Dreamhearth

by M. C. A. Hogarth

  “How does it manifest?”

  “The bond?” Vasiht’h tried petting the dog, whose tail thumped softly on the floor. Dogs were furry. It was a little freeing, to be able to touch something that felt like another Pelted without having to worry about them misinterpreting it. “I hear his thoughts in my head, and often his feelings.”

  “You don’t confuse them for your own?” Tiber asked.

  “Goddess, no!” Vasiht’h laughed. “His thoughts are utterly unlike mine. He’s like sunshine and tea and music with lots of string instruments. I’m nothing like that. I’m practical and not at all romantic.” He made a face. “I can’t even get into the one romance novel my sisters sent me.”

  “Sunshine,” Tiber repeated, bemused.

  “I know it doesn’t make much sense, given how mysterious he is,” Vasiht’h said. “But he’s not really a dark of the moon kind of person, no matter how many secrets he feels he has to keep, or how many memories he’s forgotten because they happened to him decades before I was born. He still feels new to me. And wide, like a summer sky. He makes my life better.”

  “Even when he’s discomfiting you?” Tiber asked, and the tone in his voice… was he teasing? It felt very gentle. Vasiht’h hadn’t thought him capable of gentleness.

  “Even when he’s making me face my issues,” Vasiht’h agreed with a smile. “I guess I forgot that.”

  “I doubt that,” Tiber said. “It sounds more like you know you can rely on it, so it just doesn’t occur to you to question it.”

  “I guess there’s that too.” Should he keep talking about this, knowing Tiber’s wife had left him? It seemed cruel to prattle on about his own idyllic relationship. Vasiht’h tried for a different tack. “But I do hear his thoughts in my head in his voice, with his intonations, so that’s another way I know they’re different from mine. And it’s different from when I imagine the voices of people I know well in my head.” He thought of his conversation with imaginary Sehvi. “It’s like his voice casts a shadow in my head, because it’s real and has volume and weight. But people whose voices I’m imagining, they’re insubstantial. Like ghosts. Even if I know them well enough to be able to guess what they’d say and how they’d say it, it’s still not real in my head.”

  “It sounds fascinating,” Tiber said.

  “I never really thought about how it works,” Vasiht’h admitted. “It’s just… something I’ve grown up with. Not the mindline part, but the ‘being able to tell the difference between the inside of my head and someone else visiting it.’ Some things you just know. I don’t think you have to be an esper, either. I think you always know when something doesn’t belong inside your head.”

  “Whose voice is in your head when you think about not having a handle on your life?” Tiber asked.

  “Mine,” Vasiht’h answered, reflexive. He winced. “I guess I’ve internalized all the messages I kept hearing from people who might not be right.”

  “I think the people who were encouraging you to grow up had your best interests at heart, from how you’ve described them,” Tiber said. “And they have a point: we all have to grow up and start shouldering our responsibilities. The only question is why you think you haven’t yet.”

  “Maybe we can talk about that another time?” Vasiht’h asked. “The hour’s up… I don’t want to keep you. But… I’d like to come back.”

  “Absolutely,” Tiber said. “Though don’t use the walk-in slot next time.”

  Rising, Vasiht’h smiled crookedly. “I guess I’m an official client?”

  “Does that seem strange to you?”

  “Yes,” Vasiht’h said, finding it funny.

  Tiber surprised him by grinning. “Good. Because it does to me too. But if you feel like you want to come back because I helped, then I’m glad you stopped by.”

  “Me too,” Vasiht’h replied.

  On the way home, Vasiht’h reflected on the encounter, finding it poignant and funny, the way life was sometimes. He really had felt relieved, unburdening himself to someone who wasn’t going to be hurt by the hearing. Tiber had been a good listener, and a sympathetic therapist despite their history. And petting the dog had been oddly soothing. Best of all, talking it out made him realize how lucky he was in his partner, and how much he loved the Eldritch. Sehvi hadn’t been wrong to tell him to stop letting his issues poison his relationship. And Tiber’s observation about relationships that helped you grow was also trenchant.

