Ofi’owapaq, Three Flowers, Thul Ka
“Is Ada’xa Chibugo pez Kadare available?” Aremu had bowed and offered greetings at the desk, and the human behind it watched him with flinty eyes.
“I cannot say,” the man said, evenly. There was a pause, and then, grudging, “ada’xa.”
Aremu bowed once more. “I shall wait,” he said. He went, and sat himself in one of the chairs. He was aware of the rain water dripping down his back, wet and desperately unpleasant, every inch of him soaked and heavy. He knew, too, that it was settling into the cushion beneath him, that droplets were tumbling down on the carpet beneath.
They tried once to remove him; Aremu politely refused to understand, and sat a little longer.
Chibugo, he thought he’d say, I need your help. I know I am a liar; I do not need you to believe me, only to help me, please. In all the years we crewed together – I do not think you would call me brother. Please; what have I ever asked of you? I do not need your belief, not even your trust; I have never pretended at what I am not. t If you ask me, I shall tell you; I do not know honesty, and I make no claims to it, but there is only me.
Even if I am not enough, there is only me.
He would beg, Aremu thought, sitting there, his face set deep into a frown, if he needed to. What was his pride? What claim did a man like he have to any such thing as pride? He had no honor; whatever pride he clung to, sitting here dripping wet, he should throw into the empty abyss inside him. He swallowed, silently, his throat moving. And if still it was not enough? He did not know what more he could offer.
There were footsteps up the stairs, and Aremu heard a distant sound like knocking.
I promised, Aremu thought he might say. Perhaps it should mean nothing to one such as me; I know what I do not have. I find that it means very much indeed, and I cannot do it alone. He rubbed his face with his hand, the prosthetic tucked beneath the edge of his leg; he pinched his forehead, and eased his hand down, and sat back, empty inside.
“Aremu!” Chibugo came down the stairs, grinning. He was shirtless, his braids loose over his shoulders, and his eyebrows were halfway up the forehead; there was whiskey, Aremu thought, on his breath, or maybe tsenid, or maybe both, neither fresh but sour and lingering from the night before. “Adame, what is it? I didn’t think to see you again before I left.”
Aremu stood; he was dripping wet still, and his chest rose and fell lightly with every breath. He knew he wasn’t quite smiling, a frown all through his forehead, pulling his face tight. “Chibugo,” he began, “I need your help.”
“Of course, poa’xa,” Chibugo’s face was serious, now, too. “Anything you need.” The galdor said. “Come, adame, you’re soaked; let’s get you some dry clothes.”
Morning, 16 Hamis, 2720
Brunnhold
He found the tree, as he’d found it before; he climbed the branches and tied a handkerchief, one-handed, and pulled it tight.
Aremu eased back down, then, and drew back, out of sight, listening until the sound of footsteps had faded away. He went, then, to wait at the bench, to sit beneath the cradling branches, as long as he needed to.