Alone

[Quio]

1st of Saun, 717
1st bell, midnight

The meditation chamber nearest to the Mother's warmth had become as much his home as his prison cell in the neverending light of Uleuda, and Quio looked again at the scratches he'd made upon the dimmed crystal of the walls.

Tally marks.

Altogether there were 86.

87, if he counted today.

At first the tallies had been organized neatly in even rows, 1 2 3 4 and 5 striking through the rest, repeated again and again. But as time had gone by the tallies had grown more and more careless. Some he had put in close bunches, when he'd forgotten to make marks, or hadn't realized until too late that another three or four trials had already passed. Others were singular, crooked in their ugly lines.

"87 trials," he said aloud in his empty voice, and then closed his eyes and leaned forward to press his forehead against the tallied numbers. He was sitting cross-legged facing the wall, so close to the markings that his knees brushed the crystal there.

He sat like that for a long time.

---

When the door opened to the chamber he had his back to it, and he didn't move. The Ancients overseeing him had their disciples watching over him at all times, and Quio did not turn when a familiar voice rang out.

"Quiome, there is someone you need to meet with."

It was Abruzih-- Qadazih's youngest son. While the other Ancients had given up on him from the first, Qadazih was... kinder. She had been the one to postpone his trial. She was the one slowly teaching him Ulehi, those days when he felt well enough to learn. She was the one who encouraged him to get out of the room and to take visitors. He had discovered some time back that she did these things because she had known his mother.

Though she hadn't told him in so many words, Quio understood what that meant: that Qadazih had mentored his mother in much the same way when she, too, had been tortured by hateful men. When she, too, had been as good as dead.

"Quiome," Abruzih insisted, but the younger Yludih did not move except to raise his hands. Those he rested flat against the wall on either side of his head, still facing away.

"No," he said when the other had repeated his name a third time.

"Qada says--"

"No," Quio said again. He knew what it looked like. Sitting here, alone in the dim light. Facing the wall. The weak set of his shoulders. The bent back. The colored despair of his crystal. "No," he said again, more quietly this time. Against the wall his brow creased.

"Fine," Abruzih said shortly, "I'll just show her in."

Quio remained where he was.

There was a rustling at the door, as of robes, and a soft silence. Then Abruzih said, "Yana--"

"No," Quio said more strongly this time, before the other could finish. He had stopped seeing his sister half a season ago. She had burned so brightly, so fervantly in her belief that she would save him, and that brightness had hurt. It had hurt him incessantly. He already had enough pain. "Yanaqi, no. Please. Please go." Simple words, but effective.

Except--

"It is not your sister," Abruzih said harshly, and Quio could only shake his head.

But his mentor's son was having none of it. Abruzih strode over and ripped him to his feet by the neck of his robes, grabbing hold of him and forcing him to look towards the door.

There was a beat of profound silence, of recognition. Then, "Y-Yana," Quio stuttered. Abruzih let go of him and he stumbled and straightened and then immediately bowed. Not as one bows to a lady, but in shame or retreat-- he bowed his head as if to wince back. If she was sharp, Yana would notice that two of his fingers had gone from his right hand.

"Yanahalqah," he said. She had been the Leader. She had saved his life, and together they had damned many souls.

And here he was, now damned himself.

"I'm sorry." He ducked his head further. There was no way he could apologize properly. But he could say this at least. "I'm sorry." He could hardly look at her and he turned towards Abruzih.

But Abruzih looked back at him and crossed his arms.

"Speak to one another," the elder Yludih said, glancing a little more sympathetically at Yana before thrusting a crystal tablet into Quio's hands. Then, without another look at either of them, he left the room.

Yana and Quio. Together. Alone.

A moment passed and Quio put his hand to the tablet.

Writing here was not like writing in the waking world. This was a place of thought, of the mind, and because of that Quio's thoughts spilled effortlessly from his finger to the crystal below. Lines of words in glimmering light spread out from his touch, and after a moment he lifted his hand free.

I'm sorry, the words read. They appeared to be in Quio's own handwriting, though he had not physically written them himself. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I said I would be, and I wasn't. The words were in Rakahi, but Yana need only touch her hand to the tablet and she would be able to understand. This was how Yludih from all over the world transferred information. Things could be said and explained quickly between individuals, and on these tablets information could be given more precisely than spoken word could manage.

I was a coward. There was no hesitation there. He truly believed it. I'm not strong. I killed so many people here-- he was referring to the debacle with the nulliem. Here, and Without. And I didn't know what to do. Without, of course, was everything outside the Uleuda.

