[Closed] And Wished It Kept

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 8 Dentis, 2719
Hotel Pendulum, The Stacks

Look at me, Aremu remembered saying once, a hand and a lifetime ago. He thought of Tom, then, hands gripping the railing of the Eqe Aqawe, face tight with fear. He remembered the other man’s eyes opening, and the way Tom had looked at him, then, as if he were the axis upon which Vita turned. He remembered, too, the feel of scarred knuckles beneath his fingertips, and the slow journey on the deck and so far beyond it.

The Aggraziato was a commercial liner, a rigid airship. Aremu knew the line well enough; he could imagine the internal framework of the envelope, the tracery of ring bulkheads pressing, firmly, against the droped fabric, shielding the gasbags within. It had a small exterior viewing platform, curved and shielded against wind and sun, nestled at the edge of the lower deck. Aremu had found his way to the upper deck instead, and settled himself at the junction where the slanted window that ran lengthwise along the deck met the curved one that took up the hull. It was a quiet spot, far from the bar and the scattering of comfortable chairs that made up the smaller of the passenger lounges. Standing, there, with his right wrist tucked against his pocket and the fingertips of his left hand just resting against the glass, he could feel the shudder of the engines as the ship began to rise; he could see Vienda spreading below them, wreathed in its own faint smog. He could see the farmlands on the edges of the city, tapestries of green and yellow and brown, with roads like seams winding through them.

There was no pretending, aboard the Aggraziato, not even for a moment. All the same, Aremu held there, still, and watched, for the entirety of the half-day journey. Hunger and thirst were foreign to him, as distant as the white sand shores and red dirt of Isla Dzum. He watched, though his dream of being free had never felt more like a nightmare.

The beginning of the descent had wrenched through him. He had looked down, the better part of the last hour, and only when he felt it did he force himself to lift his gaze. Looking away changed nothing; Aremu knew to face it. Even from a distance, he could see the wall of Brunnhold campus rising up. He could paint the inside in his imagination, red brick and green trees; he had seen it, although from a distance, well enough for that.

He had left the window then, although only for a brief moment. He was not the first passenger to have been sick in the lavatory; he thought he could smell it, distant and lingering, though the perfume and potpourri. He had little enough to bring up, but whatever he had wrenched through him, and left him wrung out.

Aremu splashed a palmful of water on his face, and dried it off, and rinsed his mouth out until the taste eased. And then he went back to the window, and watched a little longer as golden rays of sun spilled over the world below, as they descended down. He walked, willingly, into the trap, but its jaws were no less sharp for it.

He did not hesitate when the time came. The passengers around him flowed off the ship, and Aremu with them, conscious of Tom just as his elbow, of the tight, worried gaze of flat gray eyes, drifting to him and away. Aremu looked forward, and never back; he could not. There was a time, in any climb, when to hesitate was to be lost; when the tired ache inside had to be resisted, and not gentled away. Aremu knew it well, on the cliffs of Isla Dzum and the Rose, on the branches of a thousand trees, on the tracery of pipes and windowsills that led up buildings in Thul’Amat and beyond, even on the chainmetal of a semi-rigid airship. He knew it here, and he knew better than to yield.

Aremu stayed just a little distant in the shipyard, just distant enough. He knew the boundaries well; for once, he could not bear to know if he was seen. There was a low murmur of a familiar voice, and once an amused chuckle, and then movement again. Tom spoke to the driver of a carriage as two moa clucked and shifted their feet, and Aremu climbed inside and flinched, once, when the man shut the door behind them.

He looked up at Tom, across the small space as the carriage jostled and began to move, as the candle flame against the wall flickered. There was something like a smile on his face, but he could not sustain it. Aremu eased himself back against the seat, and did not close his eyes, not even here, though he longed to. He looked down at the hands on his lap, instead, the one of flesh and the one of wood, and brushed his fingertips delicately over the prosthetic.

There was a point - there must have been - when they left the shipyard, when they entered the Stacks. The ride was not even; it stopped, here and there, then and again, and each time Aremu felt it pounding through his pulse. Now, he wanted to ask, and then again, and again. Now?

The carriage stopped again, and Aremu tasted his heart in his throat, bloody and bitter-sweet. This time, he thought, this time.

The door opened, then, and the coachman nodded at them both. His gaze flickered over Aremu, curious; a faint frown knit his brow. Whatever he saw, whatever he felt, whatever he knew, he turned back to Tom. “Here it is, sir.” He stepped back, then, to let them out.

Aremu came out second, his right wrist tucked against his pocket; his left hand lingered on the door frame, just a moment, and then he stepped free of the carriage. He looked around at the Stacks; he turned to Tom then, swallowing against the heavy collar of his coat, and he nodded, just once.

[Tom Cooke]

Pendulum Hotel • The Stacks

Evening on the 8th of Dentis, 2719

T
he candle wavered and ducked in the glass, danced with every rattle of the carriage.

Every time it guttered low, every time Tom thought it’d go out, it raised its head back up and kept burning. Once or twice, the carriage rattled to a halt, and it found a balance that was almost indectal. Then the cab lurched; the shadows shifted; the candle seemed to take a shuddering breath and start its dance again.

The low, flickering light made Aremu’s face hard to read. Tom was too tired to feel much; what he wasn’t too tired to feel, he was too nauseous to feel. He had seen the flinch go across the imbala’s face as the door had shut behind him, but if he’d been meant to offer the other man a reassuring smile, he couldn’t find one. He didn’t know it’d help, anyway; he didn’t know anything would.

What could he say? How did you like the sight of it aboard that commercial monster, these red-brick walls? The first time I saw it, I think I felt something like confusion and hate. I’m going to go in there; I’m going to touch all the books. A natt. What do you think of that?

And then he saw Aremu, saw him properly again, and the bitterness melted away. So afraid. And not even a proper airship to take you here, Tom thought then, aching. And too much fog to see the stars, and nobody – nobody, really – to trust. No, there was nothing to say.

As he rested his head against the back panel and swallowed another wave of nausea, it all came apart, anyway. Tom had let his eyes sweep over the inside of the cab, once – familiar; he thought he’d taken this very cab, once, in the Stacks – drunk, maybe. Familiar, except for the sight of Aremu in the midst of it, dressed in an autumn Anaxi suit, the warm light catching all the angles of his face and filling it with flickering shadows.

