Morning, 9 Dentis, 2719
Brunnhold Campus
Brunnhold Campus
Aremu’s eyebrows lifted, slowly, surprise plain on his face at Aurelie’s invitation. He hadn’t expected it; it touched him more than he thought he could say.
It was one thing, even speaking true, to express a wish to see another person again; it was easy enough to wish such a thing, even to mean it. This, to him, seemed more real, more concrete, and he found himself flattered by it.
Aremu thought he could make out what lay beneath the hesitation, the careful tracing and retracing of words. I am lonely, he heard; your presence would make me less so. He did not take it as anything about himself, precisely, other than that he had been willing to come here, to speak with her. But that was enough; he felt it, warm and gentle, in his chest. He did not need more. It had not been easy to come, to speak with her; he thought it was an act of which he could be proud.
“I will come,” Aremu promised, quietly. “I should be glad to,” he lied, gently, because he did not wish to trouble her.
He could have escaped the lie of it. He would be glad to speak to her; that was true enough. Perhaps that was how she would take it; it was an easy way to avoid lying, to speak strictly truth, and let the listener be blamed for filling in gaps where they should not be filled. Aremu wondered if he would have done it, had he prized truth so; he knew how to speak it.
But he knew, in himself, it was a lie. He could not be glad to come. The thought of spending another day on the campus, of crossing the bridge over the water outside and walking through the red brick buildings, the trees all around and the wall looming behind, filled him with a terror he could not name. It coiled deep inside him, and seethed and writhed. It whispered of ties that bound, of shackles and chains; it whispered, in truth, of pale blue uniforms.
It had been easy enough, with Aurelie’s bright face in front of him, to lie with the hope of reassuring her; it was easy enough to promise true. He would not be more of a liar than he had to, Aremu told himself. He knew, already, with an ache that was cold all through his veins, that he would come.
And yet - at her question he grinned; he grinned without thinking, without needing to think. She did not fool him, not even for a moment; he understood what the question meant. He would accept, Aremu thought, whatever it was she wished to offer; he was grateful even for the intent that lay beneath asking.
“No,” Aremu said, and his grin widened, and stretched to fill his eyes, and all the once dark and shadowed places of his face. “I eat everything,” he said, and if his tone had edged into sheepish, it was amused too, and friendly, and even warm.
Aremu bowed, gently; he was well-practiced at the maneuver, a graceful one with both arms, and his hand and wrist tucked away behind his back as he rose. He did not mean to keep her; he did not wish for trouble to find either of them. “It was very good to meet you, Aurelie,” he chose the name that lay on her heart; he hoped she would understand. He hoped, too, that she would call him Aremu in return. “I shall see you tomorrow.”
It was one thing, even speaking true, to express a wish to see another person again; it was easy enough to wish such a thing, even to mean it. This, to him, seemed more real, more concrete, and he found himself flattered by it.
Aremu thought he could make out what lay beneath the hesitation, the careful tracing and retracing of words. I am lonely, he heard; your presence would make me less so. He did not take it as anything about himself, precisely, other than that he had been willing to come here, to speak with her. But that was enough; he felt it, warm and gentle, in his chest. He did not need more. It had not been easy to come, to speak with her; he thought it was an act of which he could be proud.
“I will come,” Aremu promised, quietly. “I should be glad to,” he lied, gently, because he did not wish to trouble her.
He could have escaped the lie of it. He would be glad to speak to her; that was true enough. Perhaps that was how she would take it; it was an easy way to avoid lying, to speak strictly truth, and let the listener be blamed for filling in gaps where they should not be filled. Aremu wondered if he would have done it, had he prized truth so; he knew how to speak it.
But he knew, in himself, it was a lie. He could not be glad to come. The thought of spending another day on the campus, of crossing the bridge over the water outside and walking through the red brick buildings, the trees all around and the wall looming behind, filled him with a terror he could not name. It coiled deep inside him, and seethed and writhed. It whispered of ties that bound, of shackles and chains; it whispered, in truth, of pale blue uniforms.
It had been easy enough, with Aurelie’s bright face in front of him, to lie with the hope of reassuring her; it was easy enough to promise true. He would not be more of a liar than he had to, Aremu told himself. He knew, already, with an ache that was cold all through his veins, that he would come.
And yet - at her question he grinned; he grinned without thinking, without needing to think. She did not fool him, not even for a moment; he understood what the question meant. He would accept, Aremu thought, whatever it was she wished to offer; he was grateful even for the intent that lay beneath asking.
“No,” Aremu said, and his grin widened, and stretched to fill his eyes, and all the once dark and shadowed places of his face. “I eat everything,” he said, and if his tone had edged into sheepish, it was amused too, and friendly, and even warm.
Aremu bowed, gently; he was well-practiced at the maneuver, a graceful one with both arms, and his hand and wrist tucked away behind his back as he rose. He did not mean to keep her; he did not wish for trouble to find either of them. “It was very good to meet you, Aurelie,” he chose the name that lay on her heart; he hoped she would understand. He hoped, too, that she would call him Aremu in return. “I shall see you tomorrow.”
