Chapter Three | Children of the Earth and Moons
Consciousness hit him like a tidal wave.
Kedean woke with his fists clenched hard as set cement, molded and frozen into the sheets beneath him, and his back bowed, every muscle in his body strung up tight as a weighted noose. It took him several seconds to come fully to, blinking and dragging his befuddled mind stubbornly into reality. Only to realize that he was soaked, and shivering. And that Atiri was in his tent, crouched a foot away and uncertain, with concern pinching her face into a frown.
Kedean blinked again, partly to work the sweat from his eyes but also to bring her into focus, and a frown of his own settled into place. "What—?"
Immediately, she withdrew a half foot, shaking her head and holding an apologetic hand up. "I'm sorry," she whispered, quietly as if he were still sleeping. "I shouldn't have—you…it's just…"
She dipped her head, looking away abashedly, and he imagined her blushing, though he couldn't possibly tell. She blended into the darkness nearly as well as he did.
"You were screaming," she added eventually, keeping her gaze pointedly averted now. "I worried…" She seemed inclined to say more, but then didn't and quickly shook her head again, backing farther away once more. "Will you be awake now for a moment? I will make you tea. To calm your heart."
Without waiting for him to respond, she fled, darting out of his tent as silently as she entered. Kedean, after drawing another long, slow breath, lie back on his sleeping furs and shut his eyes, counting the pace of his pulse in his head.
Six weeks.
Six weeks ago, he had left Baisyl Merseille asleep on a straw filled cot in Carthak and been outside the city walls before sunrise. He'd taken little with him, caught the first boat headed in the right direction, and hadn't looked back. But he'd
felt the separation from the instant he made his departure with a tug so wrenching and physical he found it difficult to classify simply as 'emotion'. It felt absolutely real.
On the first morning that he rose without Baisyl in his bed, he had reached out, his tired mind still hung up for a moment on
why the other man wasn't already tucked close against him, back to his chest and hair loose on the sheets, scent all around him. Then, he'd remembered, and tried without success to banish himself back into sleep so that he might forget again.
As the days had passed, he'd promised himself the missing would ease eventually, because that was how it worked, was it not? You missed someone, but it got better with time. It
dulled.
He'd never managed to keep that promise to himself. It felt as though his heart were knotted with a rubber string, one end leashed tight inside his chest and the other attached to Baisyl, so that every step farther he took away, the tighter it pulled. With every passing day he felt more potently reminded that he wasn't where he ought to be, that he was moving in the wrong direction, that he was
missing a crucial part of himself and leaving it ever farther behind him as he travelled.
Then, ten days after departing from Carthak, the dreams had begun.
At first, he had known only that he woke up desperate and aching and panicked, his heart racing with an urgency he'd never felt before. It felt as though something vital had just been revealed to him, something he
needed to know, but the instant he opened his eyes, the information slid from his mind like water through his fingers, gone in a moment no matter how tightly he grasped. He knew that every night, it was the same dream, and that every time he woke, he lost it. Never once did he remember.
On his fourth week out, Kedean had arrived on the west coast of the eastern kingdoms. By that point, he'd started remembering fragments of the dream – hints, like puzzle pieces, but hidden under a thin gauze to blur them. There was a woman in it, he knew. An old woman, and she was familiar to him somehow, but no matter how he tried, he couldn't discern why she was familiar or draw her face to his mind. She accused him of running. He remembered that.
Also around that time, the tug for the opposite shore had begun leaving him not only mentally distracted, but physically weary. Not only was it increasingly difficult to keep his thoughts on the present and remain mindful of his surroundings – a difficulty which grew to the point of endangering him on more than one occasion – but it made him tired to his
bones, and he hadn't understood—still didn't understand. It frustrated him because it made no
sense to him.
How could he feel someone's absence to the point of bodily fatigue? Sickness, even?
Some mornings, he'd slept in past dawn without meaning to, and the sting of sunlight in his eyes the first time it happened had finally convinced him that something was truly wrong with him. But he was
there, already, he had told himself, so he could not turn back. Not now. As soon as he investigated, yes, he would leave, and find Baisyl—to hell with concerning himself over whether Baisyl wanted or even
remembered him at this point—and he would return. But for now, he had a purpose he could not abandon.
So he'd pressed on.
Few of the locals on the shore he landed on spoke the Common he knew best, but several of the docksmen spoke a dialect he recognized from one of his previous envoys, and he'd soon learned he had come to port in the fishing village of Tartai and that if he wanted to find anyone other than traders, fisherman, and crab farmers, he ought to head into the surrounding hills. And if he got past those and felt fatally adventurous, continue on into the jungles that followed.
He'd done just that.