There was a war, he continued, the words coming quickly, there were monsters, and these monsters were like the nulliem. He was talking about the shadowbeasts in the war of immortals. Dark, frightening things. Like something from a nightmare. I was-- The words seemed to shift and blur somewhat here, maybe with confusion, but she might have been able to make out one final phrase, I was one of them. Then he stopped and whatever words had been there abruptly faded to nothing.

Quio shook his head and pulled his hand from the tablet. The hand he had used was his dominant hand, the one with fingers missing, and it trembled just a little.

Finally he touched the crystal again and new words appeared, more measured than before. I should have told you that I couldn't be here but I just couldn't. I couldn't. Those last two sentences erased suddenly and were gone. There's no excuse.

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"
"Speaking in Ulehi"

[Yanahalqah]

“I’m sorry to ask this of you,” the male Yludih said, his calm and polite voice indeed expressing sorrow, and perhaps even a twinge of guilt. Two pairs of crystal feet walked through the hallways, rounding corners and passing through different doors and rooms. All crystal, all spartan in decoration and furnishings. This was the building the monks resided in after all, where the Yludih were taught, and where they could meditate if they so pleased. Or if they were forced to. Yana knew that there was a courtroom in this building as well, albeit in a different wing, far removed from the meditation chambers. Yana stayed as far away from that part of the building as possible. Too many bad memories.

“I understand you two are friends?” the male Yludih continued, not really looking Yana in the eye. He focused on the path ahead of them, his robes fluttering from the motion of his legs.
Yana did not say anything. Friends, eh? Were they? They had gone through traumatic experiences together. That had brought them close. They had supported each other afterwards. They had talked. They had agreed to try and help each other… something that had ended up being nothing more than an empty promise. She had not seem the Wanderer again after their talk. She had cursed his name, yes. She had shed tears, curled up in a ball when things became too much for her to bear. Her mind had wandered many times, wondering where he’d gone. She had blamed her stagnation on his disappearance, not wanting to admit that she had not even tried to make progress on her own. She could not hate him though. The anger was long since gone.

Abruzih did seem to take her silence as an affirmative reply though, producing a sigh-like sound. “For what it’s worth, again, I’m sorry. I hope it never comes to it, but if it does…” Another sigh. “I’m sorry.”
Yana’s hands tightened around the shaft, the crystals of her fingers feeling as if they could snap off at any moment now.
“Apologies don’t make things better,” she said, a whole lot sharper than she had meant to. It was enough to make the male turn his head towards her for just a moment. Yana sighed as well.
“I didn’t mean to snap,” she spoke apologetically. “I just don’t wish to be reminded of it time and time again.” Not that it was possible though. Her grip loosened and then tightened again. The reminder was in her hands the whole time, it was impossible not to dwell on it. The multitude of apologies were the last drop that made the cup overflow, however.

“Of course. I’m so— I don’t blame you.” He stepped through another door, Yana changing the position of the shaft in her hands so it would not bump into the frame. They were in the hallway they’d been aiming for now. To Yana, it felt as if she was walking towards the chopping block on the trial of her execution, which was more than a little ironic. Her grip on the shaft tightened once more, increasing to the point that her arms were starting to tremble. Abruzih placed a large hand on her shoulder, turning his face to Yana’s. “Let’s hope it’s not necessary. Qada thought speaking with you might help him.” He let go of her, Yana’s grip relaxed. The trembling was still there, however. “Wait here.”

He opened the small room then, stepping inside. His voice was hushed as he spoke, not quite a whisper, but not talking with normal volume either. It was difficult to make out what was being said. The voice that replied though, was easier to understand. His was a little louder, speaking only a firm ‘no’ in response to everything Abruzih said. Despite the firmness of the denial, the voice sounded fragile. On the verge of breaking. Like a thin plane of glass, cracked all the way through in a spiderweb pattern. Still one piece, but only barely. The slightest touch would make everything fall apart and shatter. It was the sound of a broken man, Yana thought. It was … difficult not to run away. She did not want to be here. It pained her. The sound of his voice alone… what would his appearance do to her? His body language? Her knuckles hurt from the force she applied to the crystal shaft in her hands. It was all she could do. Perhaps if she’d had a mouth, she would have grit her teeth. If she’d had a brow it would have been furrowed. She did have an eye, but no tears came out, even though she did feel like there should. Her whole body pulsated teal.