Familiar, except for the wooden hand in Aremu’s lap. Tom watched the candle, mesmerized, but he saw it in the corner of his eye: Aremu’s fingers brushing over the smooth wood, still damp from the cold misty walk through the shipyard. As if reflexively, he found one of his own hands with the other, bizarrely unfamiliar through the warm-lined leather of his gloves. He wasn’t sure which of Aremu’s he wanted to touch, but this was no good substitute.

Once, there was something on Aremu’s face that was almost like a smile. Tom met his eye. He felt threadbare; he felt like the dead thing he was. He smiled anyway, a smile full of pained lines, but a genuine one.

He watched the candle through most of the carriage ride. He tucked himself into his coat, his scarf, gathered his clairvoyant mona around him and found a rhythm for his breath. The candle didn’t go out, not even when the carriage lurched to a halt for the last time.

The street was as misty as the shipyard. Tom could feel the cold moisture on his face as he looked up at the great brick building, disappearing into the thick fog. You could barely see up and down the street, except for the distant glow of phosphor streetlamps. Berowyn-blue, swimming strange and cold in the slick sidewalks.

Tom breathed in chill petrichor, old cigar smoke, moa smells, faint wisps of colognes and perfumes. He looked back as Aremu climbed down from the carriage and nodded back – just once.

Then he tipped the coachman and the cab rattled away. Tom took a deep breath. He still felt nauseated; the ground was still uncertain under his boots, an uncertain contrast to the windowless nook he’d been curled in, sick, for half a day. But he’d got his land-legs back in the shipyard, and though the journey still clung to him like a film of clammy sweat, he found it inside himself.

With another look at Aremu, and something like a grim half-smile, he headed toward the double-doors and pushed them open, into a wave of warmth.

The foyer was dominated by the twist of a staircase, carpeted as deeply, as richly in red as the rest of the floor. It swept round a circle of tiles behind the front desk, marked clockwise; inside it, a great brass pendulum swung back and forth slowly, its cord stretching up what must’ve been at least four or five floors. Tom kept his mouth shut and tried not to gawk like the mung natt he was, but his throat was fair dry. He tried to follow the cord up, and up, and the swinging –

He swallowed and blinked and shook his head, and then he was smooth again. He found he could look at the front desk. There was already a couple there, chatting to the little dark-haired galdor across the desk. They were Mugrobi, and dressed heavily in thick coats. The man was a little shorter than his wife, with close-cropped dark hair and very dark skin, and he hung back a little, as if uncertain.

The woman was more outgoing – Tom could already hear her lilting to the concierge as he approached the desk. Her head was shaved, and her shoulders were draped in snow-white, Gioran osta fur. She waved a gloved, slender hand, and laughed, and passed her husband the keys. As she turned away from the desk, her eyes caught on Tom and Aremu. Her husband turned to them, too.

“Ma’ralio,” she said. He felt the brush of her field, quantitative and indectal but still warm, comfortable – casual, maybe, even – and then her husband’s, a quieter slant. He felt them reach out to caprise Aremu and braced himself; the man frowned slightly, briefly, but the woman’s smile did not falter.

“Sana’hulali. Tsahif pez Údowayem,” the man pronounced slowly to Anatole. He looked damned tired, and maybe a little reluctant, and Tom didn’t suppose he blamed him. “And this is my wife, Omey pezre Itúqe,” and he wrapped one arm around her and drew her gently closer.

Omey had a bright smile; it seemed to cast off some of the cold, and Tom found it easier to smile back. He thought she looked a little older when she smiled – you could see it in the lines around her eyes and her lips – but she didn’t look any worse for it. There was a scattering of freckles across her nose.

“My husband and I are from Thul Ka, though my husband's colleagues in the Pendulum have been most gracious. It’s my work that has brought us such a long way,” she explained. “I’m a linguist, from Thul’Amat.”

Tom brightened. “Oh?"

"Omey is visiting to give a lecture," put in Tsahif, sheepishly. His field flickered bastly for a moment. "She is an expert on the - proto-Wakesho-Yul," he added.

"Yun," Omey said gently, patting his arm. She grinned at Tom and Aremu. "My husband does me great honor. I am merely here to share Thul'Amat's knowledge with Brunnhold, and be enlightened in turn."

Tom laughed. "Ma’ralio, ada’na, ada’xa. My name is Anatole Vauquelin – and this is ada’xa Aremu Ediwo,” and he gestured, and let the introductions fall out as they would; he bowed low, and Tsahif and Omey bowed in turn.

After a few moments, Omey put in quickly, “To pass a friendly vessel in the night is always pleasant, but He carries us on.”

Anatole raised a hand and stepped to the desk. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping you,” he replied, honestly. “It was a pleasure to meet both of you.”

He turned to the concierge. Up close, the man looked oddly familiar, but he couldn’t’ve placed him – there was a thin wisp of a mustache on his upper lip, more of an attempt than a success, and a scattering of freckles on his thin, pale cheeks.

There were flecks of gold in his irises, he saw now. “Incumbent Vauquelin,” he said neatly, though his eyes flicked to Aremu, faintly confused. “We’ve been expecting you,” he pushed on. “My name is Simone Caprese; please let me know if there is anything you need.” He bowed, and Anatole bowed back, a little more hesitantly.

There was a jingle and a glint in the air; Caprese already had the keys in his hand, and Anatole took them neatly. “Yours is room 312, overlooking the courtyard. Might I recommend making a reservation at Boivin's this evening?” His glance flicked to Aremu again, faintly confused.

“Not for me,” Anatole said, lightly, “not this evening, I think.” He moved a little out of the way to make room for Aremu, and Caprese’s glance flicked back and forth, and he flushed.

For the first time, Tom realized he looked a little afraid. More than a little. The pieces started to come together. In the corner of his eye, he could see ada’xa Tsahif and ada’na Omey, indistinct. Tsahif was a little behind Omey, moving toward the stairs; Omey stood still, watching the desk. The pendulum swung.