A week and a half into the jungle, exhausted, and beginning to feel an impending sense of hopelessness regarding finding
anything, let alone civilization, out there, an arrow had buried itself a half foot into the soil approximately an inch in front of his toes. That was how he'd met Atiri and her sister, Sanna, who had promptly descended from the perches amongst the trees to interrogate him—presumably to determine whether or not they ought to bury the next arrow through his head.
They spoke his father's language, a language he hadn't ever – in his memory – heard on the tongues of anyone other than his father and Zryic. It struck home in ways he never expected to experience.
After that, things had gone notably more smoothly. They had explained they'd taken him for an intruder, or a man from another tribe, a runaway slave perhaps, or simply one very, very lost traveler. He'd said he was the last, but none of the former, and apparently, he'd made his story sound convincing enough – or simply looked too beaten to pose a threat – because they took him for his word and offered to lead him back with them.
They had been on a hunting trip, five days out from their home, but insisted after a mere day in his presence that he was severely in need of a spirit healer, whatever that entailed, and began leading him back in the direction of their home.
Now, a day away from finishing that journey, Kedean lay in his tent, tangled in too-heavy, too-hot furs, apparently waking his generous guides by screaming out in the middle of the night. He scrunched his eyes tighter shut, beyond irritated with himself for his own weakness as he swept the heel of his palm across his sweat-damp forehead, his temples throbbing and tired in ways he had no words for.
A scratch sounded gently outside, against the sheet of his tent, followed by Atiri's voice. "You are awake?"
"One moment," he answered, and, rising as promised, he fumbled for and tugged on the first top his fingers came across. Already wearing a pair of loose pants – he never slept unclothed when he slept alone, too wary of the possible need for moving
immediately after waking without the distraction of trying to find clothes – he made it out in under a minute.
He found Atiri seated, her legs tucked beneath her and face lit by a small but dancingly bright campfire. When he stepped out, she looked up. Wildly curly, closely cropped dark hair framed her otherwise mousey, pointed features, and in this darkness, her eyes looked wider still than they did in the daylight hours. Her skin, and her sister's, was as dark as his, and when he came within reach, she held out a cup to him bearing unknown contents which he accepted without question. He took a seat a polite distance from her, turning his attention momentarily to the fire.
Before he thought to speak, she broke the silence. "Are your dreams terrifying?"
Kedean blinked. Privately, he wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to how forthrightly they asked things. It seemed, in his brief experience with both of them, no question merited dancing around the topic with euphemisms or extra delicacy; all questions ought to be asked bluntly and completely in earnest.
"I don't know," he answered eventually, taking a sip from whatever she offered him and making a surprised grunt at the flavor. Not half so bad as he'd expected. Sweet, even.
"You don't remember them?"
"Never." He glanced at his cup. "This is…pleasant, though. Thank you. What is it?"
"Lillim," she said. "It grows here…the tiny white flowers you see growing, knotted among the roots of the great trees? They have long, pointed pale green leaves, like the ears of a great hare…" She wriggled, unfolding her legs out from under her and curling her toes, propping her hands back behind her. Kedean had never, in his four days of knowing her, seen her sit still for more than a minute consecutively, and despite his best efforts not to reminisce, watching her always reminded him of Zyric and his restless, ever present energy. "If you crush the petals of the flower into tea or sweet soup, it calms your body's energies…or so Sanna and Mother say."
"You don't believe it?"
"I do…" She shrugged. "It simply was never for me. My internal energy is calm…" A twitch of the lips. "It is my external energy that never lets me have a moment's peace. Sanna says it is that I have demons in me, always dancing, never allowing me to rest…Father says it is a hunter's soul…" She smiled fully, then. "Mother says I need only wait 'til I grow older."
"Sounds like a mother's wisdom to me," Kedean noted. "Patience and calm often come with age." He eyed her, trying suddenly to discern how old she was, as he'd never asked. Young, he thought, certainly. Older than Zyric, but still very young.
"I am nine and ten years," she answered his unspoken question, and he blinked again, startled.
Nineteen. He looked back to the fire, frowning and feeling suddenly old, though he didn't suppose that followed. He wasn't yet thirty; he oughtn't feel old
yet.
"Too young for you, mm?" she questioned, and he jerked down his drink so as not to choke on it. By the time he fixed her with some diluted version of a glare, she was laughing. No—giggling was a better word for it. Some combination thereof, in any case.
When her mirth calmed back down, he said, "I apologize for waking you," that being the safest, quickest change in subject that came to mind, but she waved him off.
"You didn't. Was she beautiful?"
Kedean frowned, genuinely confused. "Was who-?"
