[flashback]One man's trash is another man's treasure

[Jess'e]

Spring 85, 513 AV In the far distance, an early nightingale called, tuning up perhaps for the night to come. Syna had yet to sink fully below the horizon of swaying stalks of green, amber and brown, though only the barest sliver of her white-gold light illuminted the edge of the sky. The vault that arched over Jess’e’s head was streaked crimson and orange, a melodramatic denouement to the day’s bright blue of late, late Spring. From the last, lingering swath of cerulean that brushed over the western sky, the growing sway of evening advanced, shading the heavens to a bruised violet and bleeding into a deepening marine blue on the eastern fringes. The lone bird’s notes wove above and under and around the sounds of a camp preparing for the coming night – men calling to one another over matters trivial or significant, occasional laughter and the snatch of a tune sung to make the evening tasks go more lightly, the rustling of the horses and mules tied out on their line, and the random whinny or snort or bray. All these had now become much more familiar and comfortable to the slave, having sunk into his bones these last fifteen days or so. Even the susurration of the grasses formed only an unheeded backdrop to his thoughts, as he tied his master’s stallion out on a picket line – close enough to the camp to not mark the beast as easy pickings for any of the multitude of predators that lurked in the grass. With a few pats to the silky coat and rougher mane, Jess’e imparted one last kiss to that soft muzzle and bade the animal a good night and happy grazing, though most of the grass about was not fit for animal consumption – not by a horse. Making his way through and around the other mounts that had been staked out as well, he looked about, thinking to catch some sight of either his master – who always seemed to stand out in his bright silks and linens of blue and green and gold – or else one of the other men that comprised their little party, within the greater group of the caravan. But none of his immediate companions hove into view, so Jess’e thought - with a little prick of guilt bathed in a balm of pleasurable anticipation – that he could use the precious moment to steal away, to the edge of the stream that flowed just on the far side of the camp, and put the last few moment’s of Syna’s gift to good use. With softly padding feet, he slipped through all the merchants and their guards and the hostlers and cooks and servants – not to mention the other random travelers who had paid to attach themselves to this living sea of men – and in no time he had reached the banks of the wide, shallow, sluggish brown water that seeped its way through the plain. As Summer approached, the stream was already receding and the banks were mucky and cracking in some places. Jess’e wasn’t bothered though, and walked some meters up stream, away from where the various members of the caravan were drawing water for cooking and the like. Treading a careful path between the sharp blades of the prairie grasses and the grabbing ooze of the mud, he followed the course of the meandering waterway – but not too far. Like the horse, he was careful not to make himself a potential source of dinner for any who might be watching from the grass. He’d been assured that, for the most part, the sight and sound and smell of the caravan was more than enough to scare off most animals for a good distance around. But he wasn’t taking any chances. Slapping at the random mosquitos who were also beginning to make their normal dusk appearance, he found a spot finally that offered a seat. A willow had fallen, it’s bushy tendrils floating peacefully in the stream’s almost nonexistent current, but the majority of its trunk resting on the bank. The very base was high and dry enough to seat several men comfortably, and Jess’e was so slender he barely took up any room at all. Seating himself, he pulled forth the tiny, ornate journal that Ba’Rat had gifted him when they had first set out from Ahnatep. It was bound in dark brown goatskin with dyed insets forming a pretty pattern that reminded him of a peacock’s tail. Small enough to tuck into the waistband of his blue kilt, he carried it with him at all times, ready to capture whatever novel sight or experience he might encounter. It was a travel log, of sorts. However, as Jess’e drew forth the little notebook, he didn’t turn to the last place whereupon he had written his impressions of the mule tender whom he’d witnessed the day before engaged in a most comical confrontation with one of his cantankerous charges. Instead, he flipped directly to the back of the journal, and re-read, for the dozenth time, the few remarks he had recorded there – musings of a very private nature, and ones he hoped that, should it become necessary, he could rip out quickly and destroy. Not that he ever wanted that sad eventuality to transpire – he wanted to keep these particular memories and thoughts forever. But at the same time, it was imperative to keep them quite private as well. So once again feeling that odd rush of shame mingled with a heady, tingling knowledge of delightful indulgence, he read the words there, in those few entries. When done, he pulled from a pouch at his belt a quill and a vial of ink. Soon, as the lone nightingale was now joined by a second, his pen was scratching away, a secret smile gracing his lips as he wrote.