She was called then, and the voice begged her to turn away and leave. But it was not her who was addressed, and Yana was not sure if she was glad or not. She stepped through the door, seeing Abruzih holding Quiome up, almost as if he was a kitten who’d been misbehaving.

Silence.

Then, her name. Apologies. More and more apologies. She did not want to hear them. His voice hurt. She did not want to look at him either. It hurt too. She wished he’d straighten up. Not to hang his head. Look at her. Stop turning the air inside the room into a heavy weight. To make the atmosphere cease feeling like it was suffocating her. He needed to look alive. Not half-dead. It was almost as if she was being told to go talk to a corpse that had not yet died. One that wanted to, but couldn’t. Would putting him out of his misery being a kindness, or would it be a cruel denial of chances he might have had? Should they really wait until he spilled Yludih secrets? Did he still have a will to live?

She looked at Abruzih pleadingly, but the man pointedly ignored her gaze, leaving the room instead. Talk to one another… easily said than done.

Carefully, Yana placed the spear against a wall, finding herself unable to hold it any longer. It felt a whole lot heavier here, as if it was already gathering the guilt Yana would no doubt feel if she had to use it. Guilt and shame she already felt when looking at Quiome’s broken form. She sank to the floor, crossing her legs, staring at the ground. Neither of them said anything.

Then, from the corner of her eye she noticed him fidget with a tablet. Writing? That might be easier for him, indeed. He hadn’t been able to speak last time, and though he now seemed to muster simple phrases, for a complex conversation that wouldn’t do. Oddly, the words on the tablet were not in the rune-like Ulehi, nor in Common. Rakahi. Yana wasn’t too familiar with the language, being able to read simple sentences, understand bits and pieces when it was spoken, and speak it with difficulty herself. Here she only needed to touch the tablet to understand what he was trying to convey though. Perhaps if she had been confident there was enough time for her to read the Rakahi, she wouldn’t have needed to touch it, but the goal was a conversation, and she was not going to undermine that goal.

Of course it were more apologies. So many of them. Heartfelt or not, Yana did not want to hear them. Still, she kept reading, listening to everything he had to say. When he was done, she sighed. He was not completely making sense, that was for sure. She gathered he had talked about the Immortals’ War and the shadowbeasts, but she did not understand what he meant. One of them? How even?

“The war,” Yana managed, “what do you mean, one of them?” There was a sinking feeling in her abdomen, where her stomach would be. She had participated in the first half of the war, on the ship to Ne’haer. There had been a huge monster, which had turned into a person upon defeat. Surely he did not mean…

“Never mind,” she said, shaking her head. She did not want to think about it. It was not important anyway. Whether he had or hadn’t been that monster, did not matter. Yana had changed sides as well in that war. Instead, she reached out for his hand, the one with the missing fingers. She did not remember his hands being mutilated before. “Did they do this?” she muttered, more to herself than to him. She already knew the answer, or so she believed; he needn’t answer. It was a sorry sight, those hands, once beautiful and perfect, now damaged. Yana could relate to it. She might have not lost any digits or limbs, but she had lost an eye. A small price paid to escape those that thought her a spy, yet, it was a loss nonetheless. From time to time she still felt the scar throb and ache, though it should have healed completely a long time ago.

Gently she rubbed the knuckles of the missing fingers with her thumb, casting her gaze upwards, looking at him again. This time she did not look away. She took it all in, the set of his shoulders, the hang of his head, the color with which his body pulsed. The vibe he gave off, all of it. It hurt. It hurt almost too much. It made her asterism throb in pain. She moved closer to him, wrapping her arms around him in a hug. Tight, but also careful. As if she was afraid he might break. It was less to comfort him than her. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking. How hypocritical of her. However, she was genuinely sorry. For being selfish at that moment, for possibly having to spear him through the chest if he leaked any secrets, for cursing his name in her weakest moments. And for something she could not quite place. It only manifested as a feeling of guilt and disgust and shame that filled her when she thought of having to kill him if he said too much. She was also sorry for already having given up on him, for sharing his despair. There was nothing she could do, and frankly, she did not think anyone could change anything now.

Lastly, she was sorry for the questions she was about to ask. He wouldn’t want to be reminded, but just like the spear leaning against the wall, the missing fingers were a constant reminder, on he could not escape. Hence why the questions would hurt even more, she expected. She released him slowly, putting a little distance between them. “How did they catch you?” she asked.

