Ymiden 2, 714, Early Morning
Order of the Adunih
Of course his mother, Ilynn, had been furious, not that she was unaware of her son’s propensity for trouble, especially when he was anywhere doing anything with his cousins, especially when he was out with Torim. Pash had washed ashore in Ne’Haer like a shipwreck, told her and Traek little, slept more than he had in arcs of precocious childhood, drank far too much, and all but eaten her out of house and home within the short span of a handful of ten-trials. Granted, her eldest had also carried all of her woven goods to the market every morning no matter how hungover, cuddled his nieces and nephews—grandchildren he had yet to give her, she chided him—with a handsome smile on his somehow sadder face, and gone to the shipyard to take up the work he’d once left behind without a complaint.
Until Torim dragged him home in stitches. Ungrateful djout, both of them, despite their slurred swearing it was just a bar fight and hadn’t been their faults, Ilynn believed none of it, the lithe woman well aware of their penchants for trouble.
Trials later and she still didn’t, but Pash had made effort to assuage his mother’s doubts, taking up watching everyone else’s littles and doing what he could around his familiar family home since his stitches prevented him from labor. Charming, of course, her eldest always knew the melodies to a mother’s heart, though what she really longed for was for him to talk to her, to share with her what hurt more than the knife wound hidden under bandages, what churned like so much stormwater flooding the hull of his chest. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. Whatever burden he carried, he wasn’t ready.
Still, he was kind enough to tell her where he was going, slipping out the door with a kiss on her cheek and a weighty portion of breakfast in his calloused hands, lagoon blue eyes warmer than usual. Mischievous, it seemed, if she knew anything by the tone of his voice, ”Off t’ th’ Order with me, da’oat. I’ll be home … later. Des’penya. Tell da’at I’ll be back in th’ shipyard soon ‘nough—”
He paused, though, precarious with a sandaled foot in the door, “—’f Torim comes a-lookin’, don’t tell him where I’m at. He still thinks it’s his job t’ be takin’ out m’ stitches.”
“I’m not playing your game,” The woman who bore him beamed at him innocently, her dark eyes narrowing as she spoke sternly to him in Rakahi. She knew him, no matter what parts of his heart he’d decided to hide from her over the arcs he’d been so far out of reach. Handing him an extra slice of bread as if she assumed he’d need it, Ilynn patted his inked bicep in a way only she could and shook her head, making sure to tease him with her own term of endearment, “I’ll tell him exactly where you are and you boys can make it all ship shape yourselves, Pa'bo.”
“Qua’malu, woman.” Pash’s riposte faded into a laugh before rolled his eyes and stuffed his face, fleeing lest his mother find something else to discern in her own way.
Making his way from their family home nestled amongst a collection of others that more or less contained the collection of extended family he called his clan on the outer edge of town, close to the beach for obvious reasons, the seafaring musician meandering his course into the city proper. It was an early break, honestly, but it was easier to get himself out of the tangle of home life before everyone started their day instead of after. Truth be told, he had no idea what a good break was to show up at the Order, to ask for someone in particular—did Cassandra have duties by the break? Did she have classes? Would she even be around?
The color of her blush had perhaps lingered in his memory longer than it should have, as had the boldness of her tone with poor Torim. Of course, that and her touch weren’t all that the tall Biqaj had dwelled on, the weightier truths of her admission, of their shared confessions about magic … that had, in truth, been more in his thoughts over the past few trials than anything else. Mostly. It was easy to be distracted by the curve of a grin or the shift of nightclothes in the dark, and by Zanik, the seafaring minstrel wasn’t one not to notice, not to give in to whatever caught his fancy, whatever whispered wordless promises of being a muse—
But magic.
—Calloused fingers itched distractedly at the bandage that wrapped his torso under the open buttons of his worn leather vest, the wrappings that Cassandra’s mostly decent stitches from view, thoughts darkening for a moment as the currents of his mind washed upon the broken bits of memory that was Ari’nne. Other than the woman he’d begged to share this spark with him, the woman who’d changed him, who’d led him along through feelings strummed like he played his lute, Pash’s experiences with magic were few, distant, rare.
Vja’at.
That shared word was the flame to which his insatiable need felt consumed by, the need to know more not about the magic, no, but also about the person who wielded it. Too curious for his own good. Always.