Caprese’s throat bobbed in a swallow. He smoothed over immediately, and laughed. “Oh, dear, this is unfortunate. Er –” He looked down again at the open book with its neat columns of cursive; he turned a page haphazardly, then turned it back. His frown deepened as he looked back up.

There was a pause; his eyes moved, slowly, as if painfully, toward Aremu, and settled on his face like a moth might settle on a Vachran fly trap. “What is – what is the gentleman’s name? Sir?” He seemed confused as to whom he was addressing.

.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 8 Dentis, 2719
Hotel Pendulum, The Stacks

A Foucault pendulum, Aremu wanted to say. The words welled up, inside him; he felt them bright and enthusiastic in his chest. It’s amazing, Tom. Foucault was an Anaxi physicist, interested in the movements of Vita. A quantitative conversationalist, not thirty years ago, who learned the right questions to ask – who took what the mona told him, and designed a device to demonstrate it for one and all.

You’d think that a pendulum would swing back and forth along the same line, wouldn’t you? But the swing of it rotates, he wanted to say. The line of it – if you sat here, if you watched it, you’d see; the rotation of it changes, just a little, with each swing. And in time, based on the location, it comes back to itself once more. Foucault installed them in each of the mainland universities, and in Thul’Amat as well; we had one. I sat before it, as a boy, in physics class; our instructor taught all of us the equations to write to describe its movement.

I could show you, Aremu wanted to say. I could write it down for you, still, because it fascinated me so. I’d like to share it with you. I’d like –

The words were trapped somewhere in his chest, thumping against his ribs. He felt as if the Brunnhold fog outside had crawled down his throat, stopping it, filling it up; if he opened his mouth, they would not be words that emerged, but clouds of thick white fog, pouring out into the room.

“Ma’ralio, ada’na, ada’xa,” Aremu said when Tom introduced him. He bowed, both arms graceful, but his right wrist was back against his pocket when he rose.

My name is Anatole Vauquelin, Aremu thought, suddenly tired. Let me introduce – on the tickets, on the reservation, everywhere. He was traveling with Anatole Vauquelin. He didn’t know what to make of it; it was a strange thing to be so aware of. It crept up on him, and settled like a collar around his throat, and he could say nothing else. It was a relief when Tsahif and Omey gave their regards and turned away; he had liked Omey, with her cheerful grin and the scattering of freckles across her broad nose. He didn’t want to think of her saying to her husband, later, with a smile, something about the men they had met in the lobby – something about Anatole Vauquelin –

They were at the counter, then. Aremu knew the look before it reached Caprese’s mouth; he knew what was coming. His eyes had closed for a moment, but there was nothing to be read into them when he opened; there was no frustration writ on the smoothness of his face, nothing but a polite, professional smile.

“Aremu Ediwo,” Aremu said, holding himself upright, claiming the name for himself before Tom could speak. He had not minded, earlier, being named by Tom; he knew Tom understood, now, what the name meant to him, if he hadn’t before. He was ashamed of much that had transpired between them, but not that; not that.

Caprese swallowed; he looked at Aremu. Red had crept up to the tips of his ears beneath short-cut dark hair, and peeked out above his collar on the side of his neck. There was the faintest blush of it connecting the freckles on his cheeks. His eyes darted back to Tom.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Caprese said, indeterminately. He looked down at the book again; he turned a page again, and then back, and smoothed it with a thin, trembling hand. He settled a long, thin ribbon against the page, and shut the book, and held the cover closed. “A misunderstanding, I am sure,” his gaze darted back to Aremu; his lips twitched, and he turned back to Tom. “I’m afraid we have no reservation under that name. Unfortunately, there are no rooms left available for the night.”

There was silence; there was the faint swishing of the pendulum through the center of the stairs. Each arc different, Aremu thought, and yet the same.

“I should be glad,” Caprese began, a little frown marking the space between his eyes; he looked more directly at Aremu this time, “to make a – ah – suitable recommendation. Sir,” the last word was addressed to the space between them, to the indistinct gap that lay between the two men.

“Of course,” Aremu said, quietly. He knew better than to argue. There was tension, beneath the smooth line of his suit, but his face was carefully blank. The faint, polite smile never wavered.

“Excellent,” Caprese cleared his throat. He looked down again; he shifted the registration book to the side, by several inches, and tucked his hands one atop the other against the desk. “The Wayfarer, perhaps.” He said.

“Pardon me.” Aremu felt the brush of a warm indectal field against him, the stirring of quantitative mona. Omey was there, smiling at Caprese. “Could you remind me of our room number?”

Tsahif stood out of range, a few feet back; without looking behind him, Aremu thought he could see a stiffness through the man’s body, in the way he held himself locked upright.

“Of course, madam,” Caprese inclined his head. “208.”

“Wonderful,” Omey said with a bright, smile. “Thank you.” She turned, and met Aremu’s eyes; her head gave the faintest shake. She was walking, then, back away from the deck.

Aremu inhaled, slowly, and exhaled again, and found the slight, friendly smile once more. “Do you have any other suggestions?” He asked, looking at Caprese.

Caprese looked at him; he looked back down, frowning, as if he might discover an answer written on the smooth, well-polished wood. He hesitated, and again there was only the steady swishing of the pendulum, the crackle of a warm fire across the room. Distant, Aremu heard the faint tinkle of cutlery, a sound like the clinking of glasses, faint laughter; it crawled down his spine.

[Tom Cooke]

Pendulum Hotel • The Stacks

Evening on the 8th of Dentis, 2719

P
erhaps you could recommend,” Anatole suggested gently, into the silence, “alternative lodgings suitable for the both of us, Mr. Caprese.” His cool grey gaze stayed on Caprese’s face, unfaltering, almost unblinking. He smiled politely; he breathed evenly. Caprese was still looking down at the desk.

“I’m afraid one will find many hotels in the Stacks booked this time of year,” Caprese protested, looking up from the desk. “Our deepest apologies, but it is the start of the term at Brunnhold, and after the gala — I might have suggested Daeueh Imaane, but it is quite…”

Anatole frowned. “Of course,” he said, even more softly.

Caprese looked at Aremu; he didn’t hesitate this time. “Mr. Ediwo is assured of Hotel Pendulum’s regrets in this matter. It is an embarrassing mistake, and one which will not be repeated, sir.”