[Quio]

Seeing her was like seeing a wisp, no, seeing something so much brighter. There were no words for such a thing, but he was struck by the thought that whatever Yana was, she was the exact opposite of a nulliem.

She was the exact opposite of Quio himself.

Bright. She was full of light. He felt like he had to squint to look at her, could only ever seem to look at her askance, and it was only now that he realized why Yanaqi's burning crystal had been much the same. Why even Abruzih and Qadazih sometimes seemed to hurt his eyes.

His own crystal had dimmed.

Yana's hadn't.

When she stepped into the room she was glowing-- teal. She set the spear aside as if she could no longer touch it. Then folded down to the floor and let him explain himself to her, something he realized too late he didn't deserve.

Still, she had questions. The war, what he'd meant, and he was a coward because he felt relief when after a moment she told him nevermind.

A coward, because he knew he didn't have the heart to lie to her. He would answer any questions she asked.

At least she started out easily.

Did they do this?

It was more to herself than to him, and the question answered itself; the only hard part was to let her take his hand, to let her fingers touch upon wounds that appeared clean in Uleuda, wounds that would not bleed here and had healed Without but which, in his mind, still felt wide open.

Then she was hugging him.

For a moment Quio's arms hung limp at his sides and he did not respond. His mind lagged behind. There was a feeling like fear, inexplicable because he knew he shouldn't be afraid, and he remembered the day, how far back had it been now, when he had asked Qadazih, Yanaqi, and Abruzih not to touch him, not even to lend support should he fall. Abruzih was the only one who sometimes forgot when he was frustrated.

How long had it been, then, since he had been hugged? Days. Weeks. A short season.

He didn't know, but it felt longer still.

There was an eternity in the trill he hesitated, and then he hugged Yana back. Quio's arms came up loosely around her, then drew tighter. Tighter. Was he holding on to her too tight?

Would he ever hug anyone ever again? There was that fear again. Was it because he didn't want to let go?

She pulled back. “How did they catch you?” she asked.

This time, it was much harder to answer.

My mother, he said, perhaps not something Yana would have been expecting. But she had asked how it had happened, and there was not one explanation but many. He had to start at the beginning; he would not lie. My mother was taken by men long ago.

I have always-- been a failure to my people, he almost said and the words appeared but just as soon were erased from sight.

Instead, When I lost my mother I was only a boy, he said. And when she was taken from me I lost myself as well. The words still seemed to blur at times, when it was difficult or confusing for him to explain. Up until then I had lived as a Yludih. After her death, I left that behind. I became a Biqaj. Do you understand? If Yana touched her finger to the tablet she would see how he had betrayed his people. Or at least she would understand his words. That he had given up his Yludih heritage to have a new family, when his mother was lost.

Arcs later there was the war, and I was contacted by the Biqaj god --my god-- and taken to Ne'haer. Ne'haer was where my mother had been killed, and because of that I had always hated that city, I had always avoided it. But to see the people there in war-- He shook his head.

The buildings had been destroyed with people hurt and trapped within, the white walls stained black with soot. The living fire had come, screaming, and attacked the gates. The forest had burned. And so he had helped them, helped the people who had hurt him because they had been just as lost, just as broken, and then he and everyone else had run to the portal and left them all behind.

I went back to Ne'haer in Ashan. I knew I shouldn't go but I went anyways. I felt I had lost myself again. And so I went looking for the men who had killed my mother. I found them and I was going to hurt them but I was too weak, and I couldn't do it. I couldn't hurt them how they'd hurt me, and so I let them go.

There was a long pause.

They found me a few days later.

To think! he said then with a little more clarity, and the sentence seemed wry. Just days before I was captured I spared the men who were going to kill me. To think! When I was a boy I had the chance to kill one of them and I couldn't do it then either. I've killed my own kind without even trying and yet I could not find it in me to execute those murderers.

He was making a soft noise almost like laughter, but maybe he was crying instead. It was hard to tell. He put his hand to his face as if to cover a mouth that was not there, and felt he was going to be sick. But there was no getting sick in the Uleuda.

My sister used to tell me I was a traitor to my race. Now those men are going to pick me apart and figure out how I work. They had done the same thing to his mother. They hadn't shown her any mercy. And I couldn't kill them. I couldn't do it. And Yanaqi was right.

