl, already prepared to offer further apologies,

"—upset things this way."

Tom made a very careful choice of words and, suddenly, the Hexxos Guide made some sort of surprised sound: ground out consonants, really, forced between his teeth almost in a little squeak, eyes growing wide,

"Vks-xî. Please."

He offered just as suddenly, quietly, interjecting shyly, drawing out the extra Deftung before he let his explanation become more of an attempt to salvage what he felt burdened with disturbing so horribly. The x-sound was, again, different but not difficultly so, "It is informal, familiar. It is a word of reference to one such as—uh—myself, to cxîl, but it is—it is to be used between friends. Between family. I think there are some misunderstandings, perhaps in thought or in culture that we do not share at all, but please do not mistake that as emotional distance—between you and I. On the contrary, it is because I do not feel such distance that I am hurting you."

He could have shared it before, but chose not to. Tom had asked and he'd held back, more because such suffixes were, indeed, marks of friendship. No one else but a handful of Hoxians on campus had made such efforts to address the Hexxos properly and it showed in the faltering of Ezre's facial expression. Inked fingers once again moved in the space between his chest and the not-Incumbent, not to make a point, but to come to a gentle rest on Tom's arm. It was a supportive motion, a firm sort of pressure, and Ezre shook his head,

"It is not entirely in humored lightness, Cooke-vumash, that I say these things. Lilanee and Madaline only know you as what you are not, what you appear to be, not who you really are. I had plans—I wanted to—I was going to share the truth, but I cannot share what I know with strangers such as Gosselin-vumein. I was not mocking you, though perhaps I was deflecting my own frustrated feelings improperly. It was a valid excuse for you to exit our associations in this whole East Garden situation by, considering how both of my fellow galdori students are aware that politicians—not raen—keep busy schedules, and I was offering it as such. I just—I do not want—"

The ninth form sighed, dizzy and tired of the sun, breath hitching because it was just too hot to breathe properly anymore, in his opinion, "—what is normal to me is not at all normal to anyone else here in Anaxas, even you despite your obvious reason for exception, and it is too easy for me to assume you are, indeed, my friend because you are, in some strange way, familiar. It is my mistake, my weakness, especially after what has just occurred and being fresh from home and the things we have seen, twice now, and—"

His frown deepened, but so much of the expression felt outwardly more self-deprecating than having anything at all to do with Tom. Whether it was in his tiredness, in his travel-lagged weariness, or in his post-magical weakness, Ezre took on the burden of misunderstanding very heavily, feeling very keenly his own ignorance. It stung, quite a bit, to see what damage he had wrought by being without focused thought.

His fingers curled with a purposeful gentleness into the the other man's sleeve, both to emphasize his words with a more-than-friendly squeeze but also to waylay him for some selfish, unnecessary, persistent need. Ezre did not shy away from the raen's porven field, more sensitive than most to the entropic sensation and discerning enough to feel all the particles of Clairvoyant mona that now clung to the older galdor after their casting together,

"—and I am sorry. I have made that mistake one time too many, have I not? The mistake of assuming there is more between us than there really is."

The Hoxian student moved to let go, slowly, self-conscious there in the shadow of Brunnhold's library with uniformed students hardly listening so much as watching, just a few of them wandering by.

"Regardless of how this disturbance in the East Garden plays out, your participation is not mandatory. I just—I wanted—I do not know what I expected, only that I thought of your company in the process. I do have things to share with you, things other than clipped roses and misunderstandings, things from my home I want to give you."

[Tom Cooke]

To the Library • Brunnhold

Late Morning on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

W
hen Tom said cxîl, something went across Ezre’s face. Tom couldn’t read it, but he wondered if he’d pronounced it wrong. He didn’t know; he didn’t know how to read the sharp little noise he made with his teeth, either, surprised or offended or – something else.

Being honest, Tom didn’t know much of anything. He felt like he was swimming in the middle of the Tincta, here, without a lifeline. Mostly, he wanted to go back to the Stacks, but he didn’t know how it’d feel, leaving shit like this; he supposed that was what the drink was for, and he was wondering now why he’d ever quit.

Then, Ezre spoke.

Between family.

Ezre was frowning. Even after everything they’d been through, the sight of his face all writ with wrinkles, the scrunching of his nose, felt bizarrely intimate; Tom glanced away, down at the path, because he wasn’t sure if Ezre would want to see him with all that peeking through his rhakor. This wasn’t a well-placed grin or the raise of an eyebrow, or even the roll of his dark eyes – what with all the fumbling apologies, with all the talk of upsetting things, of one-sided closeness, he didn’t know Ezre had meant to let it show.

