Prompt 30: Never Look Back -- Because Once, We Were Close -- Part One
Because Once, We Were Close
We must have been friends, once, friends before anything else. We were formed together, after all; for nine months we shared our mother’s womb, together as no other two people can be. There was little time for rejoicing once we were born, but I am sure that, if only for a moment, my mother held us together and smiled in joy. Two baby girls who back then must have looked the same, of course we were friends!
Once born, we were only together for a few days. The whole world knows how our father, Lord Kicyah, planned to kill our mother, and he would have succeeded if Tain hadn’t saved her. Saved her and saved you. He took you out, wrapped you in a blanket, and took you and our mother to freedom. Me, he left behind. Maybe once there was a time to ask why, but if it ever happened, I missed it. Not only does it no longer matter, there can be no answer. Tain’s a religious man; when I asked him, he told me that Kayana li pointed his hand towards you, for she alone knew that I was the one who could survive in Assera. I think he really believes it, too. It’s a neat little piece of theology, flattering, justifying, something that brings comfort to both him and me. It’s not very flattering to you, though, and I’d like to say that this is why I don’t believe it. People, I think, rise to the occasion. I, in your place, could have grown up like you. You, in mine, could have grown strong.
They used to say, back when it was fashionable to consider our mother a heroine, that we Citanai blossom in adversity. It was crueler than it might sound at first: It provided a justification for remembering how Liket was as a young girl while respecting her heroic status of today. It was their way of criticizing you, all the while dangling that little chance, if you were tested enough, maybe you, too, would grow up to be worthy of praise. All the same, I believed it, back then. Make of it what you will, compliment or insult, I did think it was true. Only later did I realize that Liket wasn’t really strong at all. Kicyah did nothing that helped her, not even unwittingly. Kicyah destroyed her. I survived because I’m half his. Would you have grown up the same in my place?
I’m sure it was Tain who chose you. Regardless of whether our mother was yet strong enough to handle her own affairs, five or six days after giving birth, how could he have asked her to pick? I suppose he must have been resolute, once. Knowing Tain, though, it must have hurt him all the same. He might’ve closed his eyes and pointed a finger. He might have simply grabbed the baby which lay closer to the door. Did Kayana li steer his hand? Why would she have? … He thinks she did. Some of us want to believe that we did the right thing, in the end. I can’t tell him if he did, you know. All I can tell him is that the choice was made. I think he’d rather believe it was Kayana li.
Do I believe? I don’t know what I think about religion, actually. Both the worst and best people I have ever known were atheists; it is all the rest, those in the middle, who worship. For Kicyah, it was this world he cared about, gaining power and keeping it. He regarded religion as mere superstition, useful for keeping the people under control and not much else. Perhaps it is better that he did not believe for the wrongs he committed could never be pardoned. Better that he regretted nothing, don’t you agree?
Etin says that, if there was a god, he would not trust him. Why should a god be any different than a human lord? Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely and all that, imagine the corruption of a being that has ruled the universe since the beginning of time itself! Our Kayana li is no different, he says, for all that we call her child-goddess and claim that she’s on our side, crying tears for our martyrs yet, in heaven, unable to do anything about the situation. “We’d call her bourgeois, if she was a real person,” Etin told me once. “What use is pity if it does nothing? As a goddess, surely she has nothing to lose by joining our cause! Can mortal men kill her? Can they arrest her and interrogate her and execute her? Of course not! Why do we feel that a goddess who refuses to help us is on our side?” He believes she does not exist, and I know that, if she does, when Etin dies and finds himself before her, he will be brave enough to argue with her, and if she claims support, he will denounce her for doing nothing at all to help us. He’s such a brave boy, my Etin, ready to either make an enemy of the goddess or to face a godless world. That’s Etin, after all, though, Etin who believes in man and in this world, now. I believe in him; I can tell you that, at least!
For a long time I didn’t think of you. I didn’t think of you, nor of Liket or Tain, nor of … any of those people who so occupied the thoughts of my childhood. I’d made my own life, here in Assera, here with Etin, here with our great work and our son. The last time I saw you we were both nineteen years old; we’re twenty-four, now. I’ve been married three years - my son is two years old. I don’t remember how long ago you married Tayken. I don’t think you invited me to the wedding.
I suppose I knew that a time must come in which we’d meet again, meet just as awkwardly as before, the past unforgiven, unforgotten. I didn’t expect this, though, didn’t expect it to be so soon and not for this reason. I just remember the day that the messenger came; Tanin and I were at home, Etin was at work, but he came home right away once he heard. There were two letters, one from Tain, the other from the offices of the king of Kikaren. Tain’s letter was quick, … scribbled, really, on little more than scratch paper. “Liket passed away Tuesday. Burial was Wednesday but funeral will be held at gravesite once you can arrive. Tell us if we should expect you.”
The king’s letter was printed on fancy stationary. It included the same information, nothing more, … and some words of condolences. It was expected of him, I suppose, to write such a thing to the wife of Assera’s president, especially if, in a roundabout way, she is a citizen of his country. It was a nice gesture, anyway. Etin, more in shock than anything else, once he arrived home, couldn’t help but marvel at these two letters, at their complete opposite-ness.
“Your stepfather wrote less than the government!” He repeated this about six times. “Nobody EVER writes shorter condolence letters than the government!”
He should know!
At that time, nobody remarked on the strange funeral arrangements. If they expected us to come from as far as AsseraKapital it would be necessary to have a funeral after the burial, for they certainly wouldn’t wait for us to arrive to bury her. That must be the reason, we said, and for a moment nobody questioned it. We were very busy, then; Etin was postponing all of his engagements and making arrangements for a carriage and lodgings along the way - I was preparing trunks and trying to explain to my poor, confused son who Liket had been to him and why she’d been no one at all, in his life. I don’t think I did a very good job of explaining, but to be honest, perhaps its better that way. He’ll only remember a trip and new sights. He will not be cursed with this sad, strange story that has marked our family. I’m sure that when you have your own children you won’t speak much of me, either. I hope you’ll say enough that they won’t feel deceived, later, but that’s really up to you, isn’t it?
You don’t know everything, though, do you? Even now, there are things you don’t know. Tain wanted to shelter you, -- I suppose he wanted to shelter me, too, but I couldn’t help seeing … what there was to see. I wonder how you can go through life, turning a blind eye to the things that should be obvious, but that, too, is your choice, isn’t it? Maybe you’ve made the right choice, though. Maybe the unanswerable “whys” are better than painful certitudes? Don’t tell me, though, that you’re not smart enough to figure such things out. You’ve made your choice; let’s leave it at that.
