[Closed] Chance Encounters (Tom)

[Drezda Ecks]

Roalis 67, 2719 | Late Morning
Sub Rosa Hotel, The Stacks

.

He just frowned. Frowned and frowned and frowned, lines etching deeper into his face with each passing moment. Her apology didn't seem to have helped things at all, his silence and his lined face pointing to the opposite effect to the one that she'd desired. The Hoxian was just so wrong, so hopeless at this and she was probably going to cry because that would make everything so much worse so of course it'd be something Drezda would do. Just like her to fuck things up and given that she actually had a care for her companion, it would be typical; messing things up with people who mattered was a talent of hers. Maybe invisible would be better. Even if she suppressed the mona, they'd know that she was there so she could never totally vanish. If only she was a passive...

But she didn't truly wish that, not to be truly nothing. Although perhaps it was more peaceful; the halfsies at Frecksat hadn't seemed unhappy when she'd turned her eyes upon them. If her sister had been the galdor instead of the diplomat then things would have been so different. If all of the Ecks children had been galdori then their parents would have been so much happier and Ksjta would never have gazed at her middle child as if questioning why she had been spared, as if it should have been her and she resented her for not having been the failure. Maybe if the three had been magical, Drezda wouldn't have come to mirror the disappointment in her mother's eyes, to live up to what the other seemed to see when she looked at her.

Alas, she wasn't invisible enough, she wasn't a passive hidden away from sight and her sister hadn't joined her magical brethren in their schooling. Thus, Drezda was simply what she was and she was stuck with it; she could be no one else, as much as she might wish it at times. If she could just be better then-

Tom's sharp 'no' made her flinch, feet stopping in place and she remained rigidly in place as if she'd put down roots, the barest sway to her form as if she was a tree stirred in the wind. Her head moved, barely, turning a inch and then two, slow and almost painfully. He moved closer and she watched him in her periphery, wondering for one wild moment if he was going to strike her, some cold fury that she couldn't see sequestered beneath the surface of his creased features. But a blow didn't come, even though the woman's eyelids fluttered, reacting to a movement that never came aside from within her imagination.

Instead, he opened his mouth and... and he...

The venom towards her mother startled her, shocked as well and some part of her brain fizzled and burst like a firework, creating something dazzling within her, the explosion scattering her thoughts and any sense that she possessed. Her mother was so respected and while she was often irritated by her, loathed her, envied her, cursed her, no one else had ever- People didn't say such-

"Heshath? Don't you mean Te-" the words started off almost slurred, confusion reigning in her mind as she tried to process the expletives he'd just flung at her regarding Ksjta Tzacks. But she heard herself before she finished the word, jolting back to her senses as readily as if someone had doused her in icy water.

Oh Bash, oh Alioe, oh Circle! she moaned, almost whimpered in her head.

Tek! Gods, why was she so thoughtless and stupid and-

Tom probably knew Tek for Bash's sake!

She had opened her mouth to put her foot in it because she was a fool.. A fool who couldn't be trusted with her tongue, shouldn't be trusted with it because she said the damnedest things. The Hoxian couldn't have said anything worse if she tried. She whispered an apology, syllables light on her breath, maybe unheard by him.

Her eyes shut, scrunched closed so that she wouldn't have to look at him, wouldn't have to see his response to her stupid, thoughtless remark. She didn't want to see the disappointment in Tom's gaze, knowing that she was ignorant and inconsiderate. Or righteous anger, she didn't want to see that either. As such, she was surprised when she found his hand on her shoulder. He was close of course - she'd known that, she could feel that porven field - but for him to lay a hand on her after everything she'd said. The raen's touch wasn't a hard one but an almost comforting one, tremulous though it was. Her eyes opened slowly, heavily hooded and glinting as he spoke.

"Oh, I can't- She's not bad. She came all the way from Hox to see me and... and she isn't- You'd do well to talk to her," she explained shakily, a hand fluttering up to her head again as if seeking the scattered pieces of her mind. She couldn't ignore Ksjta, couldn't ask Tom to join her in her defiance, her rebellion, her rudeness by not going to breakfast.

Drezda wasn't worth what he seemed think she was but yet he wanted to stand with her, to stick together, choosing her over the woman who understood what he was rather than the one who understood what he had been. A human who had died, who she had somehow bonded with and trusted. She'd betrayed him in her own way, disrespected and judged him and yet he stood before her now, offering support.

Gods, he was her friend!

Emotion flooded her, tears truly welling in her eyes and then shockingly, she found herself moving close to him so she could throw her arms about his neck. There was a stiffness in the way she held herself as if still holding herself somewhat apart but she was hugging him.

"I.... I appreciate that. A-A-And I'm glad that you don't... d-d-don't hate me after..." she trailed off, drawing back carefully, limbs shaky as well as she brought up a hand to dab at overflowing eyes.

"Sorry. I'm an idiot, I..." Drezda stuttered to a halt, teeth pressed into her lip in a vain attempt to stop its shake, gazing at him uncertainly although she raised her chin, swiping carefully at her teary gaze once more.

"I don't expect you t-t-to forgive me. For what I said but... will y-you be in my corner downstairs? Will you t-t-talk to her and breakfast w-with us?" she asked softly.

.

[Tom Cooke]

The Sub Rosa Hotel • The Stacks

Too Godsdamn Early on the 67th of Roalis, 2719

Didn’t he mean Tek? Like hell!

But he wanted to laugh, more than anything; she’d blurted it out so quick, she must not’ve been thinking, and he could watch the knowing of what she’d said wash through her like so much ice-water. Tom wanted to laugh, then, ’cause it was funny, in its way – it’d been an honest mistake – and the fact that she’d thought about it, that she cared about something she must’ve thought mattered to him, touched him deeply. He wanted to show her he just thought it was funny, and he didn’t much care.

But then she looked down, and she whispered something so quiet-like that you could only just hear it was an apology. He didn’t think laughing’d be a good idea.

Drezda had flinched, and now she stood fair still. Tom realized, late, how much she looked like she expected him to hit her, and he didn’t know why. She wasn’t looking at him, even as he came right up to her. Even as he put a hesitant hand on her shoulder.

He saw a glistening well up in her eyes, and he wasn’t sure if he’d done something wrong. Drezda Ecks was hard to read, caught somewhere between rhakor and sobbing fits, never able to find a middle-ground: he saw her in shattered glass by a roaring fire; cold words at colder parties; an organized, lonely boudoir; a passionate argument. If there were tears, he never quite knew what kind they were, or what they were leading up to. He was about to take his hand away, brow furrowed, when she threw her arms around his neck.

Tom’s breath caught. It was a second or two before he could respond. Drezda held him apart, just a pina, and her slight frame was a wiry tree in winter, and her arms weren’t much less stiff around him. But how rigid, how unaccustomed it was, didn’t make it less touching. It cut him to the heart.

His own eyes were prickling; an uncertain breath shuddered in and out of his lungs. No, he wanted to say, get away, don’t – I’m grotesque, he wanted to plead, feeling oddly helpless. You’ve got your arms around a dead man.