[Ymir]

With the fading of the Syna's light came the cooler calm of the evening. The fiery streaks of oranges and reds that clung to the few clouds resilient enough to brave what would have been a clear, darkening sky. The heat, which had been gradually growing each day through both temperature and humidity, had already waned into a pleasant, tepid warmth. It was cool enough now many of the men in the caravan had opted to clothe the upper (and for some, the lower) halves of their bodies. The entire caravan slowed with the whispers of the setting sun, and rightly so. They company had made good time from the desert city of Ahnatep, pressing hard during the day so that they might enjoy the pleasantries of each other's company in the quiet solace of the night. It was during this time Ymir would sing and dance for the enjoyment of the others. Very rarely did he ever hold the attention of his many companions, however it was even more rare for none to show up at all. A kindly older man informed Ymir that the majority of the caravaners were gathered near what was going to be the last bit of free-running water for a good distance. Even in an ocean of deceivingly peaceful grasses, water was still a precious resource. There were many different veins cutting through the dry sea like roots, delivering the life-giving liquid to the many denizens of the Sea, yet for the layman, those veins were reclusive and elusive. Ymir nodded his understanding as the man smiled an ambled off towards the direction of what Ymir assumed was the gathering place of the majority of the people he had been travelling with. His cool blue eyes roamed the campsite as he leaned against one of the many wagons they had brought with them. There were a few people here and there taking care of last-minute chores and duties that mostly involved the livestock. The Eypharians had gathered together as they often did, sequestered from the others so as not to sully their rank and title. His eyes lingered on the group, but no familiar face other than that of the one called Ba'Rat came into view. Ymir raised an eyebrow at the mysterious absence of the Eypharian noble's slave. It was very rare for the two of them not to be together, yet the face of the noble belied nothing but merriment. His eyes continued to survey, spotting the familiar retreating figure of the slave called Jess'e. Ymir sat still for a moment, watching the young man disappear into the grasses. Odd that the young slave would seek to deliberately part himself from the company of his master. He rose slowly, stretching as he did so. Their journey had been long, and Ymir was rightfully sore from the extensive walking and unfamiliar humidity of the Sea. Letting out a quiet sigh of content, he made his way in the direction of the young man he had been watching. With everyone off to do whatever it was they were doing at the waterside, Ymir felt now was the perfect opportunity to had a word with Jess'e. Ever since he had laid eyes upon the Benshiran features of Ba'Rat's slave, he had wrestled with the feelings of rage that had sprung up from deep within him. Confronting Ba'Rat outright was not only suicide, it was also foolish and childish. From what Ymir had been able to deduce, Jess'e enjoyed his position in life. Simply telling the slave he should be outraged was pointless. Instead, Ymir had long thought of a way to better understand the slave. Perhaps the young man was simply unaware of what the life of a free man was like. Regardless, he wanted to know more. His entire journey was based upon his curiosity about the world. If there was an opportunity for him to better understand the mind of a slave, Ymir embraced it. At least, he was embracing it now. He moved through the grass for a short while until he reached the turbid water of the waning creek. Some way down, there was a fallen willow whereupon sat the slight figure of Jess'e who was bent over something in his lap. Ymir carefully maneuvered through the mud and grime until he reached the tree, making an effort to remain as quiet and unobtrusive as possible until he was withing comfortable talking distance. Ymir let out a slight cough to denote his presence before he spoke. "Jess'e, is it? It is unwise to be so removed from sight of the others." He offered a slight smile, letting his eyes flick to the pages of the ornate book that was quickly closed and shoved back into the young man's kilt. "I don't mean to intrude. I hope I haven't disturbed you in some way?"