But he made himself drag his eyes up, slowly, because you looked into a man’s eyes when he was speaking, even if you didn’t want to.

Another little wince flickered across his face. If he hadn’t been so back in his head, he might’ve known that was what Ezre meant. He still didn’t know how to feel, not now, and sure as hell not when Ezre stepped up to lay a hand on his arm.

Get away, he wanted to say – can’t you feel it, buzzing against you? After all that vodundun in the garden, how can you stand it? And how, he thought, how can you talk of gifts, of what I might want, right now? Can’t you see what I’ve been trying to –

But he thought again of all the misunderstandings, of the blood, of what he’d thought was gentle ribbing, of what had been bleeding him like a thousand papercuts. You can’t see, he thought. The thought released some spring that’d been tightly-coiled inside him.

Ezre looked round, then took his hand away. There weren’t many passersby, but they’d drawn some looks, by now, stopped in the middle of the path; Tom saw what might be self-consciousness in the Hexx’s posture. He felt a little guilty for raising his voice.

“Vks-xî –” Tom swallowed, trying to corral the words together in his head; they were all scattered around, and Ezre was looking at him expectantly, talking of sharing and gifts from his home, and he wanted to honor him, but it was all so godsdamn much. “I don’t think I can come to the library now,” he said softly, shaking his head. Shutting his eyes a moment, he held up a thin hand, then waved it and shook his head.

When he looked at Ezre again, he spoke carefully. “If you’ll tell Lilanee, at least, like you’d planned. I don’t know how to explain it – neither of those lasses are Hexx,” he went on, “and neither of them know about my kind, but your lass knows about ghosts, and she knows they’re dangerous. And I want her, at least, knowing who – what – she’s working with.”

He blinked, searching the Guide’s face. There was no anger in his own expression anymore. He was wondering, even now, how much of what he said was lost on Ezre; he was realizing what it was Ezre must’ve seen when he looked at him, even when he felt the brush of his porven field for the first time.

Fami. Tom’s brow knit. Umah. Warm and open, Tom remembered him saying, for a Hoxian. It’d been frigid in Bethas, in the phasmonia; Tom had been a sharp, demanding stranger. And Ezre had shared his tea with him, right off. Within moments, he’d been talking about his umah and his home in the mountains. As if he couldn’t help it.

It was never easy to forget how far Ezre was from home, but it wasn’t hard to let the fact of it slip to the back of your mind, to let the accent, the smooth public face, the honorifics – to let them become curiosities, same as Tom’s broad accent had been, once, on Anatole’s tongue.

Ezre was not the only one who was far from home. “We have plenty in common, Vks-xî. It just may not be – what you’d hoped for.” His voice was quieter. He glanced round at the passersby; they weren’t getting a mant manna stares.

With a grim attempt at a smile, he put a hand on Ezre’s shoulder, clasping it and then letting go. “I want to understand, and I want you to understand. And I want to meet Lilanee, if you want me to, but I want to do it properly. This – being a raen – it means something different for me than it does for you, for your umah. It’s sure as hell going to mean something different to Lilanee. We need to clear this up, but not now, not here.”

.

[Ezre Vks]

Campus Proper

Midday on the 65th of Roalis, 2719

"I understand." Ezre didn't. Not entirely. And he knew it. But there was a softness to the tone of Tom's voice that prompted the Hoxian to keep himself from pursuing the verbal chase further. His jaw clenched, holding so much in as if suddenly he wasn't used to it, as if suddenly his rhakor was a burden instead of a buoy in a world so fraught with too many feelings and too little self-control, but everything that had been written so clearly on his face for a moment was gone, just like that, with the relaxing of mandibular muscles and a slow exhale.

"It is my full intention to share such truths with Kuleda-vumein. I—I had wanted—it had been my intention—well, dru, now it does not matter what I wanted." The disappointment in his voice was palpable, salty like the sweat that pooled against the small of his back where his wide fabric belt held his bright linen layers of clothing in place, like the sweat that sparkled between stubbled dark hairs on his freshly-shaved scalp. He swallowed the rest, meeting the raen's gaze evenly with his own uncomfortably expressive dark pools.

Not what he'd hoped for, Tom said, self-deprecating. Quiet-like. What Ezre had swallowed felt stuck in his throat—too dry from the summer heat, too thick to move far enough away from his tongue as he pressed it against the back of his teeth and pretended with all of his young inner strength that those were words he'd expected to hear.

