[PM to Join] Wild as the Wind Blows

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, Yaris 16, 2719
The Black Dove Tavern

Chibugo pez Kadare had always drank like a man with nothing to lose. In the seven years Aremu had known him he had lost much and yet never his taste for alcohol, particularly the night before a flight.

“And it’s - gods be damned, Aremu,” Chibugo slurred, waving the half empty bottle off the edge of the pier, glittering amber in the golden lamplight that streamed from the wharf behind them. His long dark beaded braids rattled in the wind that darted in off the edge of the Mahogany.

“Ey, watch it!” A man rowing past yelled.

“You floodin’ watch it!” The galdor roared back, and pulsed his field, the sharp heat of static mona filling the air, tinged with a faint weight of physical, a combination Aremu knew as well as he knew his own name. The human ducked his head and rowed harder, off into the steadily darkening waters of the bay.

Aremu said nothing, sitting to the right of Chibugo with his legs dangling off of the old, damp wood. He had not quite dared to rest any of himself against the mostly rotted post next to him.

Chibugo tilted his head back and took another drink from the bottle, the strong column of his throat working. He swallowed and coughed, golden eyes watering slightly, and extended the bottle to Aremu with a grin.

“Yaka, adame,” Aremu said lightly, for perhaps the dozenth time, and clasped the other man on the back.

“More for me,” Chibugo hummed, and set the bottle down with a sigh, his hands resting on the pier behind him, leaning back. He groaned. “Like I was saying,” the galdor shook his head. “Hard to believe it was – fuck all – ten years ago, in Thul’Amat? Eh? Him just a fuckin’ kid, bright eyed and godsdamned bushy tailed, askin’ me those questions about flying – never thought I’d get back up in the air – ”

Aremu nodded, quietly. He had said more, the first time – the second time – the third time, in the long hours of the afternoon that had spilled over into evening and were now approaching night – that Chibugo had told this story. He had been there himself at Thul’Amat too, but he had never tried to point that out, and he did not do so now.

“Hell of a man,” Chibugo said, suddenly, and grabbed the bottle again. “Still can’t really believe he’s gone.”

“No,” Aremu said, softly, tasting the words on his tongue. “Me neither.”

“Well. To Uzoji Ibutatu,” Chibugo finished the bottle. He rose, unsteadily, twisted, and Aremu rose as well, and caught him with both arms, kept him from pitching back into the Mahogany behind them. “You’ll – come and get that book?” Chibugo asked, a little uncertainly. “Doesn’t seem right, me – me having it, if I’d realized, I’d’ve…” he swallowed, and shook his head, beads jangling together again. “Niccolette – she should – floodin’ poetry, I never… made much sense of it anyway.”

Aremu nodded, holding Chibugo up. The galdor settled an arm around his shoulders, and they began to make their way down the pier, Aremu keeping him steady as Chibugo swayed heavily back and forth, stumbled. It was not yet late, but Aremu supposed late had a different meaning, when you started drinking in the middle of the day, and Chibugo had had his first long before he had found Aremu in Quarter Fords.

“Did you read it?” Aremu asked.

“Not – not before he…” Chibugo cursed, fluidly, in Mugrobi, and came to a stumbling stop. “Since, though. When I found it. Yeah. I read it.”

Aremu nodded, and they kept going.

Chibugo wanted to talk; he talked, and he talked, and Aremu coaxed him up the stairs of the miserable inn on the edges of the wharf, and nodded or shook his head as appropriate, murmured here and there. He settled the older man onto his rough cot, and fetched him a waterskin, put it into his hand.

“And next time I’m in the Rose, I’ll – I’ll stop by to see Niccolette,” Chibugo was slurring. Aremu thought the Mugrobi must have believed it, or he would not have said the words.

“I am sure she will be pleased,” Aremu lied.

“The book,” Chibugo said, abruptly. “It’s just – ” He gestured at his satchel, half-open, clothing spilling out. “Red. Dark – dark red binding.”

Aremu stepped around a few empty bottles, and tugged the satchel open wider with his hand; he saw it, a red-bound leather book, small. He eased it out, slowly, and brought it back over to Chibugo, kneeling next to him. “This?”

“Ea,” Chibugo sighed, closing his eyes and resting his head on the hard tack of a pillow. “Take care of yourself, Aremu, by His waters. You never were much – much good at…” his eyes fluttered shut.

Aremu knelt there, silent, for a long moment, until the snoring began.

Aremu stood on the street, with a corner of red leather book protruding from his pants pocket, and he had every intention of going – he could not call it home, and he never quite had, but back to the house in Quarter Fords, empty and alone with Niccolette in Brunnhold, where he would not join her. But – they were not far from the Black Dove. Aremu was not sure of the last time when he had been to the tavern, and he rarely drank alone. He knew that seeing Chibugo so should not have kindled in him any desire to drink, and yet – he wanted to wash the taste of it from his mouth, because despair seemed to have coated all his teeth, left his tongue strange and fuzzy.