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"
"Speaking in Ulehi"

[Yanahalqah]

It took a moment, but Quiome wrapped his arms around her in response. Tight, as if he was holding on to her for dear life. Tight, as if he thought she would disappear the moment he let go. Tight, as if it had been arcs since the last time he’d experienced physical contact of this sort, and did not want to let go ever again. Yana did not mind. It was a gesture to comfort herself, but if it could help him a little too, then that could only be a good thing. Yet, she felt selfish doing it. As did the slight quivering of her crystal body, holding back an emotional outburst that would inevitably break through. Not yet, not now. She could suppress it for now. Wait until she was out this cell. Until she was somewhere private. She wasn’t even sure what those tears would be for. Were they for him, or for her? Was it because his situation was so painful and hopeless that she would cry? Was it because she felt for him, because she sympathized? Or was it because of that sense of guilt wrecking her mind at the sight of him, that made her feel disgusted with herself? No, she shouldn’t cry if it were no tears for him. He did not deserve that.

When she broke the embrace and posed her question, the answer came. Words appeared on the tablet, forming sentences to express his thoughts. Sometimes parts erased themselves and put different words in place, other times a whole line was erased and did not come back. From time to time it happened too fast for Yana to make out what had been written there, whether she was touching the crystal slab or not.

At one point he asked if she understood. She shook her head. His mother was lost, and he had found a new family. Becoming a Biqaj did not seem to be some sort of crime. Deception was natural to Yludih. That he would take the form of one and adopt their culture and mannerisms was to be expected, no? But it hit her then; he had lost himself in the Biqaj persona. He had not pretended to be, he had become it. He had revealed himself, been accepted for what he was, and lived as one of them. Changing his mindset to that of one of them. A Yludih in body, a Biqaj in mind. She should think of it as treachery, but Yana felt slightly envious. Only for a moment however, then she recalled his current situation, and felt guilty about that thought instead.

He continued, speaking of the war again, of going to Ne’haer with the Biqaj god, Ufrek. Yana had met the Immortal as well, though she had not been contacted by him, nor had she conversed with him. She had merely been a passenger on the ship he commanded, a ship that had taken her and the actual Chosen Champions to Ne’haer. “You were on the ship?” she muttered, pondering. It was not an important detail, but the hypothesis did align with the statement that he had been one of the Shadow Beasts. There had been a Biqaj on the ship, one she had tied up and put in the brig after his Beast form had been defeated. Was it him? Could it be?

She continued to listen, his thoughts on the tablet becoming a little clearer and gaining a sharper tone. His kindness had been repaid with violence and torture and hate. His abandonment of his Yludih identity had been his undoing, Yana thought. He had lived as a Biqaj for too long, perhaps forgetting his true nature. Thinking himself not an outsider, but one of them. It had made him too attached to his Biqaj family, maybe seeing parts of them in the people he hated. But he could not be blamed for it, not really. He’d had found a place where he felt like he belonged, a place in Idalos, no less. That was an impressive feat. Too bad that was something Yludih could not have. It was a trap.

Yana sighed. “Right or not, it doesn’t matter. Compassion is not a bad trait. Regrettably, it is wasted on most fleshlings. You spent too long among those who did not mind you being what you are, you forgot that you were not one of them. We are different. We are hated. Feared.” She paused for a moment. “Every creature fears that which they do not know, what they do not understand. To Idalos, we are both, unfortunately.” In Uleuda, the Yludih felt the same about Nulliem. No-one seemed to know what they were. They only knew what they did; destroy crystal. No-one knew why. It seemed impossible to reason with the creatures, as they did not speak, and attacked on sight. The Yludih thought the Nulliem to be out to destroy them, but maybe that was what the fleshlings thought as well. Then again, they did not appear to see reason either. They did not pause to talk, instead they captured, tortured and killed.

She grabbed his hand again, gently holding it. “It is not wrong to feel,” she said, “but emotions and attachments in that world are a trap. The only thing you can do about it is build a wall around you, and keep your distance emotionally. Remind yourself time and time again that you are not one of them.” That was how she had always done it. And even then she was sometimes tricked into caring for certain people. One had turned out to be a fellow Yludih, Aelig be praised, but the others likely weren’t. “Remind yourself that no matter how much they seem to like the ‘you’ you seem to be, they will turn on you the moment they find out what you are.” At this point, she was not even sure if she was talking to him or to herself. Probably the latter, as Quiome probably did not need such advice. His life was as good as over.