Our trip took a week. It’s possible to make the trip in three days, if you rest very little, and if not for Tanin we would probably have traveled that way. In any event, we had time to think, too much time, perhaps. It’s not that, at first, I thought of you…
“It’s over now, isn’t it?” Our first night out. We are still within Assera’s borders, not far from Lord Kicyah’s former estate, the land of our births. Tanin is asleep in his little cot and I am sitting on the bed. It’s a strange evening for us all; since the revolution’s end Etin has not visited this part of our country, this place where he had so much … and lost it all. He’s gazing out the window now, out onto the street and the town and the forest beyond. He has too many memories tied up in forests. We should stick to cities, I think.
He turns to face me, though, when I speak. “What do you mean?” His voice is gentle, not distracted at all.
I shrug, trying to think of words for my feelings. “I always wanted to go to my mother,” I tell him, “when I was small, and all. That’s why I did everything, my first reason … I wanted to escape Assera, go to Kikaren, and receive my mother’s love. I went and we know that it wasn’t … but I always hoped that someday things would change, that she’d be ready to receive me in her heart. And, now it’s over. Now she’s dead and she’ll never…”
I stop. I’m not crying but tears are beginning to well up in my eyes. I take a deep breath and bite my lip and hope to stay calm. Etin comes over to the bed, in his eyes such compassion. “I’m sorry,” he says, before he sits down, before he embraces me. It’s really all he can say. The words don’t mean much, but his embrace means everything.
In Citi we stay with Etin’s brother, Atenin. Obviously, we cannot stay with you. We don’t ask, but you don’t invite us, either. Tain doesn’t offer, either. He probably thinks we have plenty of friends in Citi, and perhaps he’s right. It’s not bad with Atenin, though. He has a small apartment, but it is filled with people, filled with life. He has two roommates - Tainth, an official in the Kikaren government, and Paith, a freelance writer. Then, there is Atenin’s wife, Lilya, a pretty, shy, half-Asseran. Paith is also married; his wife, Elisya, is a journalist or something like that. Tainth is engaged, to the famous artist Sanna Tanni, at that. In fact, they’ve been engaged for years. Sanna, it seems, has always lived an unconventional lifestyle and relishes any chance to cause her conservative parents grief. Apparently, her marriage to a well-reputed politician would please them far too much, so Sanna is happier remaining engaged, but living like a married couple, anyhow, if you catch my drift.
Like I said, it’s small, and there are so many people - Paith and Elisya have a daughter. Atenin’s wife is pregnant - and there’s also this girl, Yasenan, whom Atenin adopted some years ago. She’s a teenager now, Yasenan; she’s not young enough to be his real daughter. Etin and I have been given Paith’s room - Paith and Elisya are sharing Atenin and Lilya’s room. Tanin is sleeping in the nursery, so at least we have some space to ourselves. We’re used to a deal more space, but for now we can live with what we have. We could have asked for diplomatic lodgings - Etin is the president of Assera, after all, and nobody is forgetting that, but he doesn’t want special treatment. It’s enough to ask their government’s protection - which Tainth is arranging.
Etin hates that, the protection, I mean. “The war is over!” he has said, a million times if he’s said it once. “Why keep living like we’re afraid of attack?”
I suppose he knows just as well as I do that one can never be sure, that there are, and will always be, security concerns to the president of a country, especially in such a polemic situation at this. He’s the first president of Assera, after all, and before that the planner of the revolution. He never wanted to be president, but that’s how things worked out… in any event, it bothers him, having the building guarded…
It doesn’t bother me, and I suppose that’s the difference between him and me. I’d’ve gladly taken the diplomatic lodgings. It’s only the proper thing to do, when one is a visiting dignitary. Kikaren is used to unorthodoxy, so nobody is offended, I suppose. I don’t mind staying with his family; it’s nice to think we have friends here, in Citi. Etin is certainly used to cramped spaces, many people, no privacy. All I can say is, I wasn’t raised like that.
I don’t even realize until we’ve arrived that the last time I’d met with Atenin things had hardly been so friendly. I’d been sixteen or seventeen, then, just arrived in Kikaren. I’d been there long enough to have been brutally awakened from my dreams of love and peace and childhood regained, so I had gone in search of the one dream I had left, of finding Etin. Everyone thought he was dead, back then - the war in Assera, the revolution and all, was just ending. Did you know that he lived in hiding, for a year and a half? Well, nobody in Kikaren knew that he’d survived, not even Atenin. Of course, Atenin assumed that Etin was dead. Of course, Atenin had already lost everyone else. Of course, he jumped to the conclusion that I’d betrayed Etin. I could have, you know, and Atenin chose to believe it. I hadn’t saved Karenan, either, and it was on this that he based his argument. He would have verily thrown me out of the apartment - the same apartment, in fact, all those years ago - if Paith hadn’t calmed him down. Memories return as I cross the threshold, memories wash over me like a wave and suddenly I’m afraid, even as I’m smiling, balancing my son on my hip, shaking peoples’ hands.
A few hours after our arrival I attempt to speak to Atenin about this all. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, not knowing how else to start. He turns to look at me, distracted more than anything else. He doesn’t say anything, though, so after a moment I speak. “I want to tell you … I want to resolve things between us. I can’t pretend to be completely blameless, but … for your brother’s sake, if nothing else, let us be friends?”
He fixes me with his gaze, his eyes hard even as they are vulnerable. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he demands, “And why do you want to talk about that?”
I take a deep breath. “Like I said, I want to resolve things between us. I…”
He just turns away. He gives me no response in words, but those eyes tell me all I could need to know. ‘Why do you bring that up?’ They are telling me. ‘It was so long ago! Why make me think of back then?’ It’s not forgiven, nor forgotten, but ignored for a little while, at least, and I don’t know if that’s all I can hope for.
Paith is kind, interested in everyone, conciliatory and compassionate. It was he, though, and his questions, that caused the only real dispute we had with Atenin. He didn’t mean anything, really, all he did was remark on my son’s name. “Tanin? For Etin’s father?”
I nodded, and he asked me, “Wasn’t Etin’s father Tanenin, though?”
“Tanin’s more AsseraKapital.” Etin spoke up from the other side of the room. We are speaking Kikaren, in which Etin has a heavy accent. They tell me that mine is slighter. I think Kikaren sounds prettier with an Asseran accent. I smile, just listening to him. “Tanenin sounds very provincial. I don’t think the name has to be completely the same, do you?”
“If we have a daughter, later, we might call her Kareya,” I add in, simply chatty. “It’s a pretty name, and it’s the AsseraKapital version of ‘Karenan.’ We’d like to honor her as well.”
Looking back on this whole scene I cannot explain why I said that, why I’d mentioned Karenan in front of Atenin. I already knew how much my mere presence pained him, and Paith had asked about Tanin’s name out of likely nothing more than politeness. At the time, though, I’d just said it, the way I would have in Assera. In Assera everyone is talking about who they plan to name their children for. It’s sad, but between the revolution and the decades, if not centuries, of suffering before it there are plenty of martyrs to choose from. In Kikaren they expect a reverant tone, a solemn face, when mentioning the dead, but in Assera, while not to say that respect isn’t given, for it most certainly is, people talk about the dead like they talk about the living. I notice here that the way I’ve spoken seems out of place; those who know who Karenan was consider my conversational tone cavalier. Paith nods gravely - I think he understands, on some level, this cultural difference, but he cannot know how to respond in the way an Asseran would, so he nods gravely.