He went in.

Aremu eased through the crowds, eyes flicking from side to side, with the same prickle of tingling awareness down his spine that he had never been able to shake. His right arm he kept tucked close to his side, and he could feel the heavy wood of his prosthetic against his leg; his left he used freely, here and there, where a gentle elbow made his passage easier. He slipped up to the bar, and leaned his left elbow carefully against the sticky wood.

Aremu held there, still, a long moment, and he thought of turning and going back into the crowd – back, he thought, out onto the street, and away. Back to Quarter Fords, back to the quiet dark of Niccolette’s empty house, back to his own thoughts and private miseries. He did not; he swallowed, hard, and glanced up, and lifted his hand and chin both to call the bartender’s attention.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

16th of Yaris, 2719
THE BLACK DOVE | EVENING

Freedom tasted different every time Tristaan had been given the moment to drink it in: it had been sweet before, bitter another, but he couldn't remember if it had entirely been quite as satisfying, quite as satiating, as it was this time. Perhaps it was because he could say he'd seen—really witnessed—all of his alternatives for the first time since he'd failed that godsbedamned test in front of the gods and every galdor that had mattered (every galdor save his sister), since his own parents had left him on some street corner all those years ago, confused and alone with a coat too big and a watch too expensive. He'd sweat and bled and nearly in the factories of the Soot District. He'd slinked through and narrowly escaped from the halls of Brunnhold in a blue uniform. He'd been broken and done plenty of breaking in the unwanted, unasked for, unwelcome name of the King of the Underworld.

But tonight?

Tonight, Tristaanian Greymoore was beholden to no one—no one in power, at least—and it was just as bittersweet as it was glorious.

The freedom that was thick like honey in his scarred heart was not without its bees, however. The dark-haired passive had done the dangerous bidding of Scarlett and turned around to sell without shame all of her dirty details to Silas, carefully treading a razor-sharp edge of betrayal and subterfuge that he was still forced to keep watch over not only for his own safety, but for the safety of those who meant more to him than even being free possibly could—those he loved, those he called fami. While the cards had been dealt, neither side knew who held the better hand, and so Tristaan was left to just bide in the middle, to lay low, to wait and see when everyone paid their ante who would be the first to drop his name and who would be the first to sting him with the consequences of his cleverness.

Part of him hoped that this time, finally, he could simply enjoy what was his, humble though it all was, and taste peace, but the rest of him knew better, the rest of him knew that the gods had cursed him from birth and just as magic would forever elude his grasp so, too, would any semblance of true contentment. For now, the illusion sure was beautiful, however, and for now, Tristaan savored it.

"—even if you did, you could still make quite a bit of coin—" Kip teased, the young wick grinning as he walked backward in front of the passive and their third companion, Jonathan. Old friends who'd been both shocked and elated to see the passive alive all those months ago, they'd quickly woven their way back into his existence again, full of just as much full of trouble as they were full of support.

"—oes, an' I have, but I jus' don't want t' be beaten for a livin', mujo ma. Been there b'fore as a boch, ye chen." Tek flowed so much more smoothly from his lips and he rolled his grey eyes with a laugh, the trio making their way to the Black Dove after a long, sweaty day at the docks. Shirt open to the breeze, sleeves rolled up high enough that red feathers and yellow flowers were visible on his right bicep, nestled around the symbol that simply couldn't hold him captive forever, Tristaan tossed short-cropped curls away from the stitches above his left eyebrow (a stubborn souvenir from an Arena he still returned to more than he'd like to admit) and pretended to shrug off the memories he'd managed to dredge up in a handful of words. The weight of that pistol at his hip felt good again, and he was more than happy to wander this side of town for a couple of drinks with his friends—

He could have gone home instead, really, aware Sarinah and Linora would be there waiting, but the pleas for just one drink—maybe two—were hard to resist even though he knew Kip would disappear toward the dice table as soon as they crossed the threshold of the Black Dove and Jon would always rather drink alone. It was the thought, really, and Tristaan still had a few hours before he'd be missed, given shipping schedules were never an exact sort of science.

"Y' just make it look good, s'all." Grunted the human, giving the passive a mockery of a good jab in ribs that might have still been sore from just a handful of days ago in the Arena.

"Spoken like a true regular at th' Queen." Purred the shorter, slighter man with a more genuine grunt than he'd have liked, shoving Jon a few steps to the side, threatening to trip him with the wildest of grins.

Kip was the first to shoulder his way through the old tavern's door, holding it for his companions with a tip of an imaginary hat and a waggle of fingers, much to the amusement of the pair of patrons who'd settled themselves at the closest table. The young wick winked at them before Jonathan and Tristaan breezed through the door,

"Who's buyin'?" The young man taunted.