A deep breath. It nearly slipped, then, nearly broke, but he held onto it.

He’d caught ada’na Omey’s twitch of the head; he hadn’t known what it’d meant other than Wayfarer was a no-go. Other than he was out of his element and in over his head. He’d realized then, with that shake of the head, that he wouldn’t’ve known anything about the place one thing or another; he’d never heard anything laoso, but then, he wasn’t in the position to. It wasn’t as if he’d ever stayed there himself. It wasn’t as if he’d ever known anybody who had.

He swallowed a painful lump in the silence, holding on, holding — for a few moments, his eyes settled on the cord of the pendulum over Caprese’s head.

Back, one sweeping motion, a hushed breath against the tiles; forth, another, along the exact same line. Exact same? Tom couldn’t understand. There was a circle drawn underneath it, plain as day, plain as a plot, but it was just a metronome: it moved back and forth. Big brass gong, swinging. How did it stay in motion? Magic? Was that a plot, underneath it? Tom couldn’t feel any spellwork in the lobby.

It was too slow to use to steady his breath.

If Aremu was as unsettled as him, he gave no sign. He had spoken evenly and neatly; he’d bowed with that careful, elegant maneuver that meant neither Omey nor Tsahif had even look down at his hands, one or the other. He had allowed himself a glance to the side of him, once or twice, but that polite, faintly smiling profile told him nothing.

He thought he knew something of it. Do you ever disappear behind it? He got the sudden, strange urge to ask. Do you become a different man? He thought of how Aremu had spoken it, had offered it up to the concierge’s fumbling question. Aremu Ediwo. He did not think, after all, it was much the same.

Caprese opened his mouth again, then shut it. His dark eyes flicked from Anatole to Aremu, settled briefly on the imbala, shot nervously back to the incumbent. “There is another option,” he said, hesitantly. His eyes found Anatole’s finally and stayed there.

“Yes, Mr. Caprese?”

Caprese’s flush deepened. “There are lodgings adjacent to all of our rooms, for a gentleman’s valet. I do not believe the Incumbent sent word of bringing a valet,” he said slowly, as if he expected to be slapped.

He felt as if he might come unraveled. He did not let the smile leave his face, but the sinking in his stomach was almost unbearable.

“Hotel Pendulum means no offense, sir,” Caprese said, quickly, turning to Aremu. He couldn’t quite look the imbala in the eye. “Mr. Ediwo shall have all of the amenities afforded to a regular guest, and if the gentlemen should decide to dine in, the Pendulum will take care of the expenses. And if,” he added, “a room should vacate, hotel staff will work quickly and efficiently to rectify this unfortunate situation.”

He turned smoothly to Aremu, unseeing, unthinking; the words came to his lips almost before he knew what they would be. “Ada’xa, do you care to share the room with me, until a better arrangement can be found?”

His voice was as smooth as his face, as smooth as Aremu’s, but there was a sharp edge, a slight admonition, in the word better. As if to say, how embarrassing that two gentlemen of status should receive such treatment. He did not look at Caprese.

He ached. I am sorry to ask you to lie, he wanted to say. I am so sorry.

.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 8 Dentis, 2719
Hotel Pendulum, The Stacks

Suitable for the both of us, Tom said.

Aremu breathed steadily, and evenly; his smile did not waver. Do you remember Laus Oma? He wanted to ask. It is not forbidden, precisely, for imbali to stay at the same hotels as arati. But even in the Islands, even where the wealthiest imbali in all of Mugroba live – it is not done. Even there, Tom, in Laus Oma, where I am known – where Niccolette is known, where we had all the weight of Uzoji’s memory behind is – even there, I would have stayed elsewhere from you.

Suitable for the both of us.

More than anything from the Anaxi behind the desk, it threatened to break him. In the end he was not sure he was grateful to Omey; he was not sure he had done the right thing, in asking for an alternative. How bad could the hotel have been? Surely he had slept in worse. But he had asked; it was not dirt or discomfort which scared him. There were other threats, here in Brunnhold; there were real threats, here in Anaxas. He did not wish to tempt them.

Aremu inclined his head gently in response to Caprese’s regrets. He did not think the galdor a liar, although he knew that Anaxi did not place the same weight on truth. He was sure that Caprese was embarrassed by the mistake; was embarrassed that Hotel Pendulum had not realized the guest booking a room was an imbala. He wondered how they would manage not to repeat it; he doubted the occasion would ever arise again.

He should have thought of it, Aremu thought, his face polite and neutral, thoughts pounding against the base of his skull in a dull throbbing headache. What could he have done? He could have sent word to Thul’Amat; he knew some professors there. He could have asked – when imbali come to Brunnhold, where do they stay? He had not; it had never occurred to him. He had been all-consumed with the fear of arriving; he was, in truth, still all-consumed with the fear of arriving. There was no embarrassment or humiliation for him in this, or if there was, it was shallow; it floated upon the surface of him, and was swept away by the next wave of fear.

Another option, Caprese said.

Aremu looked at the man behind the desk once more. For a gentleman’s valet, Caprese said. If the gentlemen decide to dine in. Not humiliation, no, Aremu thought. He could not place it. It hurt, but it was a familiar hurt. Like a diagram, traced out between them all. Here, it said; this is where the imbala goes. He breathed, slowly and evenly; he understood. He let it settle into himself, and if it hurt, he knew why. He could not blame Caprese; he thought of the tinkling glasses, the buzz of laughter in the dining room. He understood.

Aremu looked at Tom. He blinked, slowly; his eyes fixed on the other man’s face. There was a pinched, strained look to him, as if the nausea of flight had not left him yet; the wrinkles of age were dragged down a little deeper than usual. There was something sharp in his voice, something angry, and Aremu was reminded of the flinch that had gone across him at the word scrap.

Yes, Aremu wanted to say. Yes – do you think I care?

He was conscious of Incumbent Vauquelin’s dignity, his status. He inclined his head, delicately. “It is an inconvenience,” Aremu lied, turning to Caprese as he did so. He inhaled. No better arrangement would be found, Aremu understood; no room would vacate. “But it seems the best available option.” That was not a lie. He turned back to Tom, and inclined his head, gently. “You are generous to submit to such an arrangement, Incumbent."