Atenin, perhaps unsurprisingly, isn’t pleased by what I said. “It’s a fine thing for people to name their babies after the folks they never gave a damn about while they were alive,” he growls, his bitterness aging, in a way, his voice. “Prettying up the names at that, too. Their real names apparently aren’t good enough, now that my brother’s gone and become bourgeois.”
Has it ever happened to you that somebody says something and everyone else present reacts? It might not have; I don’t know all that much about you, but that’s what happened here. As soon as Atenin’s words were out of his mouth Etin, Tainth, and even Paith had jumped to their feet, as though there was a physical threat to be confronted. Sanna had also jumped to her feet. Elisya’s mouth had dropped open and her grip on her daughter’s shoulder was very tight. Even Lilya, usually so calm, had blanched. Yasenan, drying dishes in the other room, had stopped and was listening intently, a hand gripping the counter. She’d probably never heard Atenin speak like that before.
I probably reacted the least of anyone. In part, his words had shocked me, and in struggling to understand them I’d missed, somehow, the impact of the intended insult. I’ve never had an expressive face, though. It’s something I’ve always prided myself on, that people can’t tell what I’m thinking. I can’t tell you how many times it saved me back then, in Assera. I could listen to my father’s outrageous words without making my sympathies obvious. Enough on that, though; things have changed since then. This time, though, that was my defense. I simply looked down and waited to be addressed.
Everyone’s eyes were on Etin, who, as expected, was livid. Etin didn’t want to speak, though, wanted Atenin’s friends to handle this, but everyone was watching him, waiting for him to do something, so he spoke. “Apologize to Karrah,” Etin murmured.
“Excuse me?” Atenin practically spat these words.
“Apologize to Karrah. You can say what you want about me, but Karrah…”
“And, since when do you have the right to tell me what I can say to whom?” Atenin demanded. “Karrah’s the one who wants to name her brats after people she didn’t bother thinking worth saving while they were alive!”
“You know full well that Karrah had nothing to do with either Karenan or our father’s death! She didn’t find out about Karenan until it had already happened! She was five years old when our father was killed! What do you want her to have done? Should she have died … to accomplish nothing? Listen to yourself - you’re not making any sense at all!” He was trying to keep his tone even, measured, but his words came faster and faster. Anger burned in his eyes. At the end of this little speech he paused, fixing his gaze upon his brother’s face. Anyone else might’ve been scared enough by this to stop, but Atenin is cut from the same cloth as Etin, after all. He was so far gone with his own emotions that he reacted with no fear at all.
“I think she knows full well that she’s only salting the wound, naming her children after the people we’ve lost.” Accent or no, his emphasis on ‘her’ and ‘we’ was impossible to miss.
“Don’t you think she wants to honor them?” Etin demanded. “Don’t you think she respects them and wants to help me remember them as they should be?”
“And a piss-poor job you’re doing, editing the names to please your aesthetic sensibilities! Are they really named for the people we’ve lost? I don’t know! I don’t recognize ‘Tanenin’ in ‘Tanin…’ it might as well be Teninah or Tananin, for all I know!”
Etin blinked in disbelief, only the more enraged. “And ‘Tanin’ offends you? You? Since when can you talk about accuracy of names? Who is calling himself ‘Atenin Asserai’ instead of ‘Kicyah?’ For god’s sakes, you want to talk about ambiguity? Nobody knows where the hell you’re from!”
“I’m from Assera, that’s good enough!” Atenin cried out. “Here in Kikaren that’s all they need to know! I suffered enough in Village Kicyah; I don’t need its name attached to mine for my whole life! I…”
“Anyone who looks at you can tell you’re from Assera,” Etin cut in scathingly. “You don’t need to call yourself Asserai for that! To know who he is a man has to know where he’s from! I wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise, but really, your already ridiculous accusations are ten times more audacious if you stop to think that it is Karrah who is honoring your ancestors and you who’d let them be forgotten!”
“Atenin,” Lilya cuts in sweetly, her lips pursed, her tone meek. Etin stops to let her speak; Atenin turns to face her, but his eyes don’t lose any of their bitterness, though I’m sure he doesn’t mean it towards her. In turning from Etin to his wife, though, his gaze stops on me a moment and I can’t help but looking up into his eyes. For the first time since this all started, that night, I shivered.
“Atenin,” Lilya repeats, her tone almost pleading, “Some people think it’s inauspicious to name people the same as the dead. They have the right to protect their children, don’t they?”
I don’t know where she’s getting this assertion. She’s half Asseran, like I think I mentioned, probably of high birth, the daughter of a Kikaren general stationed by the border and a lady of Assera. I’m not sure if it’s Kikaren or Asseran superstition she’s invoking, though it could be either, or both - the people of the border have old fashioned ideas, ideas that everyone else seems to think died out a hundred years ago. She could be verily making it up, too. I don’t know from where she got the idea but I know well what she is trying to do. I almost wanted to smile at her, but, no, not now, not here, I tell myself.
Atenin is unmoved. “I assure you, neither of these two before you believe any such thing,” he snapped, then, to Etin, “You have no right to talk to me like that. It’s disgusting, how you can come in here and tell me, after all I’ve done to rebuild a life for myself…”
“Oh, you call this a life?” Etin has switched to Asseran. Only Atenin and I understand him, … and possibly Lilya. “You call THIS a life?” He waved a hand around the apartment. “This crappy little place that you’ve lived in for ten years? You’re almost thirty, yet you’re living like a student! All of your friends, too, all of them should be living better than this! Tainth’s a government official - he should have a decent salary, and an artist as well known as Sanna can certainly afford better than this! You don’t want to grow up, is what! You know, everything I did I did for you! I was ready to die to ensure you a good future! And, now what do I see? Here you are, with so many opportunities ahead of you yet you refuse to take any of them!”
The others are disturbed by Etin’s decision to speak in Asseran. Tainth and Paith are murmuring amongst themselves, discreetly but still evidently. Sanna is more blatant; she exclaims, for all to hear, “What the hell is he saying?”
“It’s not you who sacrificed!” Atenin cries out. He responds in Kikaren, for while Etin wished to censure his brother in the relative privacy of our native tongue Atenin wishes his accusations heard by all. “You gave nothing! It’s Karenan who sacrificed, Karenan and Elinah and our mother and father and all those who died! It’s they who gave their very lives, and you … you, you think your wife is worth half as much as any of them? In marrying her you lower yourself - you should’ve died, both of you, if it would have saved but one of them!”
