Acquainted with the Night

[Seven Xu]

“Swimming,” Seven murmured, his shoulders sagging beneath the thought of having to leave the relative safety of darkness and bush. It felt as if they had crouched there for a lifetime, and as sarcasm gave way to silence, again a life’s length passed before Seven could bring himself to rise and resume their trek. Leathered soles bit through dead leaves and fell twigs and the tips of his fingers itched with the promise of protection.

It was hard to concentrate, when one was so rattled. He drummed his palms, stared unblinking into the darkness, and shaped the bolt that had narrowly missed him in his mind’s eye. It seemed almost futile, when you had to pick and choose your protection; he had yet to form a means to push his weave further, protect more, and protect faster. Invisible violet wrapped his fingertips, crept to his sleeves, wrapped his forearms, and climbed his shoulders.

There, it stopped, for distracted Seven’s mouth to open. No further djed was loosed, but lingered, unseen, a snug wrap about his arms to protect them from the threat of stray crossbow bolts.

“Forgive me for asking, but why do you treasure Ionu? Victor will not,” he should have said cannot, “explain to me what he founds so fascinating about Him—Her—It. I have no love for the god, myself. I donnot know what the appeal is, in something so… nonsensical.”

[Ifran]

Swimming had seemed the appropriate word for the concept he meant to convey, but he wasn't sure whether it had struck a chord with Seven or fallen short of the mark. Poetry was like that, especially the pedestrian, everyday poetry that sometimes fell from his mouth like pearls before swine. He let silence and darkness take them. Are you there, Akajia? he asked the darkness. It is I, Ifran of the House of the North Winds. He was not joking. It occurred to him that such a situation as this might call the goddess if she had any desire for a closer look at either of them. They walked ever farther from civilization and into the dark of night, but he was used to a city that was always lit, where the only dark was in a windowless room and that was a different thing entirely. Dark rooms for dark deeds. Dark secrets for a dark goddess. But he had to pay closer attention to their surroundings so as not to be killed. And then, of course, Seven broke their silence with words. But they were not silent, which had been the problem before. Ifran could move silently across the boards of a stage, his body learning where the creaks were. Moving silently through a city was not difficult either, but in the desert, the hiss of shifting sand could betray a man, and here there were twigs and bushes and any number of things that wanted barely a brush to make a relative racket. "Ionu?" He mused for a moment. "I do not treasure Ionu. I do not know Ionu." With all his oratorical training, the cadence of his voice found a convincing rhythm, making his little monologue seem well-crafted by some poet. Well, some called Ifran a poet in the streets and ballrooms of Ahnatep. "Our interests would seem to coincide, to overlap, and I have come to Alvadas in order to know Ionu, and perhaps to treasure Ionu if Ionu were to treasure me. Ionu is the deity of illusion, and philosophers claim that all our reality is illusion, so perhaps Ionu is the deity of perspective, of an alternative reality. That is what I create on a stage, and so it would seem that Ionu should be a deity with which I acquaint myself. Sadly, perhaps, the feeling has not been reciprocated."

[Seven Xu]

“Sorry to hear.”

Seven’s footfalls found layers of dead leaves and twigs to crunch beneath them. Even if he wanted, he could not tread as quiet as a shadow. Once in a while he would come upon a stretch of slate, laid out as faultlessly as masoned flagstone. There, leathered toes could whisper through the darkness; he felt as if he could melt into the night itself, if he willed it. A faithful rucksack bumped against his hip. Its papery contents shuffled among themselves.

“I think I’d like to ask Ionu questions, if I were fortunate to find myself in their company.” A toe knocked a heel, and slipped back between sprigs of short green grass and fell needles from tall pines. “Why does Alvadas have to shift so much? Is there a pattern? If there is, will you show it to me? And if there isn’t or you will not, why not?”

Seven stopped. His scowl had subsided; the halfblood was far more handsome when the cogs in his head were turning in the right direction. He turned, crimson gaze darting between six-armed Ifran and the untouched sky above.

“Would you not rather become so skilled in your craft, that you have no need for the Trickster’s favor?” Seven wasn’t even entirely sure what those loved by Ionu could do, but something had loosed his tongue, some insatiable curiosity that he often kept close. After all, it was better to listen, than to blather incessantly—a mantra he had been too eager to forget after the threat of death loosed venomous adrenaline through his veins. “Perhaps become better at lies than him. That’s what he is; god of lies. But, I guess a lie is a sort of perspective.”

[Ifran]

A few of his hands spread philosophically at the condolences. "I would ask those self same questions," he averred, "and many others if the deity deigned to sit down with me, but who can know the mind of deity, in the end? They are, it is said, so far above and beyond us. But I would appreciate the opportunity to try." He considered the rest for a moment, even as he attempted stealth. Akajia would appreciate that, he supposed, moreso than Seven's tromping with no care given to remaining alive. "My skills are not quite where they should be," he agreed. "My voice will come into itself with a few more years, though I should return to Ahnatep where the climate prevents congestion. I will always work to better myself, but it would be foolish not to embrace new tools. One need not use them in all things always." Pausing, he searched the night. "Where are we going again?"

[Seven Xu]

“Nowhere.” Seven’s eyes rolled skyward, “Anywhere.

“Away from Alvadas,” he admitted with a defeated shrug, turning to consider the man at his side. “I just needed to get away. I’m sorry; I feel I’ve taken advantage of your kindness by bringing you with me.”