Aremu stood, feeling something like his pulse pounding in his ears. He didn’t know how to name it. There was one key for the room; it went to Tom. He lost track of the words that passed between them; he knew he had spoken, at least once, but he could not have said of what. He was aware of the smooth, even smile on his face. He was aware of the long trip up the stairs, to the third floor, of the soft, thick carpet beneath his shoes. He was aware of the swaying of the pendulum, back and forth, tracing its arc slowly around and around.

They were there, then, outside the room. Not just the two of them; there was the bellman, human, and his eyes were on Aremu and his mouth did not quite seem to wish to close. He stood behind the suitcases; he shifted a little, to keep them between the guests and himself.

The door opened; the bellman brought Tom’s things inside first, and then Aremu’s; he opened a small door inside the hallway of Tom’s room, and set Aremu’s trunk down inside it. Aremu held, out in the hallway; he let the man get well out of the way before he went inside. He glanced around, slowly, breathing steadily. It was a small, narrow room, with a high window not meant for seeing out of, with comfortable looking mattress on a bedframe, made with sheets with a heavy blanket folded at the foot, a wardrobe and a small table. Aremu ran his fingers over the table, slowly; he breathed, evenly, in and out.

He held, there, standing, as if looking around, until he heard the clink of coins, until he heard the bellman close the door behind himself. He did not wish to know if the man had looked at him again.

Aremu eased his coat off, slowly; there was no fireplace in this room, and he was shivering already, though he knew the two things were not related. He hung it, carefully, in the closet; he eased out of his suit jacket next, slowly, and hung it as well. He sat on the bed, as if it would help with the trembling, and began to undo the buttons of his waistcoat, one by one; he lay it aside. His shirt, next; one by one. He eased it off of himself, carefully sliding the cuff around his hand; he settled it on the bed.

Aremu’s breath trembled in his chest, his throat, his nose. He looked down at himself; he lifted his left hand to the cross-body strap that held his hand in place, and eased it loose. It left behind lines imprinted on his body; a pattern, Aremu thought, dizzily. The ones at his shoulder next – his elbow after that – his wrist last. There were lines dug deep into him, like scars. He eased the hand from his wrist, and rose, and set all of it gently on the table.

Aremu went back to the bed, then; he picked his shirt up, and eased it back on; he did the buttons up, one by one. He opened his trunk, slowly, and took out a sweater; he pulled it on over his head, and settled his arms through the sleeves.

Then, and only then, did Aremu go back to the cot; he sat, this time, and he buried his face in his hand, and he surrendered to the shaking; there was, he thought, little more use in fighting it.

[Tom Cooke]

Pendulum Hotel • The Stacks

Evening on the 8th of Dentis, 2719

G
enerous.

He didn’t feel generous. It was hard to say what he felt like; a mask, maybe, where there should’ve been a man. Not like one of those masks of Ada’xa Yesufu’s, not the serene face painted in radiant gold, not even the plain, smooth dark ones that’d hung all over the wing where they’d put Aremu by himself. Not even Aremu’s sort of mask.

He felt like a costume with nothing underneath it, hanging in a closet, hanging in a shadowed nook behind the curtain. Without a man inside it, he couldn’t say what it stood for. You might hang it round a corner to get a good scare out of somebody; it might be a presence, for as long as it hung behind the curtain, holding a little of what it held on the stage, an echo of basso authority — Camilla’s father in The Rake, the lord Gabriele in The Fall of House Amoretto.

He felt the banister glide by underneath his fingertips, faintly greasy with polish. He had dreaded the stairs; he dreaded each stair as he tackled it, slower than their little entourage might’ve liked to go, on his aching hip.

Beyond the banister, the pendulum. Tom could see a little more of the tile underneath it, from above. It did look almost like a plot, though he knew, now, there was no spellwork. It was elaborate, symmetrical from every angle, cut any way; it was subtle, spiderweb-thin lines, and you could only really see it when the light caught it and shot down its delicate paths. Underneath it, the vague, colorful shapes of land masses. Like a ward spread out over the Six Kingdoms; like a ward spread over Vita.

Tom ached.

The height threatened to nauseate him again. He didn’t think the Pendulum staff would appreciate cleaning his sick off the tiles, spectacular as it would’ve been from up here. He lifted up his costume’s chin stiffly, and looked onward up the stairs — and he felt the weight of all his body’s aches, and its sickness, and its stiffness. And its love, stinging at his eyes with tears. He didn’t know how to reconcile any of it.

He was too tired to register much, as they reached the third floor. He was keeping track of Aremu, at first, and then his mind couldn’t even hold the imbala; there was a natt carrying in their trunks, and he felt small and weak, bundled up in his coat, a key clenched in one shaky hand.

It was a suite of rooms. Tom didn’t have the strength to smile when he saw the great soft bed, with its dark coverlet and pile of pillows traced in gold thread. Round a corner, a little soft blue light drifted out of a water closet. Great glass doors led from the bedroom to a balcony; from the door, Tom could make out rooftops, and balconies on the opposite wall of the quadrangle, though the glass was faintly fogged. Across from the bed, a fire crackled merrily in a hearth.

A tall plant with broad, glossy leaves shivered near another window, closer to the lavatory. The room smelled of warm cinnamon, rosemary, and firewood.

It was all he could do to pull off his coat and hang it, unwind his scarf from his neck, take off his jacket with shaking hands. He found the bed and sat on it; he could not think to do anything but. He couldn’t’ve wept or shaken, except from tiredness. When he shut his eyes, he saw the pendulum, swinging back and forth.

Generous. His throat bobbed painfully in a swallow. Now, in the muffled quiet, his stomach ached.

It wasn’t a long sit; it couldn’t’ve been. Setting his jaw, he pushed himself again to his feet, and he moved back into the small hallway near the door, where he’d remembered the human had brought Aremu’s trunk. He hesitated, and his heart leapt up in his chest. He shut his eyes, and he moved into the doorway, silent.

A shaft of soft light drifted down from the high window. Aremu’s waistcoat and shirt were folded on the bed beside him. Tom couldn’t have said how he knew, just from looking at the imbala without them, that all the muscles in his back were tensed and knotted; perhaps it was more in the set of his shoulders, and the way the breath shivered his narrow frame. The light caught the silver tracery of a scar here, a scar there, across the muscles — the broader, longer pucker of a burn.