Etin wants to strike his brother. I see it in his eyes - he is perhaps angrier than I have ever seen him. He wants to strike him, to hurt him, really, to make him feel half the pain that he’s made Etin feel. He doesn’t strike him, though. He takes my hand, instead, and though his muscles are all tense his hold on me isn’t too strong … it doesn’t hurt. “Come,” he tells me, needlessly. We walk into our own room together, but before we cross the threshold he stops and turns to look at Paith, who is sitting on the floor by the fire, shocked and apologetic. “Paith,” he calls. The younger man looks up; Etin continues. “You’re a good man. Curious choice in friends you have, but you’re a good man.”
All is silent for a moment as I close the door to our room behind us, then, from outside, there comes the sound of china shattering. Poor Yasenan must’ve finally dropped the plate she’d been holding, I think. That’s the first thing I say to Etin: “We should probably replace that.”
Etin has been facing away from me; he’d taken a seat on the bed and was looking down, trying to control himself. At my comment, however, he looks up, his eyes, though still raw, full of amazement. “You are unbelievable,” he murmurs, in his tone both gentleness and pride, no mockery or cruelty at all. “Here I am, about to … implode or something and you can just stand there and suggest we replace their plates! How do you do it?” I don’t respond; his question is more rhetorical, after all. “I suppose that’s what really makes you a lady,” he adds.
I come to sit by his side, still not saying anything. I’ve begun to shake; I cannot hold back my feelings any longer. I sit and shiver and it is Etin who thinks to slip his hand into mine. I don’t relax but I don’t recoil either. Etin’s other hand is upon his forehead and even as he tries to comfort me he is rocking back and forth, trying to work everything out in his own mind. “I’m sorry,” he finally tells me. “My brother is … angry.”
“I know,” I say quickly, and I realize that I’m doing the same thing that he is, trying to give comfort and reassurance even as I need it so. “It’s not your fault.”
“He shouldn’t have spoken like that,” Etin insists. “He knows better. Especially in front of that girl - she’s known enough pain, Yasenan, I mean. No idea how they think he’s fit to direct an organization for troubled children; seems like he’s not much more than one himself!”
“You shouldn’t have switched to Asseran,” I remark, my voice too calm, almost empty. “The others will ask what you said and Atenin’s translation won’t do you any favors.”
“I know,” he repeats, then, “Forgive me. I only wanted…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but I know what he means. I bury my face in his shoulder, not crying yet but needing his touch all the same. “You are wonderful,” I tell him.
“Don’t take what he said to heart,” Etin whispers in my ear, wrapping one arm around me, lifting the other to stroke my hair. Soon enough, I think, he will undo my braid and he will run his fingers through my hair, and maybe we will fall asleep like this. Now, though, he continues to talk. “Atenin doesn’t know what he’s saying. He, himself, feels enormous guilt, so much that he can’t stand it so he searches for scapegoats. It’s stupid, as none of it’s his fault either, but armies and governments are awfully vague entities to blame. It’s easier for him to claim that we’re at fault. Someday he’ll see the truth; I’m sure of it.”
I don’t know if he’s really sure, but he does sound sure. He doesn’t have to be sure of himself to sound it, though. If my demure, emotionless face got me through the revolution, it’s this tone of confidence that saved him. How many times did he rally the troops with promises he was not sure if he could deliver? Sometimes, he couldn’t. Today, though, it’s only he who remembers that. To everyone else he is a hero, but he knows that men have died for him. This is not the day, though, for him to think on this.
“I’ve heard worse,” I tell Etin. I don’t tell him that, in fact, I’ve told myself worse. There’s nothing I’ve heard, after all, that’s worse than the thoughts I sometimes have.
He smiles sadly at me and strokes my hair again. He takes the ribbon that ties the braid together in his hands and his eyes ask me if I mind, so I shake my head and he begins to unbind my hair. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes.
“I’m Asseran,” I tell him. “Half, anyway. I look more than half.”
He really smiles at that. “Nationalist,” he says, and his smile carries on in his tone.
“I never said I wasn’t.” I return his smile. “I want to go home.”
He nods. “I like Kikaren,” he muses. “I wouldn’t live here, but I can stay a week or two.”
“I like AsseraKapital,” I insist. “My own city, my own country, my own language and customs.”
“We’ll be home soon,” he promises.
We’re about to lock into another embrace when all of the sudden there comes a knock at the door. We both tense and pull away, as if we’d been doing something wrong. My hair is down, streaming all over my back and chest, but other than that we are completely dressed. I take the ribbon, though, and pull my hair back as Etin rises to get the door. It is Paith; his brown eyes are wide and nervousness is plain to see in his face. I stay seated on the bed, my hair held back in one hand, the ribbon in the other, as Etin ushers him in. He doesn’t smile or anything but his tone is kind, if tentative, as he asks Paith if he needs something. We are in Paith and Elisya’s room, after all. He might’ve come in to get something, after all.
Paith closes the door behind himself. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. Etin shrugs; I attempt a smile. After a moment, Paith adds, “I’m sorry, I’d say this in Asseran but my command of your language is very poor. Please stop me if you don’t understand me.”
“We speak Kikaren,” Etin tells him, then, “What do you need?” It’s amazing how his tone can be both not unkind but so very impatient.
“I wanted to apologize,” Paith begins. “I didn’t know that a simple question would … I want you to know that Atenin isn’t usually like this. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s suffered so very much, though, throughout his life, and I guess that something just got him angry. I’m sure he didn’t mean to say anything like that and I hope you find it in your hearts to forgive him…” he stopped there, looking as if he wanted to say more. We waited a moment, but when he didn’t say anything Etin responded.
“I understand. I know that he’s suffered; I’m well aware of that. I’m sorry to have involved you in all of this.”
This isn’t the response that Paith wants; he bites his lip, almost like a child. He wants a quick resolution and forgiveness all around. Such a sweet boy, this Paith. I know I’m wrong to think of him as a boy; he’s older than me, after all. He’s not naïve, just good, I tell myself. He deserves his resolution and forgiveness.
“I know that he said some hurtful things to you, and to you, milady,” (he turns, for a second, in my direction. I nod, and he turns back to Etin.) “I know it’s hard to ask, to look past your own anger and to forgive, when he really did say things that he shouldn’t have. I just hope.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about it,” Etin tells him. “We’ll be gone soon. I’m sorry that this had to happen. You’re a good man, Paith; I stand by what I said. Thank you.”
Paith leaves then. What else can he do?
“We were so close, once,” Etin whispers to me. It is later that night; we are lying in bed, our arms wrapped around each other. He’s not shaking anymore and not crying yet, if he will, but his tone holds such melancholy that you know that nothing has changed for him. “He was my best friend, though he was younger than me. I taught him everything I knew. Everything I did, everything I struggled for, was for him. Maybe you don’t know how it is, but…”
“I know,” I tell him.