Shadows stretched away from the moon’s light like long black fingers, tracing the outlines of rubble and rushes. Seven moved toward a clearing, the weight of being discovered only a light burden on his shoulders after distance had been made between them and the hunters. Here, trees parted for tall, dried grass and hard, packed dirt. A canvas bag sighed as it was shrugged from a tired frame, and Seven was soon to follow, settling into the clearing with his knees pulled to his chest and the rise of a grey boulder at his back.

“I thought my mind would clear if I came out here. Instead, I may have put you in danger—I shouldn’t have done that.” He paused, let his head fall against the discomfort of cold rock, and searched between the stars. Finally, the halfblood retired his voice to let the sound of night fill the air.

[Ifran]

Ifran should have guessed, but he shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "There is danger without civilization and danger within. If one believes in fate, staying behind city walls cannot save a person. If one does not believe, well, then there are always bad odds, the chance for coincidence to strike at one's health and good fortune." While Seven sat, he kept his body and his voice limber, moving as quietly as possible, and stepping as carefully as possible. He hummed scales, warming his vocal apparatus against the cold, and drew his bronze khopeshes again with a slither of metal against leather, the twinned blades moving in precise, slow movements in a sword-dance. Some people contemplated in silence, but song was his mantra and dance his meditation. Seven could watch or draw the darkness around himself like a cloak and shut Ifran out too in his attempt at clarity.

[Seven Xu]

A long time passed, where bronze arms and blades danced beneath the silvery wash of a moon’s face unhindered by a cloudless sky, and where a halfblood stared in silence at old familiarity. He was born of darkness with moon-touched skin and eyes that pierced shadows, but his blood did not hold the love his head had for those stars. They were not for him; it was a love unrequited, made clear long ago. Still, he loved them no less—for their existence, not the meaning they held or the future some claimed they told.

But he had learned to love the darkness, too.

“That sounds nice,” he finally said, managing the comment between hummed choruses, “it sounds like something I know. Maybe that’s why it sounds nice.” He could not know his comment was a barb in the side of a man so intent on concentration, and continued as he rummaged through his bag. “I’ve brought food, if you want any. A blanket too, if you’re cold. We’re low enough that we won’t freeze, even if we spent the night here—but I’m starting to feel the chill, now that we’ve stopped.”

Sweat had turned cool at the small of his back and beneath his arms. Fingers groped at the scarf he had left, hoping some warmth from his efforts had lingered within its thick folds.

It had not.

[Ifran]

The words did not stop him. His humming became true song, though he sang quietly. It was unlikely Seven would understand the Arumenic lyrics, syllables held too long for the sake of the music, distorting the words anyway. His dance, too, became more intricate, dual wielding his bronze khopeshes with such an intensity of imagination that one might even guess he was fighting off living shadows. The pace of it held back that he might maintain a stealthy quiet, though as he grew more accustomed to his surroundings even in the wan light of the moon, his speed did increase. Perhaps it seemed he was ignoring his companion, but he heard him. When his dance was done, he turned to regard him. "Well," he said finally, "if you are cold..." That said, he sheathed one of his khopeshes, and sat the other on the ground beside him as he sat next to Seven and pulled the blanket over his shoulders too, keeping death and defense within easy reach should those brigands or other dangers venture too near. His body was hot with the exertion, but the chill air had kept the sweat at bay. All the same, his presence was like unto that of a stove, and his skin smelled of sun-burned sand.

[Seven Xu]

Seven stiffened.

“Thank you,” was all he could think to say for the warmth at his side. He thought to move, to give this man his space, but something between apathy and the promise of heat kept him in place. He exhaled when he realized he was holding his breath and let tense shoulders sag as a nest of white hair settled back against smooth rock.

New warmth worked to soothe gooseflesh, seeming to work through his body with ease as they sat shoulder to shoulder beneath the night. It was then, after comfort settled in, he let tired eyelids close for the first time. It did not last long; he woke after a half-chime with a start, a whistling gasp through pale nostrils and a pair of knees flew back to his chest. His lips murmured something before his mind was clever enough to make sense of the words. Tendrils of recognition slowly worked themselves back over his weary countenance.

“It must be late,” he remarked before tipping his chin skyward, “no, early. The best will come soon; you can see far-off worlds and the largest stars before dawn, they last while the rest fizzle out. But the sun will swallow them, too. It just takes longer.” As if to illustrate his point, a single bone-white finger emerged from the shared blanket to point at an orange-white point in the sky, larger and brighter than those congregating around it. “Fyrden. I’ve read that mages can summon creatures from it. Can you imagine? Life—it’s so far away.”

He sighed, lips curling with mirth, “So far, so alive, and still just a light in the sky.”

[Ifran]

Ifran practiced silence while the other slept, but it was brief and he woke himself up with a start. The Eypharian did not comment on this either. But when he pointed at a star and named it, Ifran marked it, fixed it in his memory and nodded. There was a word in Arumenic for that sort of pale orange-white, but if there was a corresponding word in Common, he did not know it. Instead he echoed the name with his rich timbre. "Fyrden." He smiled. "What other stars do you know, and their stories?" Perhaps someday there would be an ambassador from Lhavit in the court of the Pressorah and he would need to sing a song of the stars to honor their Zintila, maimed in sacrifice for her mother. There was an opera there, he knew. Such a grand display of love could not help but move audiences.