She thought of something then, something that may save him and the secrets of the Yludih. If he spent all his time on self-reflection, finding and coming to terms with himself, perhaps he could become an Ancient in time. Then they could kill him, and his body would turn to dust –or so she’d heard. No-one could figure anything out that way! However… who said the Yludih-haters would kill him before picking him apart. They might as well leave him alive as long as possible, to make him suffer. They couldn’t kill him here either, for then he would die in Uleuda as well. As an Ancient he might still crumble to dust though, which would still protect the Yludih. The guilt Yana felt about it only increased, and she felt like she was a hypocrite. A traitor as well.

“If you wish, I can--” her head turned slightly to the spear. It felt wrong to offer, and she knew that should he tell her to do it, she would not be fine afterwards. Those were selfish thoughts though. Quio was in pain. He was suffering. His will to live seemed to have drained from him. She could end it for him. Before he turned into a Nulliem, and before he would … talk. Guilt, again. More of it this time. Disgust too. Quio wouldn’t talk. He hadn’t yet, and they had tortured him. They had cut off his fingers. They had reduced him to this. He was far stronger than her. He hadn’t spilled anything. However, that did not mean they could not break him. She doubted it though, but maybe he worried. Death would give him certainty at least. “You’re not a traitor,” she said, voice quivering slightly. “I am confident in your resilience, but if you wish to end it… I—I can… do it for you.”

[Quio]

Fleshlings, she called them, a term Quio had never thought to use himself, though he had heard it before used by his people. Fleshlings. An ugly word. The Yludih thought the waking world to be an ugly place, and it was.

There were words for people like Quio, too: fleshlovers or in Uleuhi the atuih, meaning possessed. They were those who had given up on their crystal origins to live a life Without, those who had gone away into the ugly world only to be brought back to the Uleuda upon pain of death or betrayal.

Why did it all sound so familiar?

The fleshlings could not be trusted, Yanahalqah said, sounding much like Yanaqi, sounding much like his father and even his mother, who had lived away from the fleshlings in the woods. Those he loved would turn on him, she said, if only they knew.

How could he tell her that he had loved someone who had known and not cared, and that for the two of them, at least, it had been the very opposite?

And what did any of that matter now; Quio was here, and Yana had taken his hand. Despite her words he held hers back tight.

If you wish, I can-- she offered, and why not?

The spear was made of the Mother's light; looking at it, Quio wondered if it would hurt or if there would be no pain, only warmth. For long moments he was silent, and he looked between the marks on the walls, 87 days, and the spear that stood next to them. Two options. Live messily, live painfully, or put an end to it so nice and neat and clean.

Why not?

He had trapped himself in this room as surely as he was trapped Without and he was wasting away. His light was growing dim. Sometimes he did nothing but weep or lie down in misery. All there was was feeling sorry for himself, feeling wronged, feeling like he himself was wrong.

So why not?

Yanaqi would kill him, but he would already be dead.

Why not?

Finally he reached out and put his other hand to the tablet. I should, he said, but I wouldn't ask you to. I wouldn't do that. I should do it myself.

And then he was gone, and Yanahalqah's hand was empty.

---

In the waking world he was chained this time, metal cuffs around both ankles and wrists that would keep him from running if he wasn't already in a cell. There was no bed, only some matted straw on the floor soaked through with water, and Quio looked out from his cage and recognized the rocking of a ship. For a moment he was lulled by it and he felt safe, something he couldn't help but knew to be incredibly wrong. He was in a ship's brig and he was cuffed hands and legs to a sturdy wooden chair. Three men were gathered around him. They had dumped a bucket of hot water on him to wake him up.

But they couldn't keep him here.

Quio closed his eyes and willed himself back to the Uleuda before they could hurt him. They would hurt him anyways, they always did, and he suspected he suffered more when he left them behind because he was certain it made them angry. But at least he wouldn't be awake.

---

When he made it back, Abruzih was waiting under Yldria's light and he thought Yanahalqah was there too. Quio appeared before them silently, already sitting with legs crossed, and didn't try to stand. Something was going on in the waking world, whatever they were doing to him, and he waited to see if it would be bad.

He wondered if he was the only one who heard the snap when it happened. Then his left shoulder gave out, and though he knew how to deal with the pain well enough it still hurt, it hurt badly, and more than that it frightened him because he couldn't move his arm. The best he could do was hold it against his stomach and struggle to remain calm, struggle to relax and remember his meditation, and welcome the warmth of the Mother radiating down from above.

Ten bits passed and with each minute Quio looked paler and paler, like the light inside him was blanching or falling completely away.