Somewhat lost in thought, the seafaring musician found himself finally near the Order in the later breaks of morning after all of his walking. It was familiar enough, and busy already with a steady flow of both cloaked healers and their charges, citizens and those in need. Far from shy, Pash found himself someone who looked helpful and made his request for the only acolyte he knew by name, grinning as he did so.
Until Torim dragged him home in stitches. Ungrateful djout, both of them, despite their slurred swearing it was just a bar fight and hadn’t been their faults, Ilynn believed none of it, the lithe woman well aware of their penchants for trouble.
Trials later and she still didn’t, but Pash had made effort to assuage his mother’s doubts, taking up watching everyone else’s littles and doing what he could around his familiar family home since his stitches prevented him from labor. Charming, of course, her eldest always knew the melodies to a mother’s heart, though what she really longed for was for him to talk to her, to share with her what hurt more than the knife wound hidden under bandages, what churned like so much stormwater flooding the hull of his chest. He didn’t. He wouldn’t. Whatever burden he carried, he wasn’t ready.
Still, he was kind enough to tell her where he was going, slipping out the door with a kiss on her cheek and a weighty portion of breakfast in his calloused hands, lagoon blue eyes warmer than usual. Mischievous, it seemed, if she knew anything by the tone of his voice, ”Off t’ th’ Order with me, da’oat. I’ll be home … later. Des’penya. Tell da’at I’ll be back in th’ shipyard soon ‘nough—”
He paused, though, precarious with a sandaled foot in the door, “—’f Torim comes a-lookin’, don’t tell him where I’m at. He still thinks it’s his job t’ be takin’ out m’ stitches.”
“I’m not playing your game,” The woman who bore him beamed at him innocently, her dark eyes narrowing as she spoke sternly to him in Rakahi. She knew him, no matter what parts of his heart he’d decided to hide from her over the arcs he’d been so far out of reach. Handing him an extra slice of bread as if she assumed he’d need it, Ilynn patted his inked bicep in a way only she could and shook her head, making sure to tease him with her own term of endearment, “I’ll tell him exactly where you are and you boys can make it all ship shape yourselves, Pa'bo.”
“Qua’malu, woman.” Pash’s riposte faded into a laugh before rolled his eyes and stuffed his face, fleeing lest his mother find something else to discern in her own way.
Making his way from their family home nestled amongst a collection of others that more or less contained the collection of extended family he called his clan on the outer edge of town, close to the beach for obvious reasons, the seafaring musician meandering his course into the city proper. It was an early break, honestly, but it was easier to get himself out of the tangle of home life before everyone started their day instead of after. Truth be told, he had no idea what a good break was to show up at the Order, to ask for someone in particular—did Cassandra have duties by the break? Did she have classes? Would she even be around?
The color of her blush had perhaps lingered in his memory longer than it should have, as had the boldness of her tone with poor Torim. Of course, that and her touch weren’t all that the tall Biqaj had dwelled on, the weightier truths of her admission, of their shared confessions about magic … that had, in truth, been more in his thoughts over the past few trials than anything else. Mostly. It was easy to be distracted by the curve of a grin or the shift of nightclothes in the dark, and by Zanik, the seafaring minstrel wasn’t one not to notice, not to give in to whatever caught his fancy, whatever whispered wordless promises of being a muse—
But magic.
—Calloused fingers itched distractedly at the bandage that wrapped his torso under the open buttons of his worn leather vest, the wrappings that Cassandra’s mostly decent stitches from view, thoughts darkening for a moment as the currents of his mind washed upon the broken bits of memory that was Ari’nne. Other than the woman he’d begged to share this spark with him, the woman who’d changed him, who’d led him along through feelings strummed like he played his lute, Pash’s experiences with magic were few, distant, rare.
Vja’at.
That shared word was the flame to which his insatiable need felt consumed by, the need to know more not about the magic, no, but also about the person who wielded it. Too curious for his own good. Always.
Somewhat lost in thought, the seafaring musician found himself finally near the Order in the later breaks of morning after all of his walking. It was familiar enough, and busy already with a steady flow of both cloaked healers and their charges, citizens and those in need. Far from shy, Pash found himself someone who looked helpful and made his request for the only acolyte he knew by name, grinning as he did so.