"Sweet Alioe, y' didn't walk us all th' way here jus' t' pretend ye got empty pockets." Groaned the passive, grey eyes sliding to the human next to him who wiped sweat from his brow in immediate exasperation.

"I mean, I've gotta few quart'pennies, oes, but I was savin' 'em for th' tables an'—"

Called it.

"G'on. Ye jus' wanted t' make sure I was here t' keep yer erse 'n one piece should ye get accused 'f cheatin' again. Jon an' I can drink without ye." Tristaan laughed, shooing Kip off while he took in the crowd with practiced ease.

"I can drink without any 'f you, t' be fair." The human mumbled, half-joking, half-serious, unwilling to add the admission that he, too, took the passive's company for granted when out for the night because the balach always got him home afterward.

Called that, too.

Who were his friends, again?

"Clockin'—" Stopping mid-sound, he'd stopped looking around the room, too. Gaze lingering on familiar faces—gods, half the Rose felt familiar now that his name carried a bit of fame in the right circles, but this was different—faces that were strangely unexpected, nestled as the dark-haired passive had been between a wick and a human instead. Maybe he stared for a moment too long in the threshold of the Dove, still for just long enough for Jonathan to become confused.

"What?"

"Ne'ermind. Nothin'." Tristaan hesitated, different memories drifting to the surface of his thoughts like so much smoke from an old, smoldering fire. A fire that never really went out in the scarred, narrow confines of his galdor-bred chest. Unquenchable. Blinking, smile faltering, he tilted his head toward the bar and nudged his human companion in that direction, nimbly stepping his way through the mixed crowd, through the brushes of glamours and the weights of a field or two. The pair made it to the sticky, dented countertop, moist with spilled drinks and so much Yaris sweat, only for the passive to pause, glancing back over his shoulder,

"Listen, gimme a few an' I'll come back an' join ye, oes?"

"Well—" The human followed Tristaan's gaze and saw nothing in particular save for other strangers at the bar, a sea of faces who weren't all Anaxi and weren't all sober, "—even if y' don't—"

"Shut yer head. Ye chen I've got ye." Calloused, scarred hands pat the other man's bicep, smile softening before he slipped away, not even with a drink yet in hand, and wove with ease toward the opposite end of the Dove's rather impressive bar, curved like the edge of a feather and always understaffed.

There wasn't really a seat and there was hardly any room, but the narrow-framed Anaxi was lithe enough—brave enough, honestly—to pour himself between the bulk of strangers with a cautious sort of grin as if he was unsure that his intrusion would be unwanted, unwelcome as an interloper, grey eyes drifting from the raised fingers of Aremu Ediwo, following the curve of his remaining whole arm, and settling, sidelong for a long moment, on the imbala's familiar face. His grin didn't falter, even then, leaning on the elbow that wasn't bruised from smashing some unfortunate kov's face into the sand.

He'd not expected to see the other passive again, at least without being at the beck and call of Silas Hawke. Tristaan waited, not to be noticed, but for the right moment to speak, offering without a hint of caution,

"Junta."

"Find comfort in friends,
every wound they can mend."
— Passive Proverb

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, Yaris 16, 2719
The Black Dove Tavern

There was, really, no reason to stand. The human bartender had glanced up and half-nodded into his heavy beard. He hadn't yet come over, busy with a sudden sweep of customers at the far end of the bar. Aremu had wedged himself in, easily enough, but two stools had opened up not far away; the two men who’d sat in them had gotten up, dropping a last scattering of coins on the counter. Aremu exhaled; he thought it over.

He should, he knew, go home. It was foolish to be here alone; if he had wanted to get drunk, Aremu thought, tasting the bitterness on his tongue, he’d had opportunity enough with Chibugo. He told himself that as he settled down onto one of the stools, facing the bar; the presence of all the people behind him prickled over the back of his neck, and wound his shoulders up tight. There was a dark, spotted mirror up on the wall behind the bar; in it, he couldn’t see more than the vaguest impression of movement, maybe – generously – a dark blue to indicate his own face, if he squinted and stared.

Carefully, Aremu untucked the prosthetic from his pocket, and rested it on his leg, beneath the shadow of the bar. It was a better alternative than sitting with a hand in his pocket, and he knew, too, how to shift his body to keep it further from sight. It dislodged the book in his pocket, and he shifted, settling it beneath the prosthetic, holding the red-leather binding in place against his thigh.

The greeting caught him by surprise; Aremu turned, his eyebrows lifting, the habitual frown on his forehead smoothing away. “Tristaan,” he said, lightly, lilting through the name with his usual Mugrobi accent. It shouldn’t have been a surprise; he knew that Tristaan lived here, or had, at least, a long time ago. Three years, Aremu thought; there was little point in pretending to himself he didn’t know exactly how long.