If he’d been himself, he’d’ve known what to do right away. Then again, if he’d been himself, they’d never’ve known each other; and it wasn’t any of the selves-he-wasn’t, curiously, that Drezda seemed to have such an affection for. It wasn’t the man he used to be – Circle knew she’d had enough trouble with that concept – or the raen that so fascinated Ksjta and Ezre. It was the stiff, terrified creature that’d sat in her parlor, pretending to be a politician, a misfit drinking with another misfit, a thing that didn’t know what it was.

So he decided to follow her lead, ’cause whatever he was now wasn’t much better at hugs than she was, but he didn’t think she’d care. Slowly, stiffly, he wrapped his arms around her, and rested his chin on her shoulder, and patted her back softly.

By the time she drew away, he’d got his breathing even again, but he had to wipe away a few tears of his own. His hand was shaking, he realized; all his limbs were. He felt like a newborn bird. When she spoke again, he couldn’t help the watery smile that twitched across his face. “Hush,” he hissed, through a quavering laugh. “Of course I don’t hate you, and of course I’ll be in your corner down there, godsdamn it. I said so, didn’t I? Hell, look, I’m all flooding weepy.”

With an exasperated click of the tongue, he swabbed more wetness out of his eyes. They felt raw and red, and there wasn’t much he could do about it. He wiped his hand off on his trousers, then laughed again, looking back up at Drezda.

“It’s just a word, Drez,” he said carefully, after a pause. “It’s one I heard a hell of a lot when I was alive. It wasn’t – a surprise, being honest. And I know well enough the awful shit you say when you just want to hurt somebody; I’ve said them enough myself.” He frowned. “I know we’ve got shit to talk about, and it’s not easy, but I want to – to help build a bridge across the river, if you do. And that’s between you and me, and I don’t care what Ksjta Tzacks says about it. Because it’s between you and me.”

One more time, he reached out and touched her shoulder, light as a feather. Then, with his other hand, he gestured loosely toward the partly-open door.

He bowed his head and shoulders slightly. “Shall we? For the record –” A fox’s smile. “I ain’t never excused m’self for a word of Tek in all my maw, an’ I ain’t goin’ to.” He didn’t know if he ought to try his luck, but he couldn’t quite help it.

[Drezda Ecks]

Roalis 67, 2719 | Late Morning
Sub Rosa Hotel, The Stacks

.

The hug hadn’t been the most comfortable in the world but it was still a hug; it wasn’t as if she had many of those. It wasn’t that she lacked a point of comparison either, it was just… this situation was different — so very different. It hadn’t been a hug born out of duty — although such things had been rare indeed — but one entirely wrapped up in emotion, an oddly forbidden thing in truth. Of course Hoxians embraced but it was a private thing, certainly not something that was meant to be displayed publicly and the only ones who’d ever had reason to hug her were family members. Often you reached a certain age and it became a bit strange for your parents to hug you because shouldn’t you have someone else by that point; she didn’t tend to hug Rosmilda though. As non-family and non-lover, Tom’s hug was quite different and while he returned the embrace, he was as awkward as she felt, which perversely made her feel better because she wasn’t the only uncertain one in this endeavour. The man wasn’t as wooden as her though, hands rubbing her back while his head rested against her shoulder. It was quite strange — alien — but maybe with time it would become less so and she could find it nice.

Do you really plan on making a habit of this? she asked herself, part incredulous, part wondering. Honestly, she didn’t know.

That he’d returned the hug seemed fair enough because it was the kind thing to do rather than rejecting her. However, it came as a surprise when she discovered him in as desperate a state as she had been when she hugged him in the first place. The raen trembled and wiped at watery eyes as if her upset had become his own. She knew why she was crying — more or less — but why was he?

The young woman didn’t know whether or not to embrace him again, unsure if that would make him worse rather than better. He didn’t seem terribly upset though, not when he was laughing, even chuckling at the fact that he was weepy. She managed a wan smile, made easier to produce now that he’d confirmed that he didn’t hate her. That simple statement alone lifted an incredible weight off her shoulders. Stupidly, it might set her crying for real actually when there was no good reason to be weeping at all.

He was still laughing, even when he shrugged off her usage of that slur and she herself became motionless.

"Words can hurt, Tom, and hearing them a lot doesn’t make it better. I think they can hurt more than- An injury heals and a scar might twinge but it’s not the same as-" the diplomat broke off abruptly, swallowing the lump in her throat and forcing herself to take deep calming breaths before she spoke again. Her gaze fixed somewhere off to the side, listening to what he said, nodding along to show that she agreed until the touch of his hand startled her — a far less violent reaction this time. Black eyes raised slowly to his face, teeth pressing against her lower lip as she considered what he’d said. They did need to talk, that was certainly true, and while her mother as mediator would be incredibly helpful and would make her life a lot easier, it was a matter between the two of them alone. Ksjta had given her plenty to think about though and that would likely be invaluable when they managed to schedule the time for a much needed discussion.

She was about to agree with him that they needed to talk but now wasn’t the time when his language changed, the colloquial sounding speech making her lashes flutter as she resisted cringing, lip curling momentarily before she caught herself.

Bash give her strength, what the fuck was that? Butchered Estuan and… had there been Tek in there? The young woman had no idea what might be your everyday, run-of-the-mill slang and what might be pidgin.

"Tom… please. Could you not… talk like that? At least… could you give me some warning next time? I’m sure that I could become used to it but I’m not accustomed right now. I don’t mean to be rude — I really don’t — but you probably wouldn’t be comfortable if I started speaking Deftung and- Oh. Actually maybe not, given your pronunciation..." she trailed off awkwardly, making to bite her lip again before she stopped herself. She really had to stop doing that.

“Sorry. Pretend that I’m not a golly bitch just this once — difficult I know — but just… I didn’t say that, okay?” she commented, smiling a little too widely.

She held up a finger to indicate that he should wait before trotting back to the mirror he’d used while shaving, leaning in close so she could access her face. No blotchiness, eyes a bit bloodshot but that could have been from the disturbed sleep. The powder under her eyes was a bit off now but she could wipe it into some semblance of neatness, removing any awkward blobs with her finger. More respectable looking — under the circumstances — the diplomat offered her companion a dignified smile as she swished back to him, smoothing her white skirt and straightening her blouse. Now Drezda looked as if she was suitably controlled.

“Now, we must see my mother and ensure that you eat your fill of foods that will help a hangover. We need to get something to soak up that alcohol and then hopefully, you’ll feel better,” she explained, moving to take his arm, adjusting it — if he’d permit it — so that she could slip it through the crook of his arm. “You get to be my gentlemanly escort,” she teased lightly.

There was no more reason for delay now, everything resolved that could be resolved for the time being and thus, they could get on their way. They followed in Ksjta’s footsteps, finding that they didn’t have far to go before they found her; she was waiting at the bottom of the staircase, hands clasped serenely before her. She was positioned at an angle to the steps so that she could see up them but obviously she wasn’t on the lookout for them! No, it was purely incidental that she could see those who trotted down from the upper storey as looking specifically would be a sign of impatience; the Hexx could never be classed as impatient!

“Ah, you have chosen to join us, Tom. I am very glad. You must be quite hungry. I am accustomed to periods of fasting of course so I have gone far longer without sustenance before breaking my fast,” the older Hoxian explained, a small, serene smile on her stained lips. She turned gracefully on her heel and led the way. Apparently, she had already acquired a table for them, turning an expectant look towards a young man who she waved at with two fingers held together as a means of catching his attention. It was amazing but she managed to make the gesture appear imperious.