Soon after that he appeared to come to.

"Tablet?" he asked in a quiet voice, and Abruzih held one out. Quio took it awkwardly in his three-fingered hand, setting it on his lap.

Perhaps I should die, the tablet read. To the others it would seem that he hesitated, his head bowed like before.

Then he looked up.

He tried to move his arm again and couldn't, and something snapped inside him like the snap of his shoulder as if it were his compassion, his depression, his passivity all broken in two; he was suddenly, shittingly, seethingly, mad. His asterism began pulsing brightly, whether in panic or hatred, grief or rage, and upon that emotion a ring of bright light burst into brilliancy around his left forearm, so intensely silver in color it almost looked white. To Quio the mark felt hot like the sun, and it didn't matter that the light it cast was no brighter than a candle. It was small and insignificant, and still it was light.

But I wish to kill them first, he said.

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"
"Speaking in Ulehi"

[Yanahalqah]

She saw him consider it. A proposal she could not imagine anyone give any thought in any other situation. Dread filled her as he remained silent, pondering whether or not he would accept. Yes, she had offered, and no, it hadn’t been out of politesse. It pained her to see him like this. It disturbed her to see any Yludih reduced to what Quiome had become. Locking themselves away in a cell, wallowing in their misery, spiraling further and further down in despair and suffering as they rejected the help from others. At least he had not pushed her away, at least he accepted her presence near him. Perhaps—perhaps if he’d been here, if she’d run into him during the past seasons… maybe things would have been different. Maybe she would have been there for him. Perhaps she could have supported him from the start. Or… or he would have pushed her away as well. Without the guilt of leaving her all by herself when she needed him, would he still have allowed her to sit here? Would he still have spoken to her. Would he have listened to her? Would he have let her try and console him?

Yana wasn’t sure. Her mind was leaning more to a negative answer to those questions. Maybe this had been for the best then. True, she had stagnated, but at least he was not completely isolated now. This was for the best. And if he agreed to have his life taken from him –even if, no, not if. Even though it would shatter her more than she already had—then that would be for the best as well. He suffered. She couldn’t see him like this. He was hardly a shadow of his former self, and Yana had only known him when he already was broken and depressed. Yana had stagnated, indeed, but he had gotten worse. It wasn’t fair. Yana could help, she could grant him a way out. Even if by killing him she would kill a small part of herself in the process. Even if it would break her stagnation in the worst kind of way. It wasn’t fair that Quiome had to go through this. It wasn’t fair that he sat there apologizing to her when it was clear that he was suffering far more than she. They might not have known each other very long or very well, but Yana had felt something within her resonate with this broken Yludih. There was a connection between the two of them, one that she did not yet feel with anyone else. Not even with her mother or with Rathaan. With Quiome she could be open, she could talk about her fears and worries without being scared of being judged. He had gone through the same. He could relate. No-one else could. The Pink Girl maybe a little, but she had not been the source of the mess. Yana had been. Quiome had been. They were the same, in a way.

Still, she would not back down. She had offered, and she was not going to give Quiome idle hope. He was the Wanderer, and if he so wished it, she would see him off to wander towards his end. She would be there to wave when he began his final journey. She would be there to wish him safe travels. Even if she would feel the spear stab her own chest too. Even if that pain would persist for the rest of her life. It would hurt, yes, but at least she would have the consolation that he was no longer suffering himself. If it was for him, she could resolve herself to do it.

I wouldn’t ask you to, he said. I should do it myself.

And then he was gone.

Yana’s hand was empty, holding nothing but air. She grabbed at the spot where his hand had been, as if she could bring him back if she was just fast enough. As if she could drag him back here if she just wished hard enough. She failed. Of course she did.

It allowed her to do one thing though, now that he was no longer around. She let out a wail and a flood of tears, bending over so her forehead rested on the floor. Sobs rocking her body, she slowly curled up into a ball, feeling a little bit comforted by the warmth of her own crystal shape.

Abruzih entered the room not much later, worried at the sound Yana had let escape. He did not need any explanation to know what was going on. Instead he placed a comforting hand on Yana’s back, rubbing slowly to calm her down. “I’m sorry,” he apologized again, and then; “Take the time you need. Then come to Yldria. He’ll come back soon. He always does.” After that, he left, giving the scarred Yludih some time to herself.