  How ridiculous it was to be reflecting that therapy could be helpful! He grinned, shook his head, and ducked into the bakery. Tonight seemed a good night for soup. If Jahir brought him sunlight and romance—more real romance than anything poor Thaddeus had access to—then he was definitely the one who brought the good and homey things to keep Jahir grounded.

  Chapter 18

  Joyner did not return, despite Lennea’s urging, but Rook became a regular client following his first appointment: “I get what you’re doing here. It’s a lot like what I try to do, except I can’t have that experience by going to another massage therapist… I’m too busy picking apart what they’re doing, trying to learn something or critique it. And I want that experience, of someone taking care of me while I relax. So this works for me.”

  Tiber’s warning, then, did not materially harm them, unless it prevented new clients from seeking them out. Jahir supposed it might have been doing so, but as he’d told Vasiht’h, dwelling on the possibility was profitless. His prediction of their future was far more dependent on Helga’s goodwill than Tiber’s, for he guessed that if they pleased her, she would send all her clients to them, not just the ones she’d chosen as test cases.

  That she was testing them was incontrovertible. Vasiht’h attempted to corner her into admitting it over dinner, but she sidestepped direct questions with the skill of an Eldritch courtier; recognizing the techniques, Jahir could only smile over his cup and let her be. She knew, too, because now and then she would spar with him.

  /It’s like a game of ‘how much can you imply but not communicate clearly,’/ Vasiht’h said one night, listening with sagging ears. His exasperation sizzled, but more like something being seared in a pan rather than something burning under a too-hot sun, so Jahir thought the annoyance minor. /The point of talking is to communicate!/

  /Yes,/ Jahir said. /But sometimes what one wishes to communicate is more complex than an idea./

  /You lost me./

  /In this case, how the idea is conveyed tells us something. Yes? She does not wish to commit to definitive responses. That is useful data. And she would like us to know it, because she’s making her evasions patently clear./

  /Why would she want us to know that she doesn’t want us to know something, though??/

  /Ah,/ Jahir said, hiding his smile. /That would be the more interesting question, wouldn’t it./

  /It still seems unnecessarily convoluted to me./

  /Sometimes it does to me as well./ And as for the times it didn’t, Jahir let those go unspoken. But he wondered what Vasiht’h felt through the mindline; if the whisper of dresses on cold marble floors echoed into his friend’s mind, and the hush of conversations undertaken in shadowed alcoves… or if he merely sensed them as an unease, without form or metaphor.

  Such a fascinating thing, the mindline. Who would ever have conceived of it?

  The days slipped past. They cooked together, and sat in the garden. They walked the charming streets of the Garden District, and the bustling ones of the commons. They explored the city in their time off, ranging through parks and wandering boutiques. And they entertained: Helga and often Hector, Ilea when she chose to come by. There were people who remembered their names; there were several times more people who recognized them and nodded or waved on their way past.

  It was not an idyllic existence, to work without knowing what would come of it. But Jahir found it strangely peaceful. And the work itself was wonderful. To join minds with someone like and unlike and serve life by encouraging the health of
their clients was balm for the soul. And that he would never have known had he not left the homeworld.

  Pieter missed three appointments.

  “Do you think we did something wrong?” Vasiht’h asked one day, frowning. “By suggesting he go back.”

  “No,” Jahir said. “At least, I don’t believe so.”

  “Maybe his kits didn’t take it well.”

  “Mayhap.”

  Vasiht’h wrinkled his nose. “I guess we’ll never know.”

  But they did learn, because Pieter returned on the fourth week. He nodded to them with his customary lack of dramatics and peeled off his boots to stretch out on the couch. Within moments, he was asleep, without any word of explanation for his absence or what it might imply about his current needs. Because he was there, and because they had no other ideas, they joined hands and went into his dreams, and found that they had changed. No more riotous adventures; no more sports bordering on dangerous extremes. Instead, they found him hanging again in space, and after staring contentedly into that void for a while, he reeled himself back in and started work on something neither of them understood. It involved welding? Pieter’s mind tagged some of it as dangerous—mostly the large pieces of hardware floating alongside in space, being guided into place with technology Jahir did not understand—but none of it alarmed Pieter. He was a man in his proper context, and all of it felt new, the details crisp and interesting.