Their table was a round one, which could fit three around it although the placements could be described as snug. It had a white tablecloth, embroidered with little red roses and trimmed with lace, the place mats were lacy as well with more rose embroidery and there was a pink rose in a little cut crystal vase. They were probably aiming for sophistication but it looked a bit tacky as far as the diplomat was concerned. She sat herself down, close to brushing elbows with both her companions once they were all seated.

Wonderful.

The man kept a discreet distance until the trio were seated and then stepped forward, touching his largely dampened dasher field against their own. Ksjta had allowed her own to grow quiet and Drezda restricted hers to a polite range.

“Good day, how may I serve you this morning?” he asked politely, hands behind his back, the young galdor looking attentive. He was blond and something of a pretty boy, although his looks were marred in Drezda’s eyes — for reasons other than his sex — by the acne that plagued his cheeks and forehead and chin. It looked relatively calm rather than in active flare but it did make him look juvenile; she’d place him at a year or two out of Brunnhold at the very most. A waste of magic judging by his indecisive field.

Before anyone else could offer their wishes, Ksjta announced that she would order for everyone, listing a request for Anaxi tea, various meats and cheeses and breads. She was ready to dismiss the waiter but Drezda managed to butt in before she had the chance, somehow keeping her annoyance at bay from both her field and face.

“Did you have any requests of your own, Tom?” the raven-haired woman asked, angling herself towards him while her eyes looked askance at her mother.

Rude. Terribly rude, that’s what she was being. Matriarchs knew best of course — or so they liked to think.

.

[Tom Cooke]

The Sub Rosa Hotel • The Stacks

Bearably Early on the 67th of Roalis, 2719

T
om stared at her narrowly, the mirth gone out of his expression — but a little of it came back when she went on, and he let out a sigh. Golly bitch and plowfoot rolled around the inside of his head for a moment (words can hurt, Tom) and he didn’t half know what to do with any of it. Being honest, the kind of words she’d just said hurt worse than any plowfoot slur, nine times out of ten; it was about the kind of weapon the words were meant to be, Tom thought, instead of the words themselves.

But he didn’t take his hand away from her shoulder; and when she went on, clucking over his hungover head, he gave the shoulder another squeeze and laughed. “Ah, well,” he said, a little abashed. “I promise I won’t lapse into Tek around your mother, at least.”

He stood there, quiet, as she went to fix her makeup. It was the second time he’d watched her do it, and the second time he wondered what she saw in that mirror. Knowing Ksjta didn’t make him wonder any less.

He looked pleasantly surprised when she offered him her arm, and then he grinned and looped his through it, wordless. He felt a deep flush of appreciation, again. It was the sort of light-hearted joke he’d’ve made, and as they started back down the hall and and then down the stairs, he couldn’t help but take comfort in the brush of her shoulder, the thin — but fair solid — line of her arm through his. There was something grounding about it.

In the quiet, their footsteps creaking on the boards, her earlier gentle admonition rang in his head. He reckoned it was one of those things he’d have to come to later. Things like that scared him more than anything – things that were more than how you weighed them right off, things that unfurled themselves and gave you more trouble in the long run. Words can hurt, Tom. He wanted to disagree, but he couldn’t. He was afraid of how much those words might mean; he was afraid of what might start hurting, what ugly old forgotten aches, if he looked at them too closely.

Thankfully, he didn’t have time to think too hard about it right now. Ksjta Tzacks was standing at the foot of the stairs, her pale hands clasped at her waist all graceful-like, her face set in its measured rhakor. He hadn’t expected her to be standing right there, and the sound of her voice — soft and measured though it was — made him jolt a pina against Drezda.

Tom, he registered she was saying, like they was on a first-name flooding basis. Well — being honest, he couldn’t remember telling Drezda his last name; he didn’t think he had. He remembered why he hadn’t, that morning in Loshis, and the thought soured.

He’d recovered himself by the time they reached the bottom, enough to bow again, another good, deep golly bow. If Drezda didn’t want to bow with him, he’d delicately disentangle his arm from hers. He murmured, “Tzacks-vumein,” and by the time he rose up, the poetess’d already turned on her heel and was gliding away in a sweep of silk.

Accustomed to periods of fasting. These flooding Hexx’en, he thought. Tom stared after her, lip twitching minutely. Then he shot a sideways glance at Drezda, mustering up a gentle smile, and made to follow her.

He’d been fair plastered when he’d staggered back in the night before. Now he looked about him with raised brows, with a slightly dazed expression, at the rustic, smoke-stained beams and the tall narrow windows letting in thin streams of morning light.

There wasn’t a big crowd, Tom noticed as he followed Tzacks to the table she’d picked out. A few folk milled about, mostly gollies — older gentlemen in morning suits, smoking and reading the paper. A young woman in a light, summery dress, a sweep of white chiffon in the pale light, sat breaking fast with a man who looked to be her father over in one corner, where the light was strongest. But there weren’t, Tom thought, enough folk to eavesdrop, and he was grateful.

As they sat down, he tried to think what to say. He was distracted momentarily by the placemats; he blinked, his eyes lingering on a line of little embroidered roses in front of him, before he looked back up at Tzacks. She’d raised her fingers for service.

I didn’t eat a crumb or drink a drop for two months, once, Tom thought idly. That’s what not having a body’ll do for you. He didn’t think he ought to say that out loud. “I happen to be famished,” he said instead, brightly, smoothing the lace fringe with a hand and offering Tzacks a smile.

The waiter stole his attention. He hadn’t been expecting the press of a golly field, but it wasn’t much of one; it was thin and dasher, the funny, watery type you got when a kov couldn’t decide what sort of voo he wanted to cast. He glanced over his young, handsome face, wondering who all he’d disappointed to end up here.

Being honest, Tom was a pina too dazed and achy to have any qualms with Tzacks taking the order out of their hands. He listened to her sweep through the bread and the cheeses, some with benny Estuan names he couldn’t place; it was the sort of yats his headache rather approved of. Still, when Drezda cut in to ask him if he had any requests, he looked over at her appreciatively.

That’s thoughtful, he wanted to say. Instead, he just said, “No, but thank you,” and then offered a neat smile to the waiter, who nodded his pimply head dignifiedly and started away on his heel.

Tom peered over the little pink rose in its crystal vase, across the small table at Ksjta Tzacks. He tried to summon up the composure he’d learned in Vienda, Anatole’s and now his; Ava hadn’t taught him all that shit, he thought, for nothing. He’d promised Drezda he’d be respectable, and he planned on giving Tzacks nothing to complain about.

So he fit his pleasant politician’s smile on his face, and sat straight in his seat despite his headache. “I apologize — I never properly introduced myself. Cooke,” he said, with a little emphasis, “Thomas Cooke. I’ve read and admired Web of Souls in translation, but I never thought I would meet the poet cxîl.”

He didn’t manage the word perfectly; he pronounced the ‘c’ a little hard, lingered maybe too much on the vowel. He’d heard Ezre say it a few times, and he’d only just learned the word a day and a half ago, in the East Garden, when they’d had more important things to worry about than Deftung pronouns. But it’d meant such to him that he’d asked how it worked, and had turned it over in his head plenty since then, and he couldn’t aught but remember it; and he wagered, in this case, that trying’d be better than nothing. He didn’t look over at Drezda, in case she was staring at him with horror.