***

Finding the Ancient near Yldria was easy enough. He stood out between the new arrivals and even the other few Ancient around, his unique traits making it not very difficult to distinguish him from his peers. Yana approached slowly, the spear still in hand. Quiome had said he would rather kill himself than place that burden upon Yana, but she still had that burden to bear. She stood a ways behind the Ancient, staring more at her feet than where the male was looking. Until he appeared that it, emerging from the light of the mother crystal, legs crossed and looking calm. As if nothing had happened. None of them said anything. Yana followed Abruzih’s lead, who had clearly gone through similar events before. Then there was a snap, loud and nauseating, making Yana wince. The way his shoulder sagged in combination with the sound was more than sufficient to send shivers through her body. Quiome must have gone through a lot of pain, but he did not show it, sitting there still as a rock. Yana couldn’t fathom how he did it. The only explanation she could come up with was that he was strong. Strong and tough.

A lot of time passed, seeming like an eternity, during which Quiome only grew paler, his light dimming more and more. Yana feared his mind was completely broken now, that he’d been given the final push. That he would be Yludih not much longer. That she would have to act. Her hands tightened around the spear’s shaft, cramping and aching. Fortunately, nothing happened, and quietly he asked for the writing utensil he preferred to speak through.

Perhaps I should die, his words read, and Yana steeled herself. He would not ask it of her, she now knew, but that did not mean she was not prepared to do it for him. It was a burden she was willing to bear. If it was for him, she would bear it gladly, whatever the long term consequences for herself might be. But then… then he flared back to life, light snaking through his battered body, intense compared to the dim glow he’d been showing before. Light sprang forth around his forearm as well, nothing compared to the light of Yldria, but it felt intense nonetheless. She felt it was wrong to smile in a situation as this, and if she had been capable of smiling, she would have suppressed the urge immediately. Now though, she just let it wash over her, the teal glow of her own crystal growing a little more green. A little brighter. It might not be appropriate, but she did not care. A fire had returned to Quiome, and that alone could only be a good thing. She lowered her spear as if it had just become too heavy for her to keep upright.

It did not matter that his wish probably was impossible. It did not matter that he would be on his own to escape his captors. It did not matter that he might not survive or even be able to free himself. All that mattered was that his descent seemed to have halted. That he was once again emitting some light. There was a fire rekindled within him, she thought, and with it came hope.

“I believe in you,” she said, feeling her voice crack somewhere in the middle of the sentence. But that too did not matter. Nor did his words. Yana did not feel like he had to kill, or that he should. That all wasn’t important. The important part was that he seemed to have found some strength again, and it was in this that Yana believed.

He would not break.

He was strong.

And if someone did believe in him, then he was no longer alone.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

Thread Rewards

Yanahalqah

Overview

This is a dark, emotional, and full of Yludih things I don’t know about. Yana’s form of solidarity is perhaps a little unexpected (to me, clearly not to you as the writer), but I enjoy reading the Uleuda-side of her that I haven’t seen much of.

Points

XP:
15 | These points cannot be used for magic.

Fame:
+2 Supporting the unsupported, +1 Remaining hopeful, -1 Offering the easy way out

Loot

N/A

Knowledge

Skill Knowledge
Interrogation: Needn't be aggressive
Rhetoric: Attempting to comfort others
Etiquette: Offering to kill those who suffer

Other Knoweldge
Quiome: Broken
Quiome: Was on the Humble Son?
Quiome: Renewed resolve
Ulehi: Written form

Quio

Overview

The events that unfolded in Ne’Haer are quite a heavy burden for Quio to be carrying, and while it’s clear he’s not dealing with them well, I’d like to hold a little candle of hope that something inside is put back together again so that he doesn’t have to remain broken.

Points

XP:
15 | These points cannot be used for magic.

Fame:
N/A

Loot, Injuries, etc.

Loot:
N/A

Injuries:
Collarbone and shoulder seriously injured in the waking world. Healing and long-term effects TBD in further threads.

Knowledge

Skill Knowledge
Resistance: Using the Uleuda to avoid trauma in the waking world
Resistance: Finding resolve in the toughest of situations
Meditation: Using meditation to remain calm
Meditation: Using meditation to overcome pain
Meditation: The Mother crystal helps Yludih meditate
Ulehi: Fleshlings, a derogatory term for the "waking" people of Idalos
Ulehi: Fleshlovers, a derogatory term for Yludih who love the waking world or its people
Ulehi: Atuih, meaning possessed, a synonym for fleshlovers

Other Knowledge
Yanahalqah: Was on the Humble Son?

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