All I can think is how things aren’t that different between you and me and the two of them.
We must have been friends, once, friends before anything else. We were formed together, after all; for nine months we shared our mother’s womb, together as no other two people can be. There was little time for rejoicing once we were born, but I am sure that, if only for a moment, my mother held us together and smiled in joy. Two baby girls who back then must have looked the same, of course we were friends!
Once born, we were only together for a few days. The whole world knows how our father, Lord Kicyah, planned to kill our mother, and he would have succeeded if Tain hadn’t saved her. Saved her and saved you. He took you out, wrapped you in a blanket, and took you and our mother to freedom. Me, he left behind. Maybe once there was a time to ask why, but if it ever happened, I missed it. Not only does it no longer matter, there can be no answer. Tain’s a religious man; when I asked him, he told me that Kayana li pointed his hand towards you, for she alone knew that I was the one who could survive in Assera. I think he really believes it, too. It’s a neat little piece of theology, flattering, justifying, something that brings comfort to both him and me. It’s not very flattering to you, though, and I’d like to say that this is why I don’t believe it. People, I think, rise to the occasion. I, in your place, could have grown up like you. You, in mine, could have grown strong.
They used to say, back when it was fashionable to consider our mother a heroine, that we Citanai blossom in adversity. It was crueler than it might sound at first: It provided a justification for remembering how Liket was as a young girl while respecting her heroic status of today. It was their way of criticizing you, all the while dangling that little chance, if you were tested enough, maybe you, too, would grow up to be worthy of praise. All the same, I believed it, back then. Make of it what you will, compliment or insult, I did think it was true. Only later did I realize that Liket wasn’t really strong at all. Kicyah did nothing that helped her, not even unwittingly. Kicyah destroyed her. I survived because I’m half his. Would you have grown up the same in my place?
I’m sure it was Tain who chose you. Regardless of whether our mother was yet strong enough to handle her own affairs, five or six days after giving birth, how could he have asked her to pick? I suppose he must have been resolute, once. Knowing Tain, though, it must have hurt him all the same. He might’ve closed his eyes and pointed a finger. He might have simply grabbed the baby which lay closer to the door. Did Kayana li steer his hand? Why would she have? … He thinks she did. Some of us want to believe that we did the right thing, in the end. I can’t tell him if he did, you know. All I can tell him is that the choice was made. I think he’d rather believe it was Kayana li.
Do I believe? I don’t know what I think about religion, actually. Both the worst and best people I have ever known were atheists; it is all the rest, those in the middle, who worship. For Kicyah, it was this world he cared about, gaining power and keeping it. He regarded religion as mere superstition, useful for keeping the people under control and not much else. Perhaps it is better that he did not believe for the wrongs he committed could never be pardoned. Better that he regretted nothing, don’t you agree?
Etin says that, if there was a god, he would not trust him. Why should a god be any different than a human lord? Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely and all that, imagine the corruption of a being that has ruled the universe since the beginning of time itself! Our Kayana li is no different, he says, for all that we call her child-goddess and claim that she’s on our side, crying tears for our martyrs yet, in heaven, unable to do anything about the situation. “We’d call her bourgeois, if she was a real person,” Etin told me once. “What use is pity if it does nothing? As a goddess, surely she has nothing to lose by joining our cause! Can mortal men kill her? Can they arrest her and interrogate her and execute her? Of course not! Why do we feel that a goddess who refuses to help us is on our side?” He believes she does not exist, and I know that, if she does, when Etin dies and finds himself before her, he will be brave enough to argue with her, and if she claims support, he will denounce her for doing nothing at all to help us. He’s such a brave boy, my Etin, ready to either make an enemy of the goddess or to face a godless world. That’s Etin, after all, though, Etin who believes in man and in this world, now. I believe in him; I can tell you that, at least!
For a long time I didn’t think of you. I didn’t think of you, nor of Liket or Tain, nor of … any of those people who so occupied the thoughts of my childhood. I’d made my own life, here in Assera, here with Etin, here with our great work and our son. The last time I saw you we were both nineteen years old; we’re twenty-four, now. I’ve been married three years - my son is two years old. I don’t remember how long ago you married Tayken. I don’t think you invited me to the wedding.
I suppose I knew that a time must come in which we’d meet again, meet just as awkwardly as before, the past unforgiven, unforgotten. I didn’t expect this, though, didn’t expect it to be so soon and not for this reason. I just remember the day that the messenger came; Tanin and I were at home, Etin was at work, but he came home right away once he heard. There were two letters, one from Tain, the other from the offices of the king of Kikaren. Tain’s letter was quick, … scribbled, really, on little more than scratch paper. “Liket passed away Tuesday. Burial was Wednesday but funeral will be held at gravesite once you can arrive. Tell us if we should expect you.”
The king’s letter was printed on fancy stationary. It included the same information, nothing more, … and some words of condolences. It was expected of him, I suppose, to write such a thing to the wife of Assera’s president, especially if, in a roundabout way, she is a citizen of his country. It was a nice gesture, anyway. Etin, more in shock than anything else, once he arrived home, couldn’t help but marvel at these two letters, at their complete opposite-ness.
“Your stepfather wrote less than the government!” He repeated this about six times. “Nobody EVER writes shorter condolence letters than the government!”
He should know!
At that time, nobody remarked on the strange funeral arrangements. If they expected us to come from as far as AsseraKapital it would be necessary to have a funeral after the burial, for they certainly wouldn’t wait for us to arrive to bury her. That must be the reason, we said, and for a moment nobody questioned it. We were very busy, then; Etin was postponing all of his engagements and making arrangements for a carriage and lodgings along the way - I was preparing trunks and trying to explain to my poor, confused son who Liket had been to him and why she’d been no one at all, in his life. I don’t think I did a very good job of explaining, but to be honest, perhaps its better that way. He’ll only remember a trip and new sights. He will not be cursed with this sad, strange story that has marked our family. I’m sure that when you have your own children you won’t speak much of me, either. I hope you’ll say enough that they won’t feel deceived, later, but that’s really up to you, isn’t it?
You don’t know everything, though, do you? Even now, there are things you don’t know. Tain wanted to shelter you, -- I suppose he wanted to shelter me, too, but I couldn’t help seeing … what there was to see. I wonder how you can go through life, turning a blind eye to the things that should be obvious, but that, too, is your choice, isn’t it? Maybe you’ve made the right choice, though. Maybe the unanswerable “whys” are better than painful certitudes? Don’t tell me, though, that you’re not smart enough to figure such things out. You’ve made your choice; let’s leave it at that.
Our trip took a week. It’s possible to make the trip in three days, if you rest very little, and if not for Tanin we would probably have traveled that way. In any event, we had time to think, too much time, perhaps. It’s not that, at first, I thought of you…
“It’s over now, isn’t it?” Our first night out. We are still within Assera’s borders, not far from Lord Kicyah’s former estate, the land of our births. Tanin is asleep in his little cot and I am sitting on the bed. It’s a strange evening for us all; since the revolution’s end Etin has not visited this part of our country, this place where he had so much … and lost it all. He’s gazing out the window now, out onto the street and the town and the forest beyond. He has too many memories tied up in forests. We should stick to cities, I think.