[Drezda Ecks]

Roalis 67, 2719 | Late Morning
Sub Rosa Hotel, The Stacks

.

Drezda didn’t worry about Tom making a show of himself, even if he was hungover. She’d had plenty of opportunities to see the raen in action and knew that he was quite capable of turning himself out well. Yes, he had once been a human but… he didn’t have many of the failings that she’d come to associate with humans; honestly, the woman wasn’t sure what to associate with humans anymore, what was fact and what was prejudiced fiction. But no, the diplomat was far more concerned that she would make a show of Tom on his behalf and embarrass them both in the process. Maybe she was also a little worried that he’d be able to cope and she wouldn’t, a greater humiliation because she’d been raised to handle these matters.

She’d disentangled herself when he made to bow to her mother, a wasted gesture in truth because the woman paid little attention to it but it made her wonder if she should have- Godsdamnit, Ksjta was her mother and she’d seen her not long ago so there was no reason for her to bow. The raen had been at a disadvantage before though when introductions had taken place so it was fair that he should bow, emulating the golly manner. Frankly, he carried out the bow more smoothly than many male politicians that she knew, graceful movement and lacking any of the sarcasm or mockery to which she was accustomed; it was astounding how much disrespect someone could subtly inject into something as straightforward as a bow — but not Tom.

The contrast between the raen and the Hexx was stark, one overtly polite while the other exceptionally rude but in such a careless fashion; it appeared as if Ksjta didn’t much care and yet she had been the one eagerly anticipating a meeting with the man. The level of rhakor she currently displayed seemed to suggest that she cared little about anything. Drezda wondered if she was overcompensating; it seemed extreme, even for her. She’d seen the signs of impatience slipping around the edges but now she wondered if there wasn’t more emotion simmering beneath the surface that she was trying to keep underwraps.

Annoyance? That’s the only thing that she could think of that could be behind that casual rudeness. They had been quite some time upstairs, the diplomat supposed. Perhaps her mother had believed that she’d talked Tom out of coming down to breakfast. It made her read more into the older woman’s greeting, the way she’d commented that Tom had chosen to join them.

Perhaps she was reading into her mother too much although it was difficult to tell. Trying to decipher Ksjta Tzachs was no easy matter and not something that she should be attempting while she was so tired either.

While she found herself sitting quite close to Tom — if she attempted to stretch any of her limbs in one direction or another she was liable to bump off either him or her mother, veritably pinned between them — the raven-haired woman found that she missed the closeness they’d shared when her arm had been hooked through his own. How strange that such a thing should bother her, strange too that she had found some measure of comfort and even garnered some strength from it. She simply had to remember that the man still supported her; he’d said that he’d be in her corner down here and she believed him.

It was something that the diplomat had to focus on though as her mother’s dark eyes moved over her face and form, scrutinising her with a sweep of her onyx gaze after Drezda interceded with the waiter on Tom’s behalf. Oh yes, there was that incline of the head, the soft accepting upturn her lips that seemed to say ‘of course’ but there was a tiny bit too much tightness in her jaw and for a moment, something sharp had flashed through her gaze, especially during the scrutinisation: disapproval.

She felt the warmth in her face and resisted the urge to bow her head from shame and apology, even though she was certain that she’d be blushing soon enough. She’d caught Tom’s appreciative glance and that was enough to keep her head up; Drezda had done the right thing. Even so, she felt inclined to keep her mouth shut from here on in — in fact that might be the best course of action!

The man introduced himself properly and formerly, her mother’s face remaining impassive until the topic of her poetry came up — and correctly used cxîl. Ksjta’s brows arched delicately upwards, the smile a soft one that gave the impression of discreet pleasure; Drezda thought that she saw some amusement there. Her own brows rose albeit to a higher degree than her mother’s and the way her head turned sharply in Tom’s direction, eyes wide showed that the diplomat was quite surprised. She certainly hadn’t told him about that pronoun — had she? — although she’d been meaning to do so. Presumably Ezre had told him.

“You are full of surprises, Cooke-vumash, it seems — and not just for me,” the Hexx commented breezily, dark eyes flicking briefly to her daughter. “I take it that you have some understanding of the use of cxîl from your friend within the Hexxos, young Ezre…?”

She looked to Drezda with a quizzical tilt of the head.

“Vks,” the younger woman murmured, examining the lace on the table with minute detail. She’d evidently broadcast her surprise quite strongly. So much so that her mother was putting the pieces together, logically deducing that Ezre must have been the source of the information that Drezda evidently hadn’t provided. Better to stare at the table than Tom. Maybe if she gazed at it intently enough then she’d be able to keep her face blank. She stared until the details before her blurred into obscurity, eyes fixed and mostly unseeing while her ears continued to work well enough.

“Vks-cxîl, yes. How fortuitous for you that you made the correct sort of acquaintance,” Ksjta reflected, eyes heavily hooded as he regarded Tom. “I have grown accustomed to being improperly addressed. I am hardly Hexxos anymore. Of course, no one ever truly leaves the Order but I do not serve in the manner expected.”

Was she imagining it or had there been something sardonic in her mother’s voice, top lip curling briefly and subtly in that last sentence? She wasn’t certain but she found that she had to repress a shiver.

“However, my daughter had not mentioned that you had read any of my works. No doubt she gave you her copy of Web of Souls. I am sure that you gained deeper meaning from it than she ever has. My apologies, I meant to say that you no doubt gained deeper meaning from it than she ever could. After all, it is very difficult to reflect and learn from something that you have never read.”

The jab at her person was far from subtle and it was enough to make the younger woman raise her gaze, catching the way the woman regarded her askance, a warm little thrum entering her Clairvoyant field when her daughter’s lips parted as if to speak. The thrum accompanied a glint in her eye: a challenge. Her mouth shut, the Hoxian fighting to stop herself from pursing them; they needed to remain smooth and untroubled so as not to broadcast her annoyance. No doubt the matriarch had seen it.

“Did you find it helpful in your new situation? Did it enable you to reflect on the time in between?”

She was already outside of her mother’s consideration, her attention focused entirely on Tom now. Drezda could trust herself to speak now though, having taken a moment to calm herself and reflect.

“I have read it,” she announced quietly, seeing the slight turn of the woman’s head in her direction, allowing her to consider her daughter while otherwise failing to react to the fact that she had spoken. “I did not feel it worth noting that I had done so as it was not for me. I’m sure that you know that there is more than one path to spiritual enlightenment — or reflection — and some paths are not as well worn as others,” she added sweetly.

.

[Tom Cooke]

The Sub Rosa Hotel • The Stacks

Bearably Early on the 67th of Roalis, 2719

H
e must’ve pronounced it fair flooding tsuter, ’cause he could see the look of surprise on Drezda’s face out of the corner of his eye, though he couldn’t bring himself to look at her head-on. Well, so be it; he’d stick with it. Never hurt to try. He straightened a little, lifting his chin almost like a challenge, though the polite smile on his face didn’t falter a whit.

What surprise him was Ksjta’s response. He blinked at Cooke-vumash; he’d half-expected resistance. When she guessed correctly where he’d learned the word, he raised his eyebrows, and something a pina more genuine crept into the smile.