  They all woke together. The Seersa was smiling.

  “Your new job?” Vasiht’h guessed.

  “On base, yeah. Don’t really want anything that takes me too far from the kits. Especially with Brenna expecting. But it’s good work.”

  “Repair?” Jahir guessed.

  “And building,” Pieter said. “Starships don’t come from genies. Someone’s got to put them together.”

  “And that’s you,” Vasiht’h said.

  “And that’s me.” He sat up. “So… I hate to repay you this way, but…”

  “You don’t need us anymore?” Vasiht’h said, grinning.

  “I think I’m good. But if something comes up, I know where to go. And I know where to send any friends.” He smiled at them, a sunny, confident smile, with just a hint of mischief, and in it Jahir saw the young man who’d given himself to Fleet in the beginning. “I’ll tell them they’ll be in good hands.”

  “We appreciate that,” Vasiht’h said.

  At the door, Pieter covered Vasiht’h’s palm and nodded to Jahir. “You all keep yourselves well.”

  “We will. Good luck,” Vasiht’h said.

  “And good hunting, alet,” Jahir said.

  Another of those unexpected grins. Then Pieter left.

  “I can’t say I’m glad to lose the money,” Vasiht’h said, his satisfaction thick as cream, “but Goddess, that was fantastic.”

  “It was, was it not?” Jahir said.

  “Mmm-hmm.” Vasiht’h eyed him. “And why do I feel like you’re about to say something funny?”

  “I don’t think that I am,” Jahir answered, modestly. “But I do feel this requires celebration.”

  “Which means ice cream?”

  “Your pleasure tastes like it.”

  Vasiht’h laughed. “No! Your brain interprets my pleasure as tasting like ice cream. That’s all you, arii.”

  “Are you certain?” Jahir asked, innocent.

  “I… am almost entirely sure.” Vasiht’h paused. “Ice cream really is good, though. And pleasurable. Satisfying. I can see the association working.”

  “You often associate emotions with food.”

  “Do I?” Vasiht’h chuckled. “I bet I do.” He reached for his saddlebags. “Well, let’s put up the ‘we’re out, come back later’ sign and see what Karina has today.”

  On the way, Vasiht’h said, “I’m glad we suggested Fleet to him.”

  “So am I,” Jahir replied.

  “At what point does lifestyle become a necessary part of health?” Jahir asked. “To the point that healthcare practitioners must be obliged to address it?”

  Across the parsecs, KindlesFlame snorted. “At the point we’re born? You can’t separate health from lifestyle, arii. The choices we make intimately affect our bodies and minds.” He raised a finger. “Not to say that it’s all under our control, of course. But we are the stewards of our bodies, and every decision we make involves them, if it involves us.”

  “Rather a great deal of responsibility,” Jahir murmured.

  “But a satisfying one,” his mentor said. “Responsibility is the mother of satisfaction. From the moment we leave our childhood behind and grasp that we really are the author of our own destinies, we have access to a kind of satisfaction that we can never achieve without shouldering the duties and responsibilities of adulthood.” Jahir eyed him, and the Tam-illee grinned. “Should I be worried that I’ve just told someone four times my age that growing up is a good idea?”

  “No,” Jahir said. “One can be very old, chronologically, and not yet mature. Because, as you say, those burdens have not been accepted.”

  “True. More your bailiwick right now than mine.”

  Jahir noted the ‘right now’ and did not comment on it. KindlesFlame had accepted as obvious that one day Jahir would return to the medical track, a path he himself remained uncertain of. But that he had time to decide—that he trusted. “So it is not inappropriate to advise our clients to make changes to their lifestyles. Perhaps enormous ones.”

  “If you think it will help them, it’s your duty to do so. They might disagree with you of course, but that’s their prerogative. And in fact, their duty, as well. Because they are their own people, and only they can make the final decisions about their own lives.” KindlesFlame canted his head. “I take it you ran into this situation?”

  Could he talk about it now that Pieter was no longer his client? “We suggested taking up a job to a client, who did so.”

  “And did it go well?”

  “They no longer require our services.”