He relaxed himself, consciously, or at least as best as he could. It was the tension that was instinctive; it crept up through him and gripped him tight, sudden and visceral and startlingly painful. There was an ache, just then, in the spot where his hand had once been – a sudden, sharp, searing hurt that was gone as soon as it had arrived. It left behind it an odd lingering ghost of sensation, like a memory he could not shake.

There were memories that lay quiet and dormant in his waking hours, that came upon him only when he wished to sleep. Such memories would shake him out of the beginnings of a doze, and whisper softly into his ear, seep into his mind and paint pictures on the inside of his eyelids. If he was unfortunate enough to already be asleep, they would worm their way into his dreams. He had thought, once, that the worst ones were the bad times; he had learned, over the last few years and again these last months, that the good times were even worse.

And there were memories that crept up on him sharply; memories that seemed to be able to grab him by the shoulder, at any time, and ripple through him like a blow. Tristaan’s presence had been one of those, a sharp, sudden shock that he was not yet able to shake. Once, it whispered to him, once you could pass for whole –

Aremu ran his tongue lightly over his lips, as if it might help them come unstuck. He didn’t think it could hurt, at least. He cleared his throat, lightly. “It’s good to see you too,” the passive said, carefully, and he thought it skated just outside of being a lie, though it skimmed, perhaps, the edges of it; if one’s desires were enough, then it was honest. “How have you been?” He asked, and tried another smile, uncertain whether it, too, was too crooked to pass.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

16th of Yaris, 2719
THE BLACK DOVE | EVENING

It had been more than a handful of lifetimes ago, it felt like, that Tristaan had been born a galdor's son and shown, for a fistful of years, what it was like to have the world at his feet. How quickly that'd all been taken away when it was determined he'd been born broken, less than, and yet those memories of a brief life of unquestionable acceptance had never been beaten or bled from him, not entirely. Not ever. He was aware a few lifetimes later that while life for passives could be lived with varying forms of freedom and acceptance elsewhere, those differences were so often on the surface, so often shallow, so often just a bandage on a deep wound that needed cleaned and cauterized instead. The scars traced different paths in their lives, and yet, no matter the kingdom, their kind bled the same.

He didn't miss that brief hesitance, not entirely. They weren't close friends, they weren't familiar with each other's lives in such a way that Tristaan's company'd been expected. They'd not spent much, if any, time working together since—well, since his injuries had been too severe to heal. While his grey eyes didn't stray in any form of curiosity, he understood the tightness to the Mugrobi man's smile, the lack of surety in the tone of his otherwise casual question.

A question that was strangely difficult to answer.

"M' fami an' I 've no' been better than I 'm currently 'n, well, in a long time, I'd be willin' t' say." In his honesty, the dark-haired passive couldn't quite return the same kind of hesitation, but there was a moment his tongue pressed against the back of his teeth before his smile brightened again, before he spoke. He didn't give a second thought to mentioning more persons than himself, though he didn't go into details, either, leaving trails to chase or not, depending on what seemed interesting.

Glance shifting from Aremu's face toward the bartender, attempting to win his attention, Tristaan added, "Though, that depends on who you're askin', ye chen."

He chuckled, stitches making the almost coy shift in expression difficult to be anything but mischievous instead, unsure as to what the imbala knew about the convoluted path of his so-called employment. A few bruises made his sincerity feel like it should've been sarcasm, but he'd agreed to the match in the Rose Arena as a free man, not as property. All the money he'd brought home wasn't subject to someone else's cut for the first time in over a year,

"An' yourself? Here 'n th' Harbor for a while 'r jus' passin' through on th' wind?" He asked, tilting his head, before the more-beard-than-bartender man behind the bar sidled over, "Jus' a Busy Bee for me, mujo ma. An'—"

Tristaan swept an arm behind him, hooking a thumb at Jonathan, sitting by himself and looking pleased by the situation. He was still smiling, fieldless, magicless self still brimming with a warmth that might as well have been tangible, "—jus' make his tab mine. I know he ent got much in his pockets, th' bastard. Aremu, can I buy you a drink, too? Jus' 'cause?"

"Find comfort in friends,
every wound they can mend."
— Passive Proverb

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, Yaris 16, 2719
The Black Dove Tavern

Tristaan couldn’t do much to hide his smile; it eased something in Aremu’s chest, and he found himself closer to smiling too. Fami, Tristaan said, and Aremu’s eyebrows lifted, curiously, although he didn’t ask. He hadn’t known the other man had a family – he wasn’t entirely sure he knew who Tristaan meant by the word, and he didn’t want to press.

Depends on who you’re asking, Tristaan added.