He was about to reply when Drezda’s voice drew his eye. The words died somewhere between mind and mouth. She was sitting, staring at the lacy place mat. Glazed over.

Tom’s mouth suddenly felt fair dry. His head ached. He looked back at Ksjta, and found he was still smiling. The correct sort of acquaintance, she said, and Tom struggled to put the pieces together. In the corner of his eye, Drezda was still staring at the table, careful-blank; Ksjta was talking, and he thought he saw a funny tilt to her red-painted lips, though he couldn’t be sure. Serve in the manner expected, she said, and he –

Serve in the manner expected. The smile faltered, and he looked down at his own placemat ’til he could collect himself; it must’ve been one second, maybe two, nothing more. Anatole’s hands lay in his lap, and he forced himself to look back up at Ksjta. Once, Drezda opened her mouth as if to speak, and a faint red shivered through Ksjta’s field, and Drezda shut her mouth. He regained his smile, but it felt stiff.

“She lent it to me,” he put in quietly. “Lent. Not gave.”

When Drezda spoke, Ksjta’s head barely moved; her dark eyes didn’t leave him. Tom’s lip twitched. What Ksjta’d said before was still washing over him, ebb and flow, almost beyond belief. Drezda’s reply was fair barbed in its own right, but Tom reckoned it was the politest you could stand up for yourself in a situation like this; her only other option would’ve been to sit tight and keep her head down while her ma matter-of-factly berated her in front of her face, to her friend, and she’d done enough of that already. And Ksjta couldn’t even be ersed to look her in the eye.

For the first few seconds, he couldn’t say much of anything. That was well, because just then, pimply dasher’d come back rattling down a tea-tray and some dainties.

A teapot spilled out pleasantly dark, bitter-smelling steam, a few teacups standing empty round. There was a floral-painted platter with some crusty bread, dusted with benny-smelling spices; thinly-sliced meat and apples; a wedge of soft, sharp-smelling cheese, and a few slices of something hard and bluish-spotted. Dasher hung round like a hungry ghost to pour the tea and distribute empty saucers.

Tom felt a kick of rage. He got a strange urge to reach for Drezda’s hand underneath the table and squeeze it warmly, and he didn’t know if he had it in him to watch much more of this unfold. He wasn’t sure what he could do, other than distract her and temper her. Suddenly, a whole mant manna shit about Drezda Ecks was starting to make sense.

Dasher bowed lazily and ducked away. Tom cleared his throat. There was cream and sugar, but he didn’t much take to them. Instead, he smiled back up at Ksjta. “Yes,” he said, hesitantly, reaching for a slice of bread and a dull knife. “In the beginning, I thought I might be some – singularity. I take it you know what I used to be, Tzacks-cxîl, and so you know how new to me all this is. For – for a long time, I didn’t much like to think about it; I was just trying to survive. I think Web of Souls must be some of the first poetry I ever read. But I’d be lost without the conversations I’ve had with Ecks-vumein, about poetry and the soul,” he added. “Before I knew a tenth of what I was.”

He paused, spreading the cheese rind and all. He smiled faintly at Drezda, then back at Ksjta. Doesn’t surprise me you’re not Hexxos, he thought. What kind of compassion must it take to be a willing vessel, or a guide to the dead?

But he found a familiar curiosity kindling in him, sharp even through the aching mess of his head. He'd only ever had Ezre's firsthand account, after all. “Have you known many – like me? You write a great deal about souls outside the Cycle.” He had lowered his voice, just a little.

[Drezda Ecks]

Roalis 67, 2719 | Late Morning
Sub Rosa Hotel, The Stacks

.

When Tom spoke, the older Hoxian bowed her head, a small apologetic smile on her face.

“Of course. I did not mean to suggest that it had been permanently gifted to you — merely given temporarily. Lent, as you say,” she assured him, gaze lowered as she subtly debased herself to the man. She didn’t want to offend him, it seemed, although evidently she had no qualms about offending her daughter and she had certainly said some things that Drezda found extremely offensive; the older woman never cared about sparing her feelings.

It was why the young Hoxian didn’t feel the need to spare her mother’s feelings either, hence why she chose to say what she did, carefully barbing her words to ensure that they had the maximum effect.

Ksjta did her best to ignore her daughter’s words but they’d gotten under her skin — as Drezda had intended. Oh, she hadn’t said them purely for that purpose — the young woman definitely meant them — but irritating her mother was a definite plus. If she hadn’t wanted to irk the woman then she would have kept her thoughts to herself as she had long done so. She’d never told her mother that she’d read that particular collection — many of her poetry collections in fact — and she had understood them, she had found meaning in them but not the meaning that she needed or wanted. It had seemed cruel to tell her mother that she’d read them because Ksjta would have sought her opinion and she would have had to tell her displeasing truths. Her mother considered her compositions to be a way of serving their people — a solemn duty — but that didn’t mean that she was without pride.

The diplomat had aimed a sharp blow at the very source of her pride and she felt that her mother’s ego hadn’t escaped unscathed, not judging by the change that came over her. Every muscle in her face went rigid, her neck so taut that when she swallowed, it was a wonder that she didn’t choke herself in the process. Something sharp lanced through her field, the red-shift so dark that it verged on black. Ksjta inhaled sharply, nostrils flaring slightly. And yet in spite of all that, she didn’t look towards her daughter — not directly.

Drezda sat there tensely, awaiting some manner of retaliation. She didn’t expect her mother to scream and shout, didn’t expect her to make a scene but she was certain that more subtle blows would come. She held her field closely to her but tried to keep it calm. Strangely enough, it was easier to control her emotions now, largely because her gaze within her stony face was steely. While her mother wouldn’t look at her directly, the young woman had no problem gazing right at her, chin raised.

However, the food arrived before things could come to a head and even though much of it was kept out of the fields of the two galdori, it was likely that their waiter still managed to pick up on it; body language could convey volumes. Watching him pass everything out, the young woman found that her appetite had been diminished — not that it had been abundant to begin with. In fact, the longer that the dasher-fielded man hung around to serve them, the more ill she felt; it was the anticipation of it all that was so sickening.

The raven-haired woman clasped her hands tightly under the table, surveying the spread before her with a frown, wondering what—if anything—might appeal to her. Was there anything she could eat that wouldn’t come right back up again? The queasy thrashing of her insides said no.

It was the raen who broke the deadlock, clearing his throat once their server left. However, his words were unexpected, the ersatz galdor picking up the previous thread of conversation about the poetry. It seemed impossible that he could have missed out on the tension stretched so tightly between the younger galdor and her mother. She allowed her black eyes to slide to the side, head turning towards him as she tried to assess his expression as his words fell on disbelieving ears.

And then he complimented Drezda, his words genuine judging by the smile that he aimed her way. Her heart squeezed and she had to press her lips tightly together so that they wouldn’t wobble. He’d seen her upstairs, didn’t he realise just how easy it would be for her to start crying again? She could feel the sting in her eyes and she had to lower them to hide the shine from her mother’s watchful gaze.

He did have her back after all.

Her fingers loosened from their death grip, the Perceptive stretching a hand under the table to find his knee. Finding it, she’d give it a gentle squeeze, a tiny smile accompanying it. She said nothing, didn’t even move her lips to mouth it but she hoped that he understood what she was saying: thank you.