"The woman you miss," Atiri said, and she rocked forward as she said it, bringing her hands back up, dusting them off and then wrapping them around her knees and propping her chin there, her eyes darting back to the fire. "It seems to me a woman must be either very beautiful or very powerful if she wishes to truly capture a man's attention…"
'What makes this world so terrible…that a beautiful, intelligent, self-assured young woman feels she has no other choice but to take her own life?' 'You think I'm beautiful?' 'That wasn't my question.' 'No…it was mine. Are you going to answer it?' Kedean shut his eyes at the memory, letting his cup linger long at the edge of his lips before finally lowering it and answering, "Both. Beautiful…and formidable. Clever, too."
Atiri tossed him a grin. "That helps." Then, more seriously she asked, "Do you feel better?"
Surprisingly, he
did feel better. Significantly so, actually. Almost as soon as he had started drinking, in fact, the pounding in his head had lessened, and now, his entire body ached less. "I do," he answered. "I'm indebted to you. Again."
She snorted. "All those who walk with the Spirit look out for one another. You owe us nothing. You will sleep again, now?"
He considered the fire, and then the jungle around them, dark with shadows impenetrable to the naked eye. "Soon," he said, and she gave him an odd smile. "What?"
"Your accent," she commented. "It is very strange. I've never heard it. It's not the same as when the moons' children attempt to speak our tongue…"
"The moons' children?" Kedean asked, curious, as he'd never come across that phrase before. 'Kuhamani', the title Alroy had said these people gave themselves translated to 'earth's children', but this name was new.
"All of the peoples beyond the jungle," Atiri answered. "So named because, I think, their skin is colored like the face of the white moon? I did not give them that name, so I cannot be sure of its origins."
Kedean smiled regardless. Strange, he thought, to have fair skin be distinguished as the oddity, but comforting in a way. "Fitting enough," he said. "And it follows that my accent would be strange. This is the first language I learned, but not the one I am necessarily most comfortable with, as I use it very little. I've only ever heard it spoken by two other people."
Atiri's eyebrows shot up, her surprise almost comical in its exaggeration. "
Two?"
"My father and my younger brother, the latter having learned it from my father and myself."
"How far from the west have you come?" she asked, her interest peaked now, clearly, and he shrugged.
"Many miles…far across the great sea. I spent a month on ships alone…where I come from, no one speaks this language."
She snorted, disbelieving. "
This is where you come from, not there," she answered and stood. "No matter how far you strayed, or how long your fate's journeys kept you away…this is where you began, and that is why you are back. None of the earth's children stay away forever. The Spirit always guides them home."
With that, she left him, retreating to her sleeping area beside her sister some distance away, and Kedean wondered again why she trusted him – why either of them trusted him so fully – when they knew nothing about him.
He wondered if it were possible for "home" to be a place he had no memory of and thought of red hair wet with rain and the way Baisyl looked when he grinned. Of the glint in his eye when he challenged Kedean to hop out of the back of a wagon and join him in the soaked grass for their first kiss.
He shut his eyes again, and waited alone at the edge of the fire until it died, all the while telling himself that Baisyl was fine – alive, safe, healthy,
happy without him – and wondering if it were true.
Isildar Ile, Eastern Coast Zyric was kissing him.
Zyric was
kissing him, and Alroy-
Alroy was letting him. For the moment, at least, he let him because although the alcohol in his system wasn't enough to excuse anything in its entirety it
was making his blood warm and slowing down his reaction times. And Zyric's mouth tasted like the alcohol, too. Soft and warm as well as tangy and sugary in a way that made Alroy wonder if the kid hadn't nicked a fruit off of one of the local vendors, because he'd never tasted anything quite like-
Zyric was
seventeen years old. Catching Zyric's forearms, Alroy stilled him. "Zyric-"
A frustrated sound answered him, and Zyric caught at his chest, resisting the rebuttal until Alroy
pushed, forcibly putting a foot of distance between them. Then, a sharp –
hurt? – glare rewarded him for his attempt at nobility, and Alroy's chest tightened with guilt, not expecting
that. He shook his head regardless.
"We can't-"
"Why
not?" Zyric snapped, and yes, there was definitely a flinty edge of hurt there, Alroy confirmed, the brunt of it buried under a number of other things—confusion and frustration among the most prominent. "You want to, I
know you do-"
"It doesn't matter what I want."
"Doesn't matt-?"
"I said that wrong," Alroy interrupted quickly. "I don't—I
shouldn't…want…" His words trailed off, objections dying an early death in the face of Zyric's hard stare, rampant with disbelief. Gritting his teeth with his own frustration, Alroy shut his eyes and dropped his head back against the brick wall behind him. "I'm too old for you. Far…
far too old for you. You don't need
or want-"
"I think I can decide what I want for myself, thanks," Zyric cut in. "And right. That excuse makes sense 'cause
you're the one takin' advantage of
my youth and innocence in order to
trick me into spreadin' my legs for you-"
Bad thought. Alroy shut his eyes tighter because his mind was
not going there.