Aremu grinned, then, a sudden bright flash of it. He hadn’t been back in the Rose long, but he’d heard a whisper or two over Roalis about Tristaan and the Rose Arena, enough to know what the other man meant. He looked more than a little bruised, but thoroughly proud of himself all the same.

There was a steady hum of noise from behind them; it was something of a struggle to keep his focus on the bar and the conversation. Aremu wasn’t sure when last he’d been somewhere like this. He went to bars occasionally in Laus Oma, of course, when business or pleasure took him to Mere Mauthua. There was even a small place in the harbor town of Isla Dzum, and Aremu had gone a few times after a long harvest with the men. There, they hadn’t sat inside in the dark, but bought the drinks and took them out onto the long strip of beach beneath the stars. Aremu remembered sitting on a half-rotted log, grinning, and feeling oddly at home.

In Laus Oma, of course, he went to imbala bars. There were few enough fields in such places, and few enough humans too. Neither were strictly forbidden – Uzoji, he thought with a pang, had been welcome enough – but most of those there would be imbala, all the same. Even in mixed company bars, in Laus Oma, everyone there knew what he was. Those who had a problem with him could name it. They would know him a liar, but Aremu knew, too, that he was; they would know him empty, but Aremu knew, too, that he was.

Here, the brush of fields and the lack of them around larger bodies pricked all his nerves. The uncertainty, too, ached, the occasional flash or surprise or suspicion. He wondered how Tristaan did it, day in and day out; he wondered if he knew that there could be an otherwise.

“Passing through,” Aremu said with a quarter of a smile. He didn’t give any more in the way of details; he didn’t think Tristaan would expect him to. He wouldn’t be in the Rose long now, and he didn’t know when he’d be back, although he understood – had understood – that he could not avoid it, anymore, for all its ghosts and histories. He shifted, and thought better of his reluctance; Aremu began to open his mouth once more.

The bartender came over then, and Aremu felt silent. Tristaan glanced towards another man, and then back at him. Aremu blinked, once, his eyebrows lifting again. “Sure,” he said, after a moment. “A flashfight for me, thank you.” He said to the bartender. Mujo ma would have sat strange on his tongue; for all he understood a good bit of Tek now, he wasn’t quite comfortable speaking it.

“Thanks,” Aremu said to Tristaan, turning a little more towards the man sitting next to him. He felt a prickling running through all the hairs on the back of his neck, all down his spine, but he didn’t look back out at the bar, not yet. If he sat stiffly, he sat, at least, and didn’t fidget. He still held the red leather bound book against his thigh with the prosthetic, trusting the weight of it and the angle of his leg to keep it in place beneath fingers that could no longer grasp.

The bartender was back with the mead and the beer before long. Aremu tipped his drink, clicking it lightly against Tristaan’s. He glanced up at the other man; he hesitated, again, a moment, scarcely a breath. “To your fami,” he said, serious and intent. He smiled, then, a slow friendly dawning over his face, half-hopeful, half-crooked.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

16th of Yaris, 2719
THE BLACK DOVE | EVENING

"Jus' about done with all th' harvests on th' isles, oes? I remember there's a longer growin' season across th' Tincta, but it's been a while since I've sweat in those fields." Tristaan understood some of Hawke's businesses to be migratory, aware of Aremu's connections and assuming his passing through had to do with the King's investments on the Muluku Isles. It was easy conversation to make, hardly accusatory or judgmental, for the Anaxi passive had his own living to make, all be it illegally on a daily basis, free as he was. He grinned when the Mugrobi agreed to a drink, pleased to share the profits he'd literally fought to earn with someone who couldn't begrudge what he really was.

Not to say there weren't differences between them, despite their same burdens. The dark-haired passive had been jealous before, once or twice, envious of imbali freedoms that he'd heard bits and pieces of from not only Aremu's lips but from Mugs he knew in general. They could go to school. They could hold jobs, earn real coin, own property, marry and raise families. He knew those things because they'd been thrown in his face more than once, because he'd been cut with their truths, only to not be Mugrobi enough to know that such a well-carved facade hid it's own kind of rot, that the shiny exterior of imbali freedoms hid a lingering culture of oppression that wasn't really any less damaging or oppressive.

Tristaan 'd just only been able to hear the positives, everything appearing better from the perspective of an Anaxi who wasn't even supposed to be seen outside of Brunnhold's red-walled prison—

Oh, gods, Brunnhold.

He blinked, catching a glimpse of red not in his twisted memory of visiting that horrible place in Hamis but in Aremu's lap.