She was touched by his words, not simply because of how favourably he presented her to Ksjta. She hadn’t known that their conversations had had an effect on him — not a positive one at any rate — but it was incredibly gratifying to hear him speak of her so. It was particularly good to hear after the way things had gone during their last encounter although their time upstairs had reassured her on a number of points. Even so, she would feel better when she had a chance to talk with him properly — away from her mother.

For now, she felt that she was a bit more able to face whatever else she had to listen to her mother say. And if Tom didn’t protest then well… yes, maybe her hand would linger, no longer squeezing but still present, providing her with a constant link to him from which she could continue to draw strength.

Given that the raen had chosen to continue as if nothing had occurred, her mother didn’t have the option to go back to the words that had so offended her. In fact, she was forced to carry on as if nothing had happened either and Drezda could see that that irked her mother, the tension not wholly gone and a quick look darted in her daughter’s direction. There was something else though, something guilty? Regretful? Drezda didn’t know but she didn’t know what had prompted it.

“I have met a few. However, I have only met… one as fresh as you are,” she commented, plucking up a thin slice of meat between her fingertips and popping it between cherry lips. She chewed slowly, apparently considering what more to say and the diplomat had to remind herself that she should be doing more than watching; this was meant to be her breakfast after all. The young woman took a slice of bread and some soft cheese, using a dull knife to smear it across the fluffy surface, angling the blade so that the last of the cheese was scraped off at the rough crust. Once that was done, she simply looked at it, unable to bring herself to eat. She started fussing with the tea instead.

“Usually, one is not introduced to people such as yourself — not as changed — but there are always signs, even when their field is in order. The Hexxos do mark their members. Every member bears marks pertaining to their role. We do not advertise the meanings of our tattoos but they are obvious to those with the right knowledge,” Ksjta explained, a hand moving to shift hair behind her ear.

The older woman was gazing down as she did it, thus, the black lines behind her ear at the top were briefly visible, her fingers drawing attention to the tattooing on the cartilage. Had she highlighted the marks on purpose or had it been unconscious? Had the talk of Hexxos tattoos made her touch them in remembrance? Drezda had forgotten that they were that. She also had no idea what they meant and she had never asked, she realised. Her own curiosity was peaked.

If Tom didn’t ask about them then she might just do herself. Maybe.

“There is no need to draw special attention to who someone has been and who they are now. One knows a Vessel,” the poet remarked quietly. “Was there… something you wished to know? Or are you simply seeking assurance that you are not alone?”

.

[Tom Cooke]

The Sub Rosa Hotel • The Stacks

Bearably Early on the 67th of Roalis, 2719

T
he tension was so thick, you could’ve —

Well, Tom thought, slicing through some benny kind of soft, speckled, sharp-smelling cheese, coming away with a thick layer of it on his knife.

He felt the red shift go through Ksjta’s field, red like dried sap. Old anger, he reckoned; strong anger. He glanced up from his bread to look her in the eye, smiling pleasant as ever, but he couldn’t bring himself to look for long. The red was gone, the Hexx’s field smooth like silk, like it’d been a moment before, but Tom remembered it.

Drezda was looking down, and in the corner of his eye, he couldn’t read her worth a hat. He felt a tug of worry. He’d made a choice, and he knew it. He could’ve let it slide away; he suspected, now, he should’ve. You mung, you’re embarrassing the hell out of her, he thought. First, wrangling with cxîl like a kenser, and now this poetry vodundun.

He’d taken a contemplative first bite of bread — the cheese really was benny, and a little peppery — when he felt it. He managed not to jolt; he blinked and cleared his throat, narrowly avoiding breathing a crumb up his windpipe. Tzacks-cxîl was putting a slice of prosciutto in her mouth with a graceful sweep of her wrist, oblivious. Tom smiled at her, and made to dust his hands on the napkin in his lap. Then, without looking at Drezda, he laid his hand gently on top of hers.

He gave it a small squeeze, and let it linger there awhile.

Tom hadn’t been too busy to catch Ksjta’s glance in her daughter’s direction. There was something there he hadn’t expected — it was hard to read her, but it looked almost like guilt. There was so much here, woven between mother and daughter like a web, gossamer-thin; he saw it only when it caught the light. The looks, the subtle gestures, the words with their double- and triple- and quadruple-meanings. He saw them, but there was no piecing together what they meant.

It wasn’t that that surprised him; it was always so, with fami. It was only that he was a part of this one, woven into a web he couldn’t see. It must’ve been guilt, he thought. She’s your daughter, he wanted to say, angrily; I’m a strange man, and a natt no less. If you’re flooding guilty about it, then be good to her. He hid a disturbed frown behind a sip of tea; he didn’t think it was that, not really, but he didn’t know what it could be.

Ksjta was speaking again as he set down his cup, porcelain clinking. He smiled faintly at as changed; he raised his eyebrows and shot a glance to Drezda, but it didn’t last long. He looked back at the Hexx, watching her tuck a band of dark hair behind her ear.

Tom didn’t look, not directly, but he saw it. Thin, dark lines, traced in a pattern he didn’t know. He wondered what another Hexx would see, looking at them. Obvious, she’d said.

One knows a Vessel, she’d said, very quietly. A little shiver ran through Tom; he did well to suppress it, reaching for a paper-thin slice of ham, instead. As he chewed, he thought. He knew better than to ask right off. Another sip of tea to wash down the cured meat, and he raised an eyebrow at Ksjta. “No,” he said. “Not in particular. I knew I wasn’t alone, but it’s still — hard to wrap my mind around, Tzacks-cxîl. People like me, living their lives in peace, not — poked and prodded. Just people. And every new thing I learn…”

He trailed off, thinking. The word — vessel — echoed faintly through his head; if he thought too hard about it, he could feel his chest tightening. A vessel, a vessel — for water. A vessel was a bowl of soup, or a pot of tea. Not a body for a soul. Anatole had become a vessel for Tom; he had poured himself inside, and he fit neatly enough, if not comfortably. He looked down, half-expecting to see ink on the thin, freckled fingers. Strange.

“What does it — mean, to be a Vessel?” he said, tentatively, looking back up. He still didn’t look at her ear; he wouldn’t ask, not directly. If she wanted to tell him, it was up to her. “Vks-cxîl tells me it’s an honor, though he’s a — though cxîl is a Guide, and will never be asked. I can’t say I’m not glad of it. It seems bittersweet; I’d miss him.”

[Drezda Ecks]

Roalis 67, 2719 | Late Morning
Sub Rosa Hotel, The Stacks

.

It had been an odd little gesture on Drezda’s part to touch his knee. The young woman had long been uncomfortable with physical contact outside of certain arenas. Embraces and handshakes — when they arose — were awkward for her, usually anything that involved touching for the sake of decorum because they were such self-conscious things. So many little details that you had to consider. A handshake alone forced you to think of how to grasp the other’s hand, how much pressure to apply and whether to let it end naturally or pull away at a predetermined moment. The fanfare and obligation attached to such things was probably what made the woman awkward but there was no obligation here and it was intentionally low-key so it wasn’t bad at all. In fact, she’d done this all of her accord and was happier for it. That she should have any degree of intimacy with someone in public, albeit out of sight, was unusual but to have it with a man was novel indeed.