He turns to face me, though, when I speak. “What do you mean?” His voice is gentle, not distracted at all.
I shrug, trying to think of words for my feelings. “I always wanted to go to my mother,” I tell him, “when I was small, and all. That’s why I did everything, my first reason … I wanted to escape Assera, go to Kikaren, and receive my mother’s love. I went and we know that it wasn’t … but I always hoped that someday things would change, that she’d be ready to receive me in her heart. And, now it’s over. Now she’s dead and she’ll never…”
I stop. I’m not crying but tears are beginning to well up in my eyes. I take a deep breath and bite my lip and hope to stay calm. Etin comes over to the bed, in his eyes such compassion. “I’m sorry,” he says, before he sits down, before he embraces me. It’s really all he can say. The words don’t mean much, but his embrace means everything.
In Citi we stay with Etin’s brother, Atenin. Obviously, we cannot stay with you. We don’t ask, but you don’t invite us, either. Tain doesn’t offer, either. He probably thinks we have plenty of friends in Citi, and perhaps he’s right. It’s not bad with Atenin, though. He has a small apartment, but it is filled with people, filled with life. He has two roommates - Tainth, an official in the Kikaren government, and Paith, a freelance writer. Then, there is Atenin’s wife, Lilya, a pretty, shy, half-Asseran. Paith is also married; his wife, Elisya, is a journalist or something like that. Tainth is engaged, to the famous artist Sanna Tanni, at that. In fact, they’ve been engaged for years. Sanna, it seems, has always lived an unconventional lifestyle and relishes any chance to cause her conservative parents grief. Apparently, her marriage to a well-reputed politician would please them far too much, so Sanna is happier remaining engaged, but living like a married couple, anyhow, if you catch my drift.
Like I said, it’s small, and there are so many people - Paith and Elisya have a daughter. Atenin’s wife is pregnant - and there’s also this girl, Yasenan, whom Atenin adopted some years ago. She’s a teenager now, Yasenan; she’s not young enough to be his real daughter. Etin and I have been given Paith’s room - Paith and Elisya are sharing Atenin and Lilya’s room. Tanin is sleeping in the nursery, so at least we have some space to ourselves. We’re used to a deal more space, but for now we can live with what we have. We could have asked for diplomatic lodgings - Etin is the president of Assera, after all, and nobody is forgetting that, but he doesn’t want special treatment. It’s enough to ask their government’s protection - which Tainth is arranging.
Etin hates that, the protection, I mean. “The war is over!” he has said, a million times if he’s said it once. “Why keep living like we’re afraid of attack?”
I suppose he knows just as well as I do that one can never be sure, that there are, and will always be, security concerns to the president of a country, especially in such a polemic situation at this. He’s the first president of Assera, after all, and before that the planner of the revolution. He never wanted to be president, but that’s how things worked out… in any event, it bothers him, having the building guarded…
It doesn’t bother me, and I suppose that’s the difference between him and me. I’d’ve gladly taken the diplomatic lodgings. It’s only the proper thing to do, when one is a visiting dignitary. Kikaren is used to unorthodoxy, so nobody is offended, I suppose. I don’t mind staying with his family; it’s nice to think we have friends here, in Citi. Etin is certainly used to cramped spaces, many people, no privacy. All I can say is, I wasn’t raised like that.
I don’t even realize until we’ve arrived that the last time I’d met with Atenin things had hardly been so friendly. I’d been sixteen or seventeen, then, just arrived in Kikaren. I’d been there long enough to have been brutally awakened from my dreams of love and peace and childhood regained, so I had gone in search of the one dream I had left, of finding Etin. Everyone thought he was dead, back then - the war in Assera, the revolution and all, was just ending. Did you know that he lived in hiding, for a year and a half? Well, nobody in Kikaren knew that he’d survived, not even Atenin. Of course, Atenin assumed that Etin was dead. Of course, Atenin had already lost everyone else. Of course, he jumped to the conclusion that I’d betrayed Etin. I could have, you know, and Atenin chose to believe it. I hadn’t saved Karenan, either, and it was on this that he based his argument. He would have verily thrown me out of the apartment - the same apartment, in fact, all those years ago - if Paith hadn’t calmed him down. Memories return as I cross the threshold, memories wash over me like a wave and suddenly I’m afraid, even as I’m smiling, balancing my son on my hip, shaking peoples’ hands.
A few hours after our arrival I attempt to speak to Atenin about this all. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, not knowing how else to start. He turns to look at me, distracted more than anything else. He doesn’t say anything, though, so after a moment I speak. “I want to tell you … I want to resolve things between us. I can’t pretend to be completely blameless, but … for your brother’s sake, if nothing else, let us be friends?”
He fixes me with his gaze, his eyes hard even as they are vulnerable. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, then he demands, “And why do you want to talk about that?”
I take a deep breath. “Like I said, I want to resolve things between us. I…”
He just turns away. He gives me no response in words, but those eyes tell me all I could need to know. ‘Why do you bring that up?’ They are telling me. ‘It was so long ago! Why make me think of back then?’ It’s not forgiven, nor forgotten, but ignored for a little while, at least, and I don’t know if that’s all I can hope for.
Paith is kind, interested in everyone, conciliatory and compassionate. It was he, though, and his questions, that caused the only real dispute we had with Atenin. He didn’t mean anything, really, all he did was remark on my son’s name. “Tanin? For Etin’s father?”
I nodded, and he asked me, “Wasn’t Etin’s father Tanenin, though?”
“Tanin’s more AsseraKapital.” Etin spoke up from the other side of the room. We are speaking Kikaren, in which Etin has a heavy accent. They tell me that mine is slighter. I think Kikaren sounds prettier with an Asseran accent. I smile, just listening to him. “Tanenin sounds very provincial. I don’t think the name has to be completely the same, do you?”
“If we have a daughter, later, we might call her Kareya,” I add in, simply chatty. “It’s a pretty name, and it’s the AsseraKapital version of ‘Karenan.’ We’d like to honor her as well.”
Looking back on this whole scene I cannot explain why I said that, why I’d mentioned Karenan in front of Atenin. I already knew how much my mere presence pained him, and Paith had asked about Tanin’s name out of likely nothing more than politeness. At the time, though, I’d just said it, the way I would have in Assera. In Assera everyone is talking about who they plan to name their children for. It’s sad, but between the revolution and the decades, if not centuries, of suffering before it there are plenty of martyrs to choose from. In Kikaren they expect a reverant tone, a solemn face, when mentioning the dead, but in Assera, while not to say that respect isn’t given, for it most certainly is, people talk about the dead like they talk about the living. I notice here that the way I’ve spoken seems out of place; those who know who Karenan was consider my conversational tone cavalier. Paith nods gravely - I think he understands, on some level, this cultural difference, but he cannot know how to respond in the way an Asseran would, so he nods gravely.