He had never seen the harness except for underneath white cotton, or what he had, he’d seen poking out from under a cuff. Then, he’d been curious; it had been a lover’s curiosity. It still was, somewhere inside of him. He didn’t see it, now, but he saw the ghost of it. He hadn’t realized it would leave a mark, but he remembered the lines on Aremu’s forearm, staying with Yesufu. They were all over his torso, now, drawn like a plot.

He was so very tired. He saw it only for a moment, and by then, he’d realized the weight of what he saw; he looked away, and moved a out of the doorway to give the imbala his privacy.

It was strange, to feel like this with a man he’d made love with; he wondered if it would’ve been the same in reverse. He didn’t think Aremu had ever even seen him without his shirt, not really, not clearly.

When he moved back in, Aremu was seated on the cot again, his head in his hand, his shirt back on and a sweater over top of it. Tom didn’t hesitate, this time. “Aremu,” he said, very softly, moving a little into the room. He didn’t move close enough that his field would brush the other man.

He felt the lump rise up in his throat again and swallowed it. Aremu was shaking all over; all he wanted to do, then, all he’d wanted to do for — he didn’t know how long — when he was Tom, when he was Anatole, when he was anybody — he wanted to hold him, and he was afraid his costume was too flimsy to hold any man of flesh and blood.

“You should eat something,” he offered. “We both should.” He didn’t try to smile; he didn’t try to write anything into the lines of his face, because they were what they were. “May I come closer?”

.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 8 Dentis, 2719
Hotel Pendulum, The Stacks

It was the same hand he had always had, and it held against his face in the same way. He didn’t know - perhaps it wasn’t. Had it changed, when the other did? He hadn’t written with this hand, as a boy. It had been the other that he had first formed shaky letters with. He remembered the pride of them, those carefully traced words. The ones this hand had written had been tinged with shame more than pride. He had not been able to set aside the fear for a long time - the fear that the best he could ever do again would not be good enough.

Had it changed? Had all of him changed, from the before to the after? He knew he was not the man he would have been; when had the change come? Was it all at once, at the moment when? Or was it slow, piece by piece. Letter by letter, Aremu thought. He felt himself shaking.

For a moment it felt as if Tom’s deep, quiet voice had come from somewhere inside him. Aremu. He named himself; before and after and before and after again. Aremu, he thought, frowning into his hand, through it all. How many men was he? How much did he contain?

Were all of them empty?

(Empty? Whispered a voice inside. Or-)

He looked up to silence it. Tom stood just inside the doorway. Aremu could see how tired he looked; he could feel it, at home in his chest. He could not quite bring himself to think of food; there had been oatmeal that morning, but he had no memory of tasting it. The feeling he remembered, like glue on his tongue, as if it could hold his jaw shut. Even with the thin, high window so far overhead, Aremu knew it was well into evening by now, the day’s light long gone, the stars clouded out by Brunnhold’s fog.

May I come closer? Tom asked.

Aremu nodded; his hand and his wrist were tucked into his lap. He felt the brush of Tom’s field, his reminder, as he came closer. He thought - a reminder. A reminder; it eased something in his chest. A reminder.

Tom sat on the bed next to him. Aremu felt the shifting of the bed beneath his slight weight, like a gentle pull. Tom was on his left; Aremu felt a pulse of gratitude, warm and bitter at once.

You know, don’t you? He wanted to ask, to drag it out of Tom. He wanted to make him say it, suddenly; he wanted to drag it out of him. You know there won’t be another room - you know they won’t have me in the dining room - you know, don’t you? I know.

He understood the questions; he didn’t understand why they left him angry with Tom. He named it - anger - and he sat with the buzz of the other man’s field all around him. He remembered the shape of the word raen, and wondered how such a thing could be all consonants.

It’s not one or the other, he wanted to tell Tom. It’s not love or anger; I can’t explain it. One doesn’t replace the other. There is space for both, inside me - for all of it - but he had not even apologized, not really, and he still felt too raw to begin to approach it.

He could not speak; he could act. Aremu leaned into the other man; he felt himself trembling into Tom. His hand rested softly on Tom’s leg; his head settled on the other man’s shoulder. Slowly - slowly - he felt the trembling ease; slowly he felt some of the tension in his shoulders and back ease, leaving a dull ache behind. It was bearable; he could bear it.

[Tom Cooke]

Pendulum Hotel • The Stacks

Evening on the 8th of Dentis, 2719

H
e settled himself beside Aremu, on the left. He wasn’t sure how close he ought to be, but he could feel the other man’s warmth in the damp Dentis chill; it whispered to him, called him closer, and he ached to stay himself. He sat beside Aremu, their shoulders barely brushing.

The light was failing, even now. The days were getting shorter. The winter ahead seemed insurmountable; the evening ahead, the night, the long dark, even more so.

In the gloaming, it was hard to make out much of anything in the valet’s room. A shadowy shoebox, Tom thought bitterly. He found the amorphous bulk of a wardrobe with his eyes; the table, with a tangle of leather and a vague shape. What light trickled in was a mix of foggy moonlight and foggy phosphor streetlamp glow, dim echoes: it cast them all into ghosts. Tom felt Aremu shift beside him, felt the brush of his shoulders, and shut his eyes against them all.

Then Aremu settled against him and put a hand on his knee. He didn’t know what to say, or that there was anything to say – the space between them felt like a hallway in the dark, and Tom didn’t know which doors were open and which doors were shut. But he knew Aremu was shaking, and when the imbala laid his head on his shoulder, he put his arm round the other man. With a deep sigh, he rested his head on Aremu’s, gentle-like, and began stroking his right shoulder.

This is what I’m here for, Tom reminded himself, and felt a little of the chill go out of the air. Put everything else aside; this is what I’m here for. Everything else falls behind this.

Those tense knots in Aremu’s back, underneath its tracery of lines, its memory of the harness, loosened. Not all the way; not even just enough. Tom pursed his lips and let the tears do what they would.