"-usin' me for my body 'til you get bored 'n then movin' on to some piece of young, fresh mea-"
Alroy clapped a hand over Zyric's mouth, his glower heavy and hopefully potent. Zyric merely raised his eyebrows, waiting. Eventually, Alroy released a sigh and caved, dropping his hand. "You can do better than me, Zyric…you have your whole life ahead of you-"
"Maybe I don't want better," Zyric cut in. "Maybe I want
you, did that ever occur to you? And, just t' keep the record straight, I kissed you," he added. "It wasn' a marriage proposal, so I don't know why you're goin' on about 'my whole life ahead of me' 'n such…"
Alroy pursed his lips, for some reason irrationally irritated by that. "Oi?" he clipped back. "So, what, you're not in for commitment? Asking for a one-night stand, are you? Here's a tip kid: never,
never fuck somebody you know well just for the hell of it. It's a one-way ticket to awkward for the rest of your entire relationshi-"
"So there's no compromise between a one-night stand and a lifetime commitment anymore?" Zyric asked, looking comically surprised. "Well,
that'sno fun…"
"You're trouble," Alroy accused, point blank. "You know full well that's not what I meant."
"Trouble Akuwa," Zyric responded without skipping a beat, "pleased to meet you, and you are?"
Alroy eyed his companion, weighing up his options. At length, he responded, "Off limits," and stamped down his gut reaction to the way the hurt in Zyric's eyes immediately sharpened. He was doing the
right thing (so why was it making him feel like shit?).
Finally, though, Zyric backed off. One step back, then two, leaving Alroy on the wall. "Alright," he said, "but…just so I can know 'n all…where'd I mess up, huh?"
Alroy hated himself. "You didn't mess-"
"No?" Zyric retorted. "But you'd rather fuck whores than-"
"I
care about you more than that," Alroy snarled. "Is that so hard to understand?"
"That you care about me, so you're rejecting me?" Zyric said. "Yeah…yeah, that's actually just a bit hard to understand, amazingly. I wonder why."
"I'm not…rejecting…" But Alroy never finished that sentence either. Because nothing he said seemed to be helping at this point, and he wanted to know where
he had messed up.
"That's funny…'cause it sure's hell feels like you are," Zyric responded. "But hey…" He shrugged, stepping back again and lifting his palms up to either side of him in defeat, "…s'okay, you know? 'Cause whether or not
you want me…" He nudged his head to the bar the next building over, the source of Alroy's drink, "…pretty sure I can find somebody in there who will."
Alroy's stomach dropped out from under him.
His body tensed, rigid as an oak in an instant's notice, and that comment had no right to rile him. No right to
infuriate him. But it did just the same, and yet the anger wasn't directed at Zyric. No, the moment those words left Zyric's mouth, Alroy abruptly wanted nothing more than to
gut whoever dared lay so much as a
finger on his—on Zyric and charbroil their intestines until-
Zyric was walking away, retreating in the direction of the aforementioned bar, and Alroy's body was rippling with energy—with the want, the
needto shift. It was rare moments like this that he hated his human form. Fingers and skin were simply not enough; he wanted teeth and talons. He wanted to snatch Zyric up and cart him off into the sky, take him somewhere far away where he couldn't taunt Alroy into leveling a village out of sheer,
unfounded…
Possessiveness?
Jealousy? Protectiveness?
Alroy couldn't place it, precisely, but he couldn't be bothered to try. As soon as Zyric disappeared out of sight, Alroy stalked after him, keeping his distance but
not about to let the kid completely off on his own with this. He wasn't sure what he planned on doing once he caught up with him.
A/N: Short chapter you guys, sorry. And I know, I know, Baisyl isn't here, but I had to get Kedean in there since I've been neglecting him and that left me with choosing between Alroy and Zyric or Baisyl, and I kind of wanted to give Baisyl's next scene the impact of the start of a new chapter. So. Baisyl will be next. Hopefully the wait won't be too long/agonizing.
Also, I apologize for the wishy washy timelines. I know (in case you guys didn't pick up on it) that their individual storylines aren't all quite matching up yet, but the major events they're dealing with are just happening at different points and it's all but impossible to organize it to where they all line up perfectly chronologically. Just trust that by the time things need to line up and the characters finally start grouping back together again, things will work out and it'll be less confusing. (I.e., don't worry TOO much about how much time has gone by for each person or which events happen first; when it matters, I'll make it obvious.)
OH! Before I forget again,
The Coquette and the Thane is now listed on
goodreads thanks to a kind reader of mine on fictionpress! Go check it out if you have the time/incentive and drop me a rate/review if you're signed up there! Link: www . goodreads book/show/15730014-the-coquette-and-the-thane (eliminate spaces, obviously, since I don't know whether AFF supports imbedded links).