Atenin, perhaps unsurprisingly, isn’t pleased by what I said. “It’s a fine thing for people to name their babies after the folks they never gave a damn about while they were alive,” he growls, his bitterness aging, in a way, his voice. “Prettying up the names at that, too. Their real names apparently aren’t good enough, now that my brother’s gone and become bourgeois.”
Has it ever happened to you that somebody says something and everyone else present reacts? It might not have; I don’t know all that much about you, but that’s what happened here. As soon as Atenin’s words were out of his mouth Etin, Tainth, and even Paith had jumped to their feet, as though there was a physical threat to be confronted. Sanna had also jumped to her feet. Elisya’s mouth had dropped open and her grip on her daughter’s shoulder was very tight. Even Lilya, usually so calm, had blanched. Yasenan, drying dishes in the other room, had stopped and was listening intently, a hand gripping the counter. She’d probably never heard Atenin speak like that before.
I probably reacted the least of anyone. In part, his words had shocked me, and in struggling to understand them I’d missed, somehow, the impact of the intended insult. I’ve never had an expressive face, though. It’s something I’ve always prided myself on, that people can’t tell what I’m thinking. I can’t tell you how many times it saved me back then, in Assera. I could listen to my father’s outrageous words without making my sympathies obvious. Enough on that, though; things have changed since then. This time, though, that was my defense. I simply looked down and waited to be addressed.
Everyone’s eyes were on Etin, who, as expected, was livid. Etin didn’t want to speak, though, wanted Atenin’s friends to handle this, but everyone was watching him, waiting for him to do something, so he spoke. “Apologize to Karrah,” Etin murmured.
“Excuse me?” Atenin practically spat these words.
“Apologize to Karrah. You can say what you want about me, but Karrah…”
“And, since when do you have the right to tell me what I can say to whom?” Atenin demanded. “Karrah’s the one who wants to name her brats after people she didn’t bother thinking worth saving while they were alive!”
“You know full well that Karrah had nothing to do with either Karenan or our father’s death! She didn’t find out about Karenan until it had already happened! She was five years old when our father was killed! What do you want her to have done? Should she have died … to accomplish nothing? Listen to yourself - you’re not making any sense at all!” He was trying to keep his tone even, measured, but his words came faster and faster. Anger burned in his eyes. At the end of this little speech he paused, fixing his gaze upon his brother’s face. Anyone else might’ve been scared enough by this to stop, but Atenin is cut from the same cloth as Etin, after all. He was so far gone with his own emotions that he reacted with no fear at all.
“I think she knows full well that she’s only salting the wound, naming her children after the people we’ve lost.” Accent or no, his emphasis on ‘her’ and ‘we’ was impossible to miss.
“Don’t you think she wants to honor them?” Etin demanded. “Don’t you think she respects them and wants to help me remember them as they should be?”
“And a piss-poor job you’re doing, editing the names to please your aesthetic sensibilities! Are they really named for the people we’ve lost? I don’t know! I don’t recognize ‘Tanenin’ in ‘Tanin…’ it might as well be Teninah or Tananin, for all I know!”
Etin blinked in disbelief, only the more enraged. “And ‘Tanin’ offends you? You? Since when can you talk about accuracy of names? Who is calling himself ‘Atenin Asserai’ instead of ‘Kicyah?’ For god’s sakes, you want to talk about ambiguity? Nobody knows where the hell you’re from!”
“I’m from Assera, that’s good enough!” Atenin cried out. “Here in Kikaren that’s all they need to know! I suffered enough in Village Kicyah; I don’t need its name attached to mine for my whole life! I…”
“Anyone who looks at you can tell you’re from Assera,” Etin cut in scathingly. “You don’t need to call yourself Asserai for that! To know who he is a man has to know where he’s from! I wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise, but really, your already ridiculous accusations are ten times more audacious if you stop to think that it is Karrah who is honoring your ancestors and you who’d let them be forgotten!”
“Atenin,” Lilya cuts in sweetly, her lips pursed, her tone meek. Etin stops to let her speak; Atenin turns to face her, but his eyes don’t lose any of their bitterness, though I’m sure he doesn’t mean it towards her. In turning from Etin to his wife, though, his gaze stops on me a moment and I can’t help but looking up into his eyes. For the first time since this all started, that night, I shivered.
“Atenin,” Lilya repeats, her tone almost pleading, “Some people think it’s inauspicious to name people the same as the dead. They have the right to protect their children, don’t they?”
I don’t know where she’s getting this assertion. She’s half Asseran, like I think I mentioned, probably of high birth, the daughter of a Kikaren general stationed by the border and a lady of Assera. I’m not sure if it’s Kikaren or Asseran superstition she’s invoking, though it could be either, or both - the people of the border have old fashioned ideas, ideas that everyone else seems to think died out a hundred years ago. She could be verily making it up, too. I don’t know from where she got the idea but I know well what she is trying to do. I almost wanted to smile at her, but, no, not now, not here, I tell myself.
Atenin is unmoved. “I assure you, neither of these two before you believe any such thing,” he snapped, then, to Etin, “You have no right to talk to me like that. It’s disgusting, how you can come in here and tell me, after all I’ve done to rebuild a life for myself…”
“Oh, you call this a life?” Etin has switched to Asseran. Only Atenin and I understand him, … and possibly Lilya. “You call THIS a life?” He waved a hand around the apartment. “This crappy little place that you’ve lived in for ten years? You’re almost thirty, yet you’re living like a student! All of your friends, too, all of them should be living better than this! Tainth’s a government official - he should have a decent salary, and an artist as well known as Sanna can certainly afford better than this! You don’t want to grow up, is what! You know, everything I did I did for you! I was ready to die to ensure you a good future! And, now what do I see? Here you are, with so many opportunities ahead of you yet you refuse to take any of them!”
The others are disturbed by Etin’s decision to speak in Asseran. Tainth and Paith are murmuring amongst themselves, discreetly but still evidently. Sanna is more blatant; she exclaims, for all to hear, “What the hell is he saying?”
“It’s not you who sacrificed!” Atenin cries out. He responds in Kikaren, for while Etin wished to censure his brother in the relative privacy of our native tongue Atenin wishes his accusations heard by all. “You gave nothing! It’s Karenan who sacrificed, Karenan and Elinah and our mother and father and all those who died! It’s they who gave their very lives, and you … you, you think your wife is worth half as much as any of them? In marrying her you lower yourself - you should’ve died, both of you, if it would have saved but one of them!”