What had he hoped for—from Incumbent Vauquelin? From Tom Cooke? From a raen? A new and frightened raen. A once-human raen. It was like mistaking a huthahSpinewolves, or Huthah, are large, bander-like mammals with ivory spikes along their necks. The adults range in size from 4' to 6' high at the shoulder. Spinewolves are naturally wild and dangerous, and highly adaptable, but some have managed to tame the beasts, taking them from their packs as pups. It has been rumored that certain barbaric tribes use them as mounts for battle, though this is unconfirmed. Due to their pack mentality, once tamed, Huthah are fiercely loyal, willing to lay their lives down for their owner.These animals can be found in the mountainous region of Hox, where their thick fur protects them from the cold. for a common banderwolf, honestly—perhaps from a distance this raen looked similar to the raen he knew, to the raen he called vramenfamily or the raen that called him mhochild, but Tom was different, separate. Tom was feral, unpredictable, unfamiliar behind that porven field that reminded him so much of tuaxhome.

The dark-haired boy had hoped for some kind of kinship, irresistibly so, but he'd not wanted a parental figure, he'd not wanted a counselor, he'd not wanted an authority figure. He had enough of those as a student and an acolyte, as a young person who'd yet to make his way into the world.

Ezre had hoped for a friend, but it was clear he'd poured his desires into Kzecka-shaped lacquerware jars. He'd not come prepared with an understanding of Anaxi-made craftsmanship. Had he introduced himself as Mister Vks for so long in Estuan that he'd forgotten just how much more true to himself that Vks-xî felt when spoken out loud from someone else's lips? Was he not stepping with the same lack of care over the existence of a stranger simply because he'd chosen to see what he'd wanted in Tom instead of what was really there?

He almost frowned again, but he had a grip on his rhakor again. He had found his distance, difficult though it was.

The Hoxian didn't like that realization, not while still travel-lagged from his journey home and back, not with the other man's hand on his shoulder too briefly, too fast to feel what he'd wanted from such an uninvited but not unwelcome touch, "Zjai. It is different, and while I can see that, I admit I am loath to feel it. Regardless, I do not want to downplay the danger of this situation—of the East Garden—of what is unliving within, so I will not. I also do not wish to downplay your truths, not with Lilanee. Not with myself. We can—"

He paused, shifting his center of gravity with a shift of his hips to reach into the folds of his shirt. Tattooed fingers brushed over rose petals tucked so carefully in there, sliding lower to remove a small, cloth-wrapped box, the dark red cotton patterned with tiny white birds in flight,

"—we can meet again more privately this time when it is convenient for you. I do not expect us to return to the Garden today, not with all of this information to sort through. I will discuss things with Miss Gosselin within reason and with Lilanee more privately. I would have—I was planning on—this gift is just one of a few I have for you, but it is useful now. It will be useful to keep in touch, so take this with you. I will have an adequate reason for your absence."

He held out the box with both hands in a formal gesture, the small silver pocket watch—which if Tom knew Ezre at all was meant in both humor and in an offering of discretion—inside not designed with delicate mechanical parts nor even with a working face, but instead with a smooth, flat ferrous-monic oxide stone beneath the lid of it, magically attuned to it's matching set piece that Ezre left out of sight. The scene on the front of the false watch was a detailed carving of a buck's skull, the antlers of which were positioned to match the constellation of Naulas.

"Do not open this right now, but know that there are instructions inside for you to use it." Ezre smiled more warmly than Tom had, nodding as he glanced around the sidewalk, envying the large swath of shade cast by the tall library they were, indeed, just so achingly close to. He breathed in the humid, hot air, and breathed out too many feelings he couldn't express, couldn't admit to, not here, not now,

"I appreciate your honesty with me, your truths, even if I admit I do not entirely understand as much as I would like. Zkratas—or oneness with all things as we Hoxians like to say—is difficult to achieve between family members, let alone cultures, and especially between existences, but I feel it is my duty to try. Please take care this afternoon, Cooke-vumash."

He didn't say he was sorry.

He didn't ask for an apology.

He didn't even entirely wait for a response.

The Hexxos Guide did not leave much room for lingering after he passed the small wrapped box from his inked hands into the raen's. He bobbed in a bow of farewell, not wanting to draw out discomfort any more than he already had. Once he had his moment, however, he'd slip away with a swish of light fabric, of sandals on cobblestone, eager to turn his face from the other man lest he be forced to continue to hide all the strange emotions that writhed beneath the surface of his well-honed lack of an expression. He only would have a few minutes to let those feelings wash over his delicate features, anyway, just a few precious breaths before he'd have to enter the library and be the calm, reserved, aloof creature everyone had come to expect him to be. Even if he didn't want to.

He'd chosen his path, after all. Not everyone had been given a choice about anything.