The imbala was making a toast and the other passive brought himself back into focus on the book, looking to the clinking of glass, grey-eyed gaze traveling back up to the other man's face. He was smiling, and toasting to the fami Tristaan wasn't supposed to have with a genuineness only one of their own kind could ever really understand,

"Muju ma, Aremu. To all th' good things—" We're not s'posed t' have, he wanted to add but didn't, if only because what he wasn't allowed, his imbala neighbor was, "—we enjoy anyway." He grinned back, pausing for a drink, hoping to wash away the bitter taste that clung to the back of his throat at remembering the rainy season, remembering sacrifices made for the very fami he was toasting to. Sacrifices he'd made for his daughter, risks he'd taken for Sarinah—choices he'd made that he gambled everything he knew on for just a little more freedom.

Tilting his head toward the book, hardly giving a second thought toward the attention it might have called to the prosthetic that kept it there, to the other man's own scars, he asked from over the rim of his Busy Bee, curious, "Ye chen th' Dove ent the best spot for readin'—ah, gods—I ent here imposin' y' a drink while you're workin' for someone, am I?"

Not that it seemed to matter since the Mug agreed, after all,

"It's good t' see yer face, either way." He waggled his beer one more time for emphasis, deciding another drink of it would keep him from asking too many questions if they weren't welcome.

"Find comfort in friends,
every wound they can mend."
— Passive Proverb

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, Yaris 16, 2719
The Black Dove Tavern

Aremu eased a little at the mention of harvests. He nodded at Tristaan; he hadn’t been sure if the other man even knew he was on the plantation now. “Not quite yet,” he said, comfortably, with the knowledge of experience. “We’re in the midst of the sugarcane harvest now.” He spoke with comfort and ease. “There’s milling to be done afterwards; we’ve our own production facility, now.” He grimaced, faintly, thinking of the machinery and the repairs to come, but there was little mistaking the look of pride on his face, not for a man like Tristaan.

He wished Uzoji could see it; not just sometimes, either, not just occasionally. It was a rare day when Aremu didn’t wish he could show the other man how far they had come. By the time Aremu had taken over, they’d had sugarcane planted, but the yields were better year by year. It was the tsug he was truly proud of, the tsug and the kofi both. When Uzoji had inherited the plantation, there had been only a few scraggly tsug trees; now there was an orchard, and it looked as if there’d be a good harvest this year, not only the tsug but the kofi trees which Aremu had wound through them, planted in the shade beneath their branches.

“We’re growing tsug now as well,” Aremu said, not quite grinning, but not solemn-faced either. The Rose had its fair share of macadamia trees – not in orchards, at least not that he’d seen, but scattered here and there, and especially in Quarter Fords. “And more kofi than we did in years prior. We’ll be harvesting until mid-Dentis, between it all; the tsug maybe even later than that.”

Last year, at least, there had been a good tsug harvest; not like they’d have this year, Aremu knew already. He’d watched the trees himself; he’d watched the strength of the leaves and the roots, the nuts beginning to grow. He knew how they should look, even if it had only been a few years. There was little enough certain on an island like Dzum, but he was as certain as a man could be.

We enjoy anyway, Tristaan finished his sentence. Aremu found he was swallowing through a lump in his throat, but he took a drink of his Flashfight anyway, a long deep draught.

Aremu glanced back down at the carved wooden hand in his lap; his throat moved in a silent swallow. It was a moment before he could bring his gaze to focus on the book. He didn’t answer Tristaan’s question; there was no work that brought him here tonight, but a liar knew well the value of silence.

“The book’s not mine,” Aremu said, after a moment. He set the Flashfight down; he brought his whole hand to the book, and lifted it up, cradling it against his palm and arm to keep from letting it touch the counter. He looked down at the cover, and didn’t look at Tristaan; when the other man said it was good to see him, his gaze flickered over and he inclined his head.

It was Uzoji’s, he thought to say; Chibugo asked me to bring it to his widow. Tristaan knew both men and Niccolette too, from the Eqe Aqawe and from the work which bound them all. He didn’t know if the other man would have understood or not. It wasn’t his; that was true enough. It wasn’t Niccolette’s, now, either; it was Uzoji’s, still. Aremu didn’t know if it always would be, but he knew it was now. He wondered, for a moment, if Tristaan knew; a hint of tension crept in to his shoulders, and then softened. Yes, he decided after a moment; yes, he knew.

“It’s poetry, I think,” Aremu shrugged; long, slender fingers ran down the leather cover. He set it back on his lap, and tucked it securely beneath the weight of his prosthetic. His left hand curled around his drink once more, and he took another mouthful, feeling the warmth of it trickle slowly through him.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

16th of Yaris, 2719
THE BLACK DOVE | EVENING

"I ent ever done much fieldwork, but I know it ent always easy. Did y'build that production business yourself, then?" Aware of Aremu's skills and watching as the other man's expression thawed and warmed with the talk of the plantation and how much it'd grown, Tristaan willingly engaged with the enthusiasm without any concern about his own ignorance on the subject. He knew factories. He knew travel. He knew the edge of a blade and the callouses of his knuckles. He knew dirt, but not how to make things grow out of it—unless those things had to do with his life and how he'd found freedom in spite of all the thorns and brambles planted in his way.