  KindlesFlame chuckles. “If only all of them were that easy.”

  “I do not know that I would call it easy,” Jahir said, remembering. “But it was decisive. Many of the factors that drive people to therapy are chronic conditions, and respond only to management, not direct intervention.”

  “Like the difference between your hospital stint and a normal clinical practice?” KindlesFlame smiled. “Surgery was deeply satisfying.”

  “But broken legs and minor viruses are far more livable,” Jahir said, smiling back.

  The Tam-illee chuckled. “Would that all my students listened so closely to me. It sounds like the work part of your life is going well. How about the rest of it? Has your partner settled down?”

  “He seems to have,” Jahir said. “Our situation is inherently discomfiting. It is… difficult… not to be able to plan for your future. We are accustomed to the illusion of control.”

  “You don’t seem too discomfited to me.”

  Jahir thought of the terrors of Selnor, the fatigue, the grinding sorrow of it, the acceleration of his heartbeat, the contraction of his life. “I no longer fear myself unequal to the challenges typical of the Alliance.”

  “My, that’s quite a statement.” At Jahir’s quizzical look, the Tam-illee said, “I commend your confidence, my student. Just make sure it doesn’t become hubris. Not everything here is about whether you can book enough clients to afford the fancy restaurant or the corner diner.”

  “I hope I never make that mistake,” Jahir agreed. “I have a great deal left to learn.”

  “Just keep that in mind and you’ll do all right.” KindlesFlame tapped his fingers on his coffee mug, paused on the way to his lips. “Humility. Humility is key.”

  “Yes.”

  “For most of us,” he finished, eyeing Jahir. “You might have too much of that already.”

  “Then what is key for me?” Jahir asked, fighting amusement.

  KindlesFlame considered him over the ri
m of his mug. He said, finally, “Courage.”

  Surprised, Jahir said, “Truly?”

  “It’s a long game, arii,” the Tam-illee answered. “And in the long game, courage gets us home.”

  Brenna Strong came to them later that week, during one of their walk-in hours. (“We might as well have some,” Vasiht’h had said. “Since it’s not like we don’t have the time for them.”) She thanked them effusively for helping her father, having a seat on their couch and folding her hands on her lap. “He’s so much more… I don’t know. More settled now. I never would have thought that being in Fleet again would make him less reckless, but it really has! I guess you can’t afford to be reckless when you’re welding together starships.”

  “I would imagine not,” Jahir said.

  “Anyway, I’m so grateful, and so is Roland. You did an amazing job with him, after no one else was able to help.”

  “We appreciate you telling us so,” Vasiht’h said, smiling. “We don’t always hear back.”

  She beamed at him. “Well, consider yourself told. In fact, you worked such a miracle for him I was hoping you could manage another one for me?”

  “For you?” Jahir asked.

  “I know. I didn’t think I’d ever need therapy,” Brenna said. “But then this situation happened and…” Her arms fell open, palms up. “I just don’t know how to handle it. You see, I’m pregnant and intellectually I’m thrilled, but I can’t seem to figure out how to… how to feel happy about it.”

  The surge through the mindline reminded Jahir of the time his swordmaster had surprised him with a riposte that had caught him full in the sternum: stunned and a little dizzied by something that he hadn’t been expecting. /What do we do with this?/ Vasiht’h asked.

  /The same we do with all our clients. We listen, and we let them rest?/

  “I really want this baby,” Brenna hastened to assure them. “That must have sounded awful. My husband and I have been planning this for a while. We’re both very happy! Or at least, I think I’m happy. But I’m not. What I am is…” She looked away, frowned, ears flattening. “I’m… angry? Or I feel strange, like I’m not in my body at all. On bad days, I even think that someone’s shoved me out of it. Literally, like the baby is now the one in charge of my body and I’m the one who’s getting told to find a hotel room somewhere. I don’t recognize the inside of my own head most days.” Her shoulders slumped. “It’s ridiculous. I look at baby clothes and nursery furniture and I don’t feel anything. This was supposed to be one of the most exciting times of my life and I’m not here for it. Not me, the real me.” She managed a little smile. “Help?”