This is why I do it, he wanted to say; he wished Aremu could understand. He imagined, then, that he was tracing the lines of a plot – a familiar ward – and he followed them in his head, and he found the rhythm with which he might’ve traced them. He found the rhythm with his breath: in, out; in, out. There wasn’t a doubt in his heart as he went through the Monite in his mind, sounding out one word at a time, elegant and precious. If he could’ve, he’d’ve asked them to ease the tension in Aremu’s back.

But his mouth stayed closed, though his breaths got deeper, and lower, and fuller – and steadier, against the other man. He held Aremu and laid a kiss in his hair, in the space between breaths.

The balcony doors were dark mirrors, by the time dinner came up.

Tom had held Aremu awhile, wordless. He didn’t think Aremu had needed, or wanted, anything he might’ve said; he didn’t think he could’ve said anything worthwhile, anyway. He thought the best thing he could’ve given him after that caoja was a few steady breaths and a warm arm round his shoulder, and he didn’t think he’d been wrong, in the end.

And his stomach ached with hunger, and that was just him – the him he was now, not the him he’d been. He didn’t know, but given what he’d seen of Aremu on Isla Dzum, the imbala’s appetite was just as mant as it’d ever been. It’d been a hell of a day, and Tom couldn’t dispute that; the idea of yats hadn’t been fair appealing to him, either, with one foot off that airship, in a place like this. But it still broke his heart to think Aremu hadn’t eaten since Vienda, hadn’t even thought to.

It’d been a while since then, a while he’d spent holding him in the quiet. He wasn’t sure how long it’d been, but he’d squeezed the imbala’s shoulder and asked him, again, if he oughtn’t get something to eat.

There was no question; there was no flooding question. Even if either of them’d wanted to go down to the dining room – Tom swallowed down the bitter taste of it, what he knew they both knew. He ordered in anyway, because this place was all about the concessions. Which ones weren’t worth it to fight for.

How could you know? How could you ever know? In the hall of his room, after, he remembered it again, and felt it nibble at the core of him.

Was I ever a man to you? Aremu had asked, and then, when he’d explained – even sitting on the cot beside him, again, he wondered if Aremu still thought it. Still wondered.

Tom had thought about it, in the two long nights since. He’d given it a hell of a lot of thought; he’d tossed and turned with it. He’d meditated every day, and he would still, if he could – when Aremu was out, maybe, when – behind Aremu’s back? The thought sat ill with him. He felt like he was being torn in two.

When dinner came up, there was a hell of a lot of it. Making up for their chroveshit, Tom thought and didn’t say, watching the white-clad natt roll in the trays. He’d sat alone in the master bedroom, watching them distribute trays full of platters and covered bowls with benny smells, dark cloth napkins with their gold embroidery, like the covers and the curtains and the floor below the pendulum.

Then, gone. There was no dining room; there was a table in the hotel room, but the arrangement was still a little awkward. A bowl of oranges had been displaced, but still sat in the midst of all the steaming food, a flash of bright color.

A quiet word or two at Aremu’s door. He wasn’t sure what to do, when he came back to the table, other than dig in. To his relief, there was plenty enough for two gentlemen, and no disparity in quality – though one of the humans had looked round suspiciously as he’d entered.

Tom supposed the word had got round, and they were all just a pina curious about the Mugrobi passive debacle. Well, fuck them and their daoa too. The Pendulum was at least making good on its promises, lukewarm as those promises were.

He was taking a knife to some crusty bread when Aremu joined him. He smiled at the imbala, a little wan. He did not look for the hand. “I’m hungry as a banderwolf, now food’s in front of me.” His voice felt rough with disuse. He cleared his throat. “How’s the soup look? I can’t tell what it is.”

.

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, 8 Dentis, 2719
Hotel Pendulum, The Stacks

Aremu was not sure if he had wept. In the quiet darkness of the small room, cradled against Tom, held precious by two arms and the brush of lips against his hair - he could not have said. He had felt a release as if he had; he had been aware of a tension leaving him, of something that had seeped through his skin and out into the air all around him, and if it had leaked from his eyes too, he did not feel shame.

It had felt like fear, when he bid it farewell. Not a fear of this place, for Aremu knew he carried that with him still, and a lover’s tender touch could only ease the burden, not release it. It was some other fear, different, just as raw, which had whispered to him when he was alone, which had told him how undeserving he was, and how much he lacked, which had made light of his tender feelings. Those aches lightened between the soft brush of Tom’s fingers over his shoulders, and if a quiet sob escaped him, once, or a harsh breath shuddered through him as he felt the other man’s heart beat through his chest - he felt only calm, with no embarrassment to chase after it.

When Tom asked about food, this time, Aremu could only nod; he felt the movement of his cheek against the other man’s shoulder. Tom eased apart from him, and left him a little while, but Aremu could sit in the quiet without distraction, and simply be, his head empty of all thoughts, but most of all painful ones. He undid his shoelaces, and eased his feet free; he lay back on the bed, and closed his eyes, and let his imagination paint stars across the inside of his eyelids.

(You see? Whispered a voice inside him. They were inside you - once you knew to look -)

He woke to the sound of Tom’s voice at the doorway, soft. Aremu stirred, and shivered, cold. It smelled like food, suddenly; something twisted in his stomach, and he was desperately, fiercely hungry. He rose, and came out of the small room; he lingered a moment at the doorway, despite himself, watching Tom holding the loaf of bread with one hand, the other pressing the knife to it, sawing, using the weight of it to do what the shakiness of his hands could not.

Tom spoke, and Aremu hadn’t known he had needed more of an invitation until it came. He crept forward, willingly, and then gladly, and his stomach made a noise that sent heat flushing along the back of his neck, and a shy smile to his face. He lifted the top of the tureen, peering inside. “Hot,” Aremu said, and his voice was every bit as hoarse as Tom’s had been.

There were all sorts of needs at war within him. Aremu ladled two bowls full, careful, setting the lid aside and using his hand to fill each with a thick green liquid, smoky smelling, with chunks of ham inside. He couldn’t have named it, but he ate it with a single minded focus and intensity, with a thick slice of bread, and he knew something of joy.

There was more to discover - slices of thick fowl and some sort of brown sauce, a dish with layered circles of potatoes in a heavy creamy sauce, bits of carrots and other root vegetables which surely had been warm once, but were tender inside and sprinkled with long thin bits of herb. Aremu did not try to keep track of it; he simply ate. He did not touch the decanter of wine; he did not look at it.