He had an idyllic sort of envy that trickled unbidden through his veins as the imbala described things with such ownership and pride, with such warm enthusiasm. It stung a little to know that the only harvest the dark-haired passive would be reaping in Dentis looked like more dock work and smelled like salty Harbor water and sweat instead of trees laden with macadamia nuts swaying in the sweltering, Muluku Isle breeze. Then again, Aremu had a real education, too, from Thul'Amat. He'd sat in classrooms and been burdened by homework, and while he'd struggled and fought for every grade, that much Tristaan was damn sure of, he'd still finished school with a degree that folks recognized as real.

Tristaan'd taught himself, illegaly, and without any guidance until he'd been taken in by the Red Crow. Even then, what they knew and taught was extremely limited, and anything else the dark-haired passive had learned in his twenty-odd years had never been in a classroom nor acceptable in the eyes of the galdori society he'd been born into and rejected from. He'd worked with his hands in some way or another, bloodied or dirty, for most of his life and when he thought about farm work and school work, he was quite confident either of those were more satisfying than smashing faces and breaking ribs.

He could've been wrong, of course, in his ignorance, but the picture sure did look nice in his mind.

"Sounds like a mant manna qalqa, but 't ent a bad thing t' be busy all autumn. Y'might've had me at kofi—" He smiled, pausing for a swig with a shrug, "—but I ent sure I even know what tsug trees look like. I've only seen th' nuts 'n all their variations in th' markets—sweet 'r spicy, covered 'n chocolate an' meltin'. All 'f it tasty, ye chen."

Worthwhile fruits of a labor made by choice, not by force. Worth a toast, that were for clocking sure. Aremu didn't hesitate so much as let it sink in, and Tristaan knew it felt different.

The Mugrobi man glanced down at the mentioned book and the other passive blinked, taking in his response. Grey eyes skimmed the cover when it was held up, drifting over red leather and dark fingers.

"Oh—"

He glanced away, shifting his attention to the already wet with condensation label on his bottle of beer, resisting the temptation to pick and peel at it. He paused, not at all unaware of Aremu's loss, of all that had happened, considering he'd been under Hawke's thumb for so long it was impossible not to hear every juicy tidbit of that rippled through the ranks. His jaw clenched and he nodded, revealing without the need for useless, lengthy talk on the obvious, unspoken implications.

"—epaemo."

Tristaan offered with quiet but genuine empathy, looking first to the imbala to make sincere eye contact and then back to the book, "It's been a while since I've made time t' read poetry, thought I can't read Mugrobi anyways."

"Find comfort in friends,
every wound they can mend."
— Passive Proverb

[Aremu Ediwo]

Evening, Yaris 16, 2719
The Black Dove Tavern

Aremu nodded when Tristaan asked if he’d built the processing plant himself. He wasn’t exactly sure how the other man meant it, but he supposed - it was true enough, or at least not worth arguing about.

He had found the site where it was to stand; he had found the parts and put them together, from diagrams and descriptions, not so different than an engine, really. He had spent days in Laus Oma, and writing suppliers in Thul Ka, and he had built it out, piece by piece, with one hand and one prosthetic with tools attached, using a screwdriver or a hammer on the other arm.

That hadn’t been the first real project he’d done with the attachments, but it had been the longest. He’d worked in the sun, having recruited one or two of the men to help but still there himself. His arm had blistered and blistered again, and he had worked through their bursting and reforming, with gauze wrapped around the scarred stump of his right hand, through shooting pains up his shoulder from unfamiliar muscles twisting and straining. He had worked through all the pains that whispered to him he could not do it, and in the end he had done it.

But he had never thought of it as his. Aremu did not know if he could have done it for himself. It had been Uzoji’s. It had all been Uzoji’s - the funds, the permission, the shadow behind him encouraging him. Uzoji had been the one to negotiate their release from the local collective, a contract that allowed them to use the plant in case of mishap or overflow, because the arata who ran it would never have have spoken to him.

Uzoji had been the one Aremu wanted to make proud. Look, he had wanted to say; look. It wasn’t charity; it wasn’t kindness. I am useful, still.

But then, Aremu thought, looking down at the book in his lap, he supposed Uzoji had never been the one who doubted.

“There are a handful of them in Quarter Fords,” Aremu offered. Whatever he’d found of a grin had gone, but Tristaan was smiling him still, watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite place. “Not as big as the ones we have. They’ve a small trunk, relative to the spread of the branches, and shiny long leaves. They’re good for climbing, or so I thought as a boy.” The faintest smile twitched over his face and faded.