She didn’t know why she didn’t withdraw her hand immediately once she’d given his knee a gentle squeeze, but when his hand found hers. The diplomat found herself feeling oddly relieved as if she had needed such a response, had hoped for it; perhaps on some level, she had. She drew silent strength and support from the contact, the man helping her to weather whatever Ksjta might throw in her path. His own hand lingered on hers for a little bit, physically reinforcing the emotional alliance between them, providing her with the means to bolster her will while her mother remained entirely unaware. Funny really, if someone had told her a few months ago that this would happen — this situation where she had to rely on Tom, even if she had known who he truly was, Drezda could never have believed it possible.

There was another element of humour to their light contact though. Anatole Vauquelin would have been all too delighted to get his hands on the diplomat or have her put her hands on him. Well, her hands were on him now — willingly no less! — but the politician wasn’t around to appreciate it. Thinking about the man who used to inhabit the body beside her — whose former existence she sometimes forgot when she looked at it now — didn’t improve her appetite, but her stomach no longer roiled as horribly as it had done before and so the Hoxian felt that she could force herself to eat. Drezda took no pleasure in it as she gingerly took a bite from the cheese-smeared bread she’d prepared.

Her mother ate daintily, a morsel here and a morsel there, seeming to pick at the spread at a leisurely pace. Despite appearances, she had actually managed to put away a decent amount of food, even while she talked. That was a magic of its own really, one that the mona had no hand in: how did Ksjta Tzacks manage to eat so much without ever having food in her mouth as she spoke? It was fascinating and a little frightening to see her slip a piece of bread or a sliver of cheese into her mouth one moment and then speak the next, her speech clear and unhindered by chewing or trying to speak around her food. How did it disappear so fast? Did the Hexx inhale it?

It was a strange thing to envy someone for but there were many things about her mother that she wished that she could emulate. It was in social situations like these that she felt envy at its most acute, although in this instance, the older woman almost approached sloppiness with how much emotion she’d been exhibiting. If they’d been at home, she never would have allowed so much to show whereas Drezda…

In truth, if they’d currently been in Hox then Drezda Ecks would more than likely be making a greater show of herself than she was now, her current demeanour a good example compared to what would come out in her homeland. It hadn’t always been so bad but on the rare occasions when she was pressured into returning home, the young woman had discovered that everything had slipped, despite the fact that she had actually been trying. These days, her rhakor only appeared in its proper form when she had to interact with other Hoxians.

Watching her mother and envying the composure she seemed to maintain so effortlessly, she wondered what the raen thought of the woman; she wished that she could ask him. He seemed quite pleasant towards the elder Hoxian and Drezda couldn’t be sure that it was all an act. In fact, it might be the case that none of it was an act and he liked the woman. Except… he was on the diplomat’s side. Not that that meant that he had to hate the other, or even mean that he had to have negative feelings towards her automatically but she assumed that he did. She liked to believe—to hope—that he had placed himself wholeheartedly on her side, which meant being against the poet.

Only for the occasional glance her way and the squeeze of her hand, Tom hadn’t given many outward indications that he supported Drezda and so it was difficult for her to believe that he didn’t prefer her mother. Who wouldn’t prefer her mother when she was so- so-

The conversation was about raen — the only subject that it could be about — and the raven-haired young woman had to sit there, eating slowly and reluctantly, watching and listening but unable to contribute.

“I understand what you mean, Cooke-vumash. You find it difficult to imagine the existence of people like you who do not live in fear, always expecting discovery. You cannot imagine the unchanged knowing about you and not choosing to pursue a study of you,” Ksjta commented softly as the former human did his best to articulate his feelings on the raen who were part of the Hexxos. There might have been a little sympathy in her voice as she continued. “The Hexxos would never treat you as an object of curiosity. We deal in death and the care of the dead. We walk the paths that others fear to or dare not go. We are all touched by death so why should we persecute those touched by it differently than most of us?”

Her question was rhetorical — it could be assumed — but in spite of the seeming morbidness of what she said, her daughter assumed that her words were intended to comfort; she wondered if they did.

Tom asked a tentative question, not the one that Drezda would have asked in his position but the older woman still reacted rather poorly to it. Actually, it was shocking in light of how innocent the question seemed. Her body went rigid, sending a jolt through her frame. The latest tidbit slid from her fingers to bounce on the tablecloth and the diplomat was left staring at the fallen morsel, unable to believe that she had witnessed such a graceless act from her umah. She so frequently held herself aloft, almost like divinity that it was stunning to see that Ksjta was a mere mortal after all.

Unnoticed by her, the young woman began to tremble slightly, the tremor particularly prevalent in her extremities where the bones seemed to have abruptly lost all strength; Tom would surely feel it in the hand that rested on his leg. She couldn’t have said why but Drezda found that her mother’s response frightened her, made dread creep queasily into her belly.

Oh no, she shouldn’t have risked eating...

“It is an honour, yes,” the Hexx whispered, her eyes finding the fallen bit of bread, the slice of cured ham that had been placed on it fallen askew. She reached out for it hesitantly and it was plain to see that the older woman wasn’t physically steady. “You can be asked or you can assume that you know your own mind, your own heart and… volunteer.”

It should be impossible in this public place and from the shining example of Hoxian stoicism no less but the woman sounded as if she was going to cry. It wasn’t a tone that Drezda had heard often, although she had heard it at a more extreme level than this, but she could hear it now, the sorrow; it sounded as if the poet’s heart had begun to break before them.

“Umah…” Drezda murmured, her voice pitching up, almost an inquiry but not quite. She watched the woman set down her bread on the little plate in front of her before her hands slithered into her lap. Dark eyes rose reluctantly, the poet’s shoulders slightly slumped so that she appeared aged, no longer the middle-aged woman full of vitality and still bearing the hallmarks of youthful beauty. Her black gaze shone as it met her daughter’s and there was a depth of pain there that she hadn’t seen since she’d made the Hexx tell her the truth about Tsia.

“It is my doing. My little girl…”

That had been such a different place, a different time but this time, the Perceptive wasn’t full of cold, righteous anger and so she felt something crack within her. Her hand found her mother’s under the table, not entirely shocked when the woman took it and clasped it tightly.

“I’m sure that my mother cannot fully convey what it means to be a Vessel. Not from experience,” Drezda interjected softly, feeling her hand jerked. The pair looked at each other sideways at the same moment, a mutual understanding flowing between them. For all appearances, the woman’s words could be viewed as an odd attempt at comforting, although that obviously wasn’t the case judging by that jerk. However, even as they came out, stupid to her own ears, the diplomat realised that she was fishing. The topic was evidently painful to the woman and while she was quite upset and the Perceptive’s heart was breaking for her, part of her had begun questioning. She didn’t think that her mother was a raen so she couldn’t be a true Vessel but her response made her consider two possibilities: the woman had been asked, had refused and now regretted her decision or she had wanted to be so honoured but had never been granted the privilege. If it could be called a privilege, that is.

Ksjta’s hands left her own and some steel seemed to enter her spine, straightening as she shifted her legs to dislodge her daughter’s presence; Drezda withdrew her hand. The Hexx gazed straight at Tom, the shine still there, a haunted sort of pain there but also something harder, almost angry, maybe bitter.