It wasn’t always easy for him, with one hand; it was worse than on the island. The fowl was the hardest, but Aremu kept his right wrist on his knee - he had long since given up sitting properly, and had brought his legs up to sit cross-legged - and switched, diligently, between the fork and the knife.

I had enough food, as a boy, he wanted to say. I didn’t know hunger growing up, but in the way any boy who loves to play might. And then - but then -

Something about it, Aremu wanted to say, if I am unprepared, brings me back there. It takes me to that place of fear and loneliness, to having been cut adrift.

He wasn’t sure if he’d served himself, but he thought Tom must have done it, because Aremu would never thought to have set the slice of thick yellow cheese down next to the pie crust full of apples. He had thought himself full, but he found a little more appetite inside him still, taking a few careful bites of it. It was hard to set the fork down, but the tenderness overwhelmed him, suddenly, and he found he was shaking once more.

Aremu’s breath caught in his throat; he could not manage the fork, and he set it down. He swallowed, hard, and looked across the table at Tom, at the head of coppery curls laced with silver bent diligently over his own meal.

“Tom,” Aremu said, softly. He couldn’t - he reached across the table, then; he found a path through the dishes and the rest, and curled his fingers around the other man’s hand. He smiled, and it felt like his; it bloomed inside him, and he was aware of an odd, fierce gratitude which shuddered through him, and left him weak.

”Does it disturb you, to share a room with me?” Aremu asked, and it was gentle, and even, and there were no tears burning in his eyes. “I don’t want to intrude on your privacy,” he said, softly, his thumb stroking over the other man’s hand. “But I -“ Aremu smiled a little, crookedly, “I‘ve missed holding you at night,” he said, softly. “I wouldn’t - if you’d -“ he thought of Tom waking in Dzum in his arms, laughing softly into the kisses he had pressed to Aremu’s face; he strode through the fear, because to stop would be to let it overwhelm him.

“I would very much like to hold you again,” Aremu promised, softly, through the lump in his throat.

[Tom Cooke]

Pendulum Hotel • The Stacks

Evening on the 8th of Dentis, 2719

T
he sight of Aremu’s smile had done more for Tom’s appetite than the smell of all that food. He hadn’t known, but he’d’ve bet a decent sum. Tom had heard the growl of his stomach even across the table. Hot, Aremu’d said, and ladled two bowls’ worth of soup, and Tom had grinned to himself as he’d spread cheese on a slice of bread. Any man who liked to gamble knew the sublime joy of betting right.

He knew the look of Aremu tucking in with enthusiasm, too. They tackled the spread of food on the hotel room table in silence, mostly, except for the faint click and scrape of silverware.

For a time, much of the weight lifted. If he spilled sometimes, if it was hard to hold the fork in his shaky hand, he didn’t feel watched, or laughed at. There was wine, Tom was sure; Caprese had told him about it hurriedly, about some Tivian red they’d send up with dinner, complementary, a gift from Pendulum – by the bottle, at a discount, if the gentlemen approved of it. But Tom felt like finding the decanter at the table would’ve broken some spell, though he couldn’t’ve said why. He was happy not to ask.

He was full as a spoiled pet hingle by the time he got round to the pie, but he could never turn down apple, not with a benny, flaky crust like this. Even in the heart of galdor Anaxas, you couldn’t go wrong with it, not with a good sharp cheddar. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Aremu took a few bites, and made a renewed effort at his own, but he didn’t get very far.

The hand that settled on his was as surprising as it was warm. Tom raised his head, slowly, setting his fork down beside his plate with a faint soft clatter. There were no tears in Aremu’s eyes; the brush of his thumb over Tom’s knuckles felt gentle and deliberate.

Tom watched his dark eyes, steadily; he’d’ve killed, maybe, to know how Aremu would’ve finished either of those sentences. Maybe not even the imbala knew, but the words were there somewhere, floating out wherever unspoken, half-thought words went.

Maybe it didn’t matter; maybe it was that Aremu climbed past the stumble, in the end, over the crags, and made what he felt clear, regardless of what might’ve been swimming in the dark waters below. Maybe it didn’t matter, Tom thought, feeling the other man’s skin warm against his.

He smiled, breathing in deep. He wasn’t sure if it was right to feel relief. He felt it anyway, and exhaled with it.

Does it disturb you? He thought on how to say it, so the answer wouldn’t be a lie. If he’d been compelled by perceptive mona to tell the truth, he wasn’t sure what would’ve come out of his mouth. It disturbs me, he might have said, to think of you lying beside me and feeling less; it disturbs me that because of what I’ve done, you’d think I would use you, and never more than when we’re holding each other.

Do I disturb you? he thought he’d’ve shot back, if he’d been compelled to tell the truth, blunt and barren.

He stroked Aremu’s hand with a smile. “I’ve missed being held by you,” he returned softly. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you in there, and me in here, both of us alone. I’d’ve been thinking of you.”

Tom hadn’t known it’d be bearable, that big wide empty bed, thinking how Aremu was sleeping in a servant’s shoebox alone in Brunnhold. Tom thought he wouldn’t’ve got much sleep, anyway; he reckoned he’d’ve spent the night sitting on the balcony, wrapped up against the chill.

He felt a barb of fear, still, at the thought of the long night ahead. He tried not to let it show; he smiled and stroked Aremu’s hand, and when he disentangled their fingers, it was only to take a long drink of water. As he set the glass down, he saw it’d made a glistening ring against the black coaster.

He paused, though he didn’t know why, and set the glass down careful, inside the circle. He watched it for a moment, then glanced up at Aremu.

“It’ll keep me up, thinking about it, mind,” he added, wry, raising one eyebrow. “That thing in the lobby.” He couldn’t quite manage; his lip twitched, and a soft laugh broke through. He reached for Aremu’s hand again. “I’ve never seen anything like it, except maybe in dreams. It looks like a mix of a clock’s pendulum and a –”

And a ward, he nearly said; he caught himself. But it’s not an Everspell, his mind went on, obstinate. “I can’t figure it out,” he said softly, and left it there, a little tentative.

.