They sold to wholesalers, not to the Rose directly; Aremu thought ruefully that Tristaan might well have eaten a nut produced on Isla Dzum and never known it. He was sure there was a metaphor in there, somewhere, although he hadn’t read enough poetry to know if it was the sort in them.

Epaemo, Tristaan said.

Aremu inclined his head, and looked away, along the polished length of wood of the bar. He thought of taking another sip of beer, but he didn’t, not yet. For all he’d come thinking to crave oblivion, it remained stubbornly hard to reach, at least for him. At least here, Aremu thought, with a prickle down his spine. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t sought it elsewhere, even in the Rose; just never anywhere so public.

Such memories hurt - ached - with the weight of guilt.

Aremu glanced down at the book once more. He reached for it once more; he left his right arm braced on his lap. It made for an awkward way of sitting, but he was used enough to managing books one handed. In private, he might rest his right wrist on the book to hold it steady; the thought of doing that here made him almost shiver, made goosebumps prick along the skin of his arms. He only just avoided glancing around, half-opening the book and glancing down long enough to see the shape of Estuan letters.

“Here,” Aremu closed the book without lingering further, thumb settling on the leather. He half-offered it to Tristaan with only the briefest thrum of uncertainty. Surely Tristaan could...?

“I don’t know what it’s about,” Aremu admitted after a moment. “I haven’t read this one.”

“Probably just metaphors about the desert,” Aremu found a more familiar smile, although it ached, too. “Or love,” he admitted, thinking of his friend’s taste, the book still half-extended between them. He wasn’t sure what sort of poetry Uzoji would have loaned Chibugo, but it wasn’t unlike him to feel the book made some point he’d argued over.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

16th of Yaris, 2719
THE BLACK DOVE | EVENING

Aremu passed the book to Tristaan after a pause and his grey eyes widened, "It's in Estuan, then? Oh." Perhaps he'd assumed it in Mugrobi, and while he spoke a few words and recognized a few others after so many years of travel and Harbor work, he couldn't read it, not one bit.

Estuan he could, however, and he set down his beer, wiping his hands on his pants, smoothing his palms over his half-unbuttoned vest before finally reaching for what was handed in his direction with what the dark-haired passive could only read as reluctance or hesitance. Maybe the imbala didn't want the book dirtied, seeing as it had belonged to someone else. Tristaan knew, understood, but he didn't press, didn't ask the other man to speak about things that he could tell still hurt.

Balancing the book in both hands without giving into the temptation to set it on the sticky bar top, he shifted in his seat so as to lean a little and cross one leg over his knee, forming a spot to nestle the spine against his calf while keeping it safe from his boots. He ran calloused fingers over the title, opening the red cover carefully to read the printer's mark and the table of contents, to skim the titles of poems with curiosity and interest,

"I ent ever read much poetry. A bit 'f fiction, oes, but it's no' always easy t' get m'hands on th' sorts 'f things I'd like t' be readin'." He murmured almost self-deprecatingly, suddenly very self-aware sitting next to Aremu in a bar full of Harbor residents, suddenly quite sure that while the imbala hadn't read this book, he'd read plenty of others Tristaan couldn't even imagine the contents of.

He didn't reach for his drink again, gently turning a few pages, thumbing to poems whose titles had caught his attention. He wasn't a fast reader, delicately letting his index finger act as a guide for him, pausing a few places to re-read the stanza, to make sure he understood.

"Maybe a pina manna o' both. Then again, I'm a bit partial to writin' with feelin'." Tristaan offered, not looking up yet, lingering on a page because he enjoyed the meandering turns of phrase, the rhythm of it in Estuan probably not the same as it would've been in Mugrobi, but the pacing pleasing none the less. He didn't know much about the desert, save what little he'd seen of it, what more he'd heard of it. He'd never been to Thul'ka proper, barely touching the mainland itself so much as skimming the isles, back and forth. He knew enough about love, however, in his own mind at least—or, more correctly, in his own hama. He'd have said that same heart 'd grown over the past few months, expanded, pressed more against his sternum because of both the child and the witch he called his.

When with the skin you do acknowledge drought,
The dry in the voice, the lightness of feet, the fine
Flake of the heat at every level line;

When with the hand you learn to touch without
Surprise the spine for the leaf, the prickled petal,
The stone scorched in the shine, the wood brittle;

Then where the pipe drips and the fronds sprout
And the foot-square forest of crocus blooms in the sand,
You will lean and watch, but never touch with your hand

Turning the book a little, offering it between himself and Aremu, he pointed, and glanced up with an almost shy smile of interest, "This is all by th' same writer? I ent ever thought 'f arrangin' m' thoughts int' poetry."

"Find comfort in friends,
every wound they can mend."
— Passive Proverb

Note

Original Author: Josephine Miles, Desert