“Being a Vessel means accepting that you must die and that you must welcome it with open arms. It means preparing yourself so that when the time comes, you can allow another soul to enter you and destroy everything that is yours — your joys and your sorrows, your love and your heartbreak — all while you are in your youth. It must be done at such an early juncture so that the new life can live fully with the prospect of many years ahead of them.”

The words spilled out in a deluge as if the woman could not keep them in, low and quick, some tone to them that reminded Drezda of an incantation. It made her skin shiver, the diplomat’s fingers curling tightly around the edge of her seat. She didn’t like the way she said it at all, every syllable hitting in such a manner that it made her spine feel as if it was moving, ready to crawl free. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck had risen, tugging her skin into goosebumps so that she shivered, in spite of the Roalis heat.

“I think that’s enough,” the Hoxian whispered, the words dragged out of her unwillingly. She just needed it to stop. She couldn’t explain why it affected her so. There was an intensity to Ksjta, quiet but powerful, her eyes dark pools that Drezda thought she would tumble down, unable to look away. The room felt as if it was tilting and it certainly seemed to be shifting, especially in her peripheral vision. No, she shouldn’t have eaten anything.

Her field felt as if it was rocking as well, shifting around her queasily as her distress grew. She tried to draw it in so she wouldn’t have to feel the monic lurch, some part of her hoping to gain some physical strength by dampening. Her distress must have been apparent, her face taking on a paler cast than normal, beading with sweat that could have been the result of the heat.

Her mother carried on as if she hadn’t said a word and as if nothing was amiss.

“Being a Vessel means sacrifice. It means standing before the Circle and saying that you are willing to be destroyed so that someone unprepared does not have to do so. It means preventing the suffering of others. The person who might otherwise die in your stead, the one who will take your body who will not have to hide or struggle with another and fail. It means loving others so much that you would die for them, even though they may be strangers to you-”

“Stop it!” Drezda barked, voice pitching up in such a way that it carried and a silence fell in the room. She hadn’t been able to listen to anymore. It sounded sick. It was beyond sickening.

Her breath heaved in and out, her skin seemed to boil and she knew that she could sit here no longer; the diplomat was going to throw up.

She lurched to her feet with surprising speed, gripping the table so that she wouldn’t keel over as the room shifted. Her peripheral vision was gonna, the woman feeling blinkered as her sight shrank. Either she’d throw up or she’d faint. They felt much the same up until the moment they didn’t.

“If you’ll excuse me, I… think… I’m going… to be…” her voice faded out as she pivoted, moving on unsteady legs in the direction of-

Well, she didn’t know where the washroom was but she’d find it if she staggered off, wouldn’t she?

.

[Tom Cooke]

The Sub Rosa Hotel • The Stacks

Bearably Early on the 67th of Roalis, 2719

T
om hadn’t forgot why he was at the table, why he was breaking fast with the Hexx in the first place, but it was easy to let what he felt pull him astray. Drezda was in the corner of his eye, but he was watching Ksjta Tzacks intently, and much of his polite politician’s mien was bleeding away — replaced by aching curiosity. His lips were pressed thin, and they pressed even thinner as she went on. The line between his brows deepened.

In the pause between questions, he was looking at her with something like a mix of sadness and fear and relief.

Why shouldn’t we persecute them? was the question that sprang to his mind first, though he knew he couldn’t ask it. He looked over at Drezda, once; she was listening, too. He thought again of Ezre when he’d said monster, helpless to understand. He thought Drezda understood better; he remembered her in her parlor that morning, before she’d let him help her up the stairs.

There was more comfort in that understanding, somehow, than Ksjta’s words, no matter how eloquent they’d been. It was at least something that made sense to him. Tom looked down at his plate, studying half a small slice of crusty bread, a scattering of crumbs.

He knew he’d made a misstep when a bit of bread and ham slipped Ksjta’s hand. It jerked his eyes back up to her face, widening slightly. He mastered himself in an instant, but he couldn’t help his heart quickening. There was something different in Ksjta’s voice, this time.

Umah?

Tom shot a sharp glance at Drezda, but she had eyes only for her mother. Something’d passed between them. She was speaking, now — not from experience, she was saying, hastily — and Tom couldn’t know — only he did know, buried deep, crawling up like bile; he’d known when he’d seen the ink, though he’d not been thinking —

Ksjta spoke again, and Tom looked at her. He nearly started. It could’ve been a different woman, sitting there in her place, in her clothes, in her benny makeup. Right in front of him, someone’d painted lines and shadows on her face that hadn’t been there before. And someone had given her eyes a sheen, too, a tell-tale redness round the edges, one Tom knew as he knew his own heart. He didn’t know what his own face was doing; he could look at nothing but Ksjta.

Once again, Tom was pulled in, but it was like his question’d found him an undertow. It dragged him under the skin of the water and pulled him along, and he heard the brittle break of bone on every word.

He glanced down only once. His hands were above the table; his wrists rested on the edges, his fists white-knuckled, as if he expected he’d have to lift them to ward off blows. Your joys and your sorrows, your love and your heartbreak, Ksjta said, and it echoed through his head, and he felt it in the bones and skin he had taken, and thought: everything but this, and this is what you give. While you’re still young.

His mouth was dry, and he tasted fear as he looked back up at Ksjta. He thought he knew, then, what’d happened. Drezda protested softly, but Ksjta went on, and Tom felt powerless to the current. He felt numb.

It means loving others so much you would die for them —

Stop!

Tom jolted, banging his knee on the underside of the table; Drezda’s bark was punctuated by a rattle of silverware. Like that, the spell was broken. The common room was a blanket of silence. His eyes widening, Tom looked round. The gentleman and his daughter a few tables over were looking sheepishly in their direction. Everybody was; only the woman in the corner, nestled in her white ruffled dress, kept on reading her paper.

Meanwhile Drezda was getting up on shaky legs, fumbling to excuse herself. Tom realized abruptly that his eyes were prickling wet. He sniffed sharply, palmed the moisture away roughly, and pushed himself to his own feet. “I — please — a moment, Tzacks-cxil,” he rasped, but it was nowhere near his polite politician’s cadence. His voice broke on the honorific.

Drezda was staggering away. His porven tangled with the perceptive mona at the edges of her field briefly. He hesitated, glancing from mother to daughter, but it was Drezda’s current that pulled him along, this time.

He was scarcely capable of thought. It means loving others so much you would die for them, Tzacks had said, and it kept ringing through his head; it was all he could hear, like the clear, thin note of a bell. There were more tears in his eyes.

Tom took a few steps after Drezda and reached for her elbow with one hand, careful. She didn’t look too steady on her feet — he didn’t know —

“The water closet’s this way,” he said, once he’d got close enough he could lower his voice to almost a whisper. He remembered from the days he’d stayed here so far; a man who drank as much as Tom usually did, being honest. Gentle-like, if she let him, he’d guide her in the other direction; there was a shadowed archway underneath the stairs.

It means loving others so much you would die for them, Tzacks had said. The words ached through Tom, even as he turned his back. He was afraid to look back at her. He felt dizzy. He was afraid of how much he understood; he had always been afraid of the kind of love that burned itself out.

It was easier, as always, to focus on each second as it came. “Are you all right?” Tom asked softly. “D’you need anything?”

.