Etin wants to strike his brother. I see it in his eyes - he is perhaps angrier than I have ever seen him. He wants to strike him, to hurt him, really, to make him feel half the pain that he’s made Etin feel. He doesn’t strike him, though. He takes my hand, instead, and though his muscles are all tense his hold on me isn’t too strong … it doesn’t hurt. “Come,” he tells me, needlessly. We walk into our own room together, but before we cross the threshold he stops and turns to look at Paith, who is sitting on the floor by the fire, shocked and apologetic. “Paith,” he calls. The younger man looks up; Etin continues. “You’re a good man. Curious choice in friends you have, but you’re a good man.”
All is silent for a moment as I close the door to our room behind us, then, from outside, there comes the sound of china shattering. Poor Yasenan must’ve finally dropped the plate she’d been holding, I think. That’s the first thing I say to Etin: “We should probably replace that.”
Etin has been facing away from me; he’d taken a seat on the bed and was looking down, trying to control himself. At my comment, however, he looks up, his eyes, though still raw, full of amazement. “You are unbelievable,” he murmurs, in his tone both gentleness and pride, no mockery or cruelty at all. “Here I am, about to … implode or something and you can just stand there and suggest we replace their plates! How do you do it?” I don’t respond; his question is more rhetorical, after all. “I suppose that’s what really makes you a lady,” he adds.
I come to sit by his side, still not saying anything. I’ve begun to shake; I cannot hold back my feelings any longer. I sit and shiver and it is Etin who thinks to slip his hand into mine. I don’t relax but I don’t recoil either. Etin’s other hand is upon his forehead and even as he tries to comfort me he is rocking back and forth, trying to work everything out in his own mind. “I’m sorry,” he finally tells me. “My brother is … angry.”
“I know,” I say quickly, and I realize that I’m doing the same thing that he is, trying to give comfort and reassurance even as I need it so. “It’s not your fault.”
“He shouldn’t have spoken like that,” Etin insists. “He knows better. Especially in front of that girl - she’s known enough pain, Yasenan, I mean. No idea how they think he’s fit to direct an organization for troubled children; seems like he’s not much more than one himself!”
“You shouldn’t have switched to Asseran,” I remark, my voice too calm, almost empty. “The others will ask what you said and Atenin’s translation won’t do you any favors.”
“I know,” he repeats, then, “Forgive me. I only wanted…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but I know what he means. I bury my face in his shoulder, not crying yet but needing his touch all the same. “You are wonderful,” I tell him.
“Don’t take what he said to heart,” Etin whispers in my ear, wrapping one arm around me, lifting the other to stroke my hair. Soon enough, I think, he will undo my braid and he will run his fingers through my hair, and maybe we will fall asleep like this. Now, though, he continues to talk. “Atenin doesn’t know what he’s saying. He, himself, feels enormous guilt, so much that he can’t stand it so he searches for scapegoats. It’s stupid, as none of it’s his fault either, but armies and governments are awfully vague entities to blame. It’s easier for him to claim that we’re at fault. Someday he’ll see the truth; I’m sure of it.”
I don’t know if he’s really sure, but he does sound sure. He doesn’t have to be sure of himself to sound it, though. If my demure, emotionless face got me through the revolution, it’s this tone of confidence that saved him. How many times did he rally the troops with promises he was not sure if he could deliver? Sometimes, he couldn’t. Today, though, it’s only he who remembers that. To everyone else he is a hero, but he knows that men have died for him. This is not the day, though, for him to think on this.
“I’ve heard worse,” I tell Etin. I don’t tell him that, in fact, I’ve told myself worse. There’s nothing I’ve heard, after all, that’s worse than the thoughts I sometimes have.
He smiles sadly at me and strokes my hair again. He takes the ribbon that ties the braid together in his hands and his eyes ask me if I mind, so I shake my head and he begins to unbind my hair. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes.
“I’m Asseran,” I tell him. “Half, anyway. I look more than half.”
He really smiles at that. “Nationalist,” he says, and his smile carries on in his tone.
“I never said I wasn’t.” I return his smile. “I want to go home.”
He nods. “I like Kikaren,” he muses. “I wouldn’t live here, but I can stay a week or two.”
“I like AsseraKapital,” I insist. “My own city, my own country, my own language and customs.”
“We’ll be home soon,” he promises.
We’re about to lock into another embrace when all of the sudden there comes a knock at the door. We both tense and pull away, as if we’d been doing something wrong. My hair is down, streaming all over my back and chest, but other than that we are completely dressed. I take the ribbon, though, and pull my hair back as Etin rises to get the door. It is Paith; his brown eyes are wide and nervousness is plain to see in his face. I stay seated on the bed, my hair held back in one hand, the ribbon in the other, as Etin ushers him in. He doesn’t smile or anything but his tone is kind, if tentative, as he asks Paith if he needs something. We are in Paith and Elisya’s room, after all. He might’ve come in to get something, after all.
Paith closes the door behind himself. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. Etin shrugs; I attempt a smile. After a moment, Paith adds, “I’m sorry, I’d say this in Asseran but my command of your language is very poor. Please stop me if you don’t understand me.”
“We speak Kikaren,” Etin tells him, then, “What do you need?” It’s amazing how his tone can be both not unkind but so very impatient.
“I wanted to apologize,” Paith begins. “I didn’t know that a simple question would … I want you to know that Atenin isn’t usually like this. I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s suffered so very much, though, throughout his life, and I guess that something just got him angry. I’m sure he didn’t mean to say anything like that and I hope you find it in your hearts to forgive him…” he stopped there, looking as if he wanted to say more. We waited a moment, but when he didn’t say anything Etin responded.
“I understand. I know that he’s suffered; I’m well aware of that. I’m sorry to have involved you in all of this.”
This isn’t the response that Paith wants; he bites his lip, almost like a child. He wants a quick resolution and forgiveness all around. Such a sweet boy, this Paith. I know I’m wrong to think of him as a boy; he’s older than me, after all. He’s not naïve, just good, I tell myself. He deserves his resolution and forgiveness.
“I know that he said some hurtful things to you, and to you, milady,” (he turns, for a second, in my direction. I nod, and he turns back to Etin.) “I know it’s hard to ask, to look past your own anger and to forgive, when he really did say things that he shouldn’t have. I just hope.”
“Don’t trouble yourself about it,” Etin tells him. “We’ll be gone soon. I’m sorry that this had to happen. You’re a good man, Paith; I stand by what I said. Thank you.”
Paith leaves then. What else can he do?
“We were so close, once,” Etin whispers to me. It is later that night; we are lying in bed, our arms wrapped around each other. He’s not shaking anymore and not crying yet, if he will, but his tone holds such melancholy that you know that nothing has changed for him. “He was my best friend, though he was younger than me. I taught him everything I knew. Everything I did, everything I struggled for, was for him. Maybe you don’t know how it is, but…”
“I know,” I tell him.
All I can think is how things aren’t that different between you and me and the two of them.