31. Wrestling With Desire (Gadarien)¶
Gadarien’s neck made a sound like a finger-drum as he pulled on his jaw, twisting his own head halfway around.
“Ooh, good one,” Vaye said.
He grunted, crossing one leg over the other and continuing his stretches. Every sane novitiate was still asleep, so he and Vaye had the grappling hall to themselves. The sprung wooden floor was covered with woven mats, but they would only soften once they’d absorbed the heat of many falling bodies. For now, they were hard as pavement.
He’d slept poorly since watching his comrades get slaughtered a few days prior. Eiadane’s death appeared whenever he closed his eyes, trapping him in a cage of his own impotence. But he couldn’t afford to let his training slip, so he’d agreed to meet Vaye this morning, even though all he wanted was lie in his bunk.
She was warming up with one of her Kravadi forms, slowly lunging forward and back, her arms moving in serpentine curves. “So,” she said casually, her harmonics betraying her tension, “do you want to talk about what we saw?”
He stared at the padded wall, pulling his arm across his body and willing his ligaments to loosen. “Not really.”
“Okay,” Vaye said. “It’s just... You haven’t seemed like yourself. You haven’t been finishing your food, which is super weird, since you usually finish yours and Adra’s. And you’ve barely spoken. Not even to complain.”
Her teasing grin faded when he failed to return it. “I’m just tired,” he said. “Haven’t been sleeping well.”
“Yeah, I can relate,” Vaye said. “But come on, I know that’s not all.”
He cracked his knuckles. The thing was, he did want to talk about it, to share stories of the dead, to scream in rage, to make a mourning chorus that brought all who heard it to their knees. But he didn’t have anyone to do that with. He didn’t even know how to find the new safehouse, assuming the cell hadn’t abandoned the city entirely. He’d heard nothing, and, without knowing the source of the Helix’s intelligence, he didn’t dare approach his old contacts. He was alone.
“Listen,” Vaye said, kneeling. “Before I came here, I thought no one could understand me, that no one would care. But you and Adra were there for me. I can’t tell you how much that helped, not having to bear all that weight by myself. I can see something weighing you down. Let me carry some of it.”
He studied her, kneeling across from him expectantly. She was so different from him, and yet something familiar rang through her core, an echo of his soul. Of course he couldn’t tell her what was really troubling him, but perhaps she was right. Perhaps he could share a part of his pain with her.
He let out a slow breath and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s a bit of a long story,” he said.
The Anashi’s smile was as warm as it was rare. “We’ve got time.”
“My parents were importers,” he began. “They sold goods from all over the place. Dzhar, Hoshin, Tisuul, even Far Ooris. But they specialized in Sarmalan goods. Textiles, pottery, tools, everything they could get their hands on. We were the third-biggest Sarmalan importers in Rilão. Good prices, too, we didn’t gouge anyone.” He sighed, brushing his hair back. “And that was the problem. My family was soft-hearted, especially my name-father Gadalão. He was the face of the business. He loved everyone, no matter where they came from.
“People don’t talk much about what happened before the war, but it was bad. We call that period the Discord now. A group called the Tementeira came into power, religious fanatics, purists. Suddenly anyone with Sarmalan blood was the enemy. Neighbors turned on each other, families who had grown up side-by-side became enemies. There was blood in the streets. Thousands of Sarmalans were killed or forced out, people who had lived in Rilão for generations. Fighting back just made the problem worse.
“My parents refused to participate. When the mob came for a Sarmalan family we knew—their son Ulaiad was my best friend—my parents hid them in the warehouse. Then someone sold us out.” Gadarien hesitated, not sure how much he should tell her. If he put too much weight on their young relationship, would it break like a half-healed graft? But the warmth in Vaye’s eyes drew him on.
“They dragged my parents out into the street and hung them with strips of silk torn from a Sarmalan flag. The silk was red, with bands of purple and white. Beautiful material. I think of it every time I see the flag.” He cleared his throat and took a sip from his water skin. “I wasn’t there when they burned the shop, but my brother and sister were. They didn’t make it out.” He realized belatedly that he was touching the scar on his face, his inescapable reminder of his cowardice, those he had failed to save. He slid his hand up into his hair, hoping Vaye hadn’t picked up on it.
Her voice held nothing but compassion as she reached out for him. “Thank you for telling me. I know what it feels like to lose everything.” Her hand was warm on his wrist, but he knew he didn’t deserve her sympathy. What would she would think of him if she found out who he really was? Would she understand his motives? Could anything be enough to account for how deeply he had deceived her?
He stood up suddenly, unable to sit still. “Let’s train,” he said.
Hurt flickered across her face for a moment, but she didn’t give him time for remorse. She spun underneath him, hooking one of his ankles with her elbow and kicking his other knee out and sending him toppling. Hanging onto his wrist, she used the momentum to pull herself back up, gliding past his guard to kneel on his stomach and grin down at him. “Sure,” she said.
He laughed, then bumped her with his hips and pried her knee off with his elbow. She pressed her attack, moving quickly from side to side as he tried to entangle her with his legs. She dove forward, but over-committed, allowing him to slide around to her back, wrapping one arm around her neck and hooking his heels in front of her hips.
They were both breathing hard, already drenched with sweat. His cheek was pressed against her ear, and he could feel her breath on his forearm as she struggled to free herself. She grabbed his free wrist with both hands, circling her elbow over his arm and pinching it close to her body.
Something intangible shifted between them. He felt her lips on his forearm and thought she might try to bite him, but instead she pulled his other hand down, placing his fingers between her legs.
He froze. “Vaye,” he said, leaving his question unspoken, waiting for her to respond.
In answer, Vaye moved her hips, kissing his forearm, nibbling it. He slid his hand into her trousers and she ground herself against him as he grew hard, her sweaty curls clinging to her neck and forehead. Her tiny gasps of pleasure vibrated through him, his ear still pressed against the soft skin of her cheek.
They stripped each other like they were still fighting, rolling and tumbling, slippery with sweat. The mats beneath them had finally softened. When he flipped her over and entered her at last, it was with a primal mixture of tenderness and ferocity, the giving of pleasure and the taking of it, reveling in each other’s strength.
He wasn’t sure who left with more bruises.
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