“I have you,” Vasiht’h objected.
“Sure, you have me. I mean outside the family,” Sehvi said. “Maybe that’s it, really… we have such a big family that you’ve never needed to look outside it for a real friend. But now you’re out on your own and—”
“Lonely?” Vasiht’h said, and made a face. “Who’s the one studying to be a psychologist here?”
“Everyone’s a psychologist, a little, who has to deal with people,” Sehvi said. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”
“I guess,” Vasiht’h said. “I guess I never thought about it. Family makes the best friends, because they never go away. They’ll always be your family.”
“So you pick the first alien who’ll never go away,” Sehvi said. “An Eldritch. Because they live forever, right?”
“Ugh, Sehvi,” Vasiht’h said, covering his eyes. “Your psychoanalysis has the subtlety of a hammer.”
She laughed. “All right, maybe I’m reaching. Am I?”
“Yes!” Vasiht’h said. “No! I don’t know! I really didn’t plan it. And if he’d been an obnoxious Eldritch, I wouldn’t have picked him.”
“No, of course not. But he’s not obnoxious. He’s mysterious and gallant and he tries hard, and he’s just the right combination of humble and perfect,” Sehvi said with a grin. “We should give thanks that we’re born vacuumed of hormones. Can you imagine what our parents would say if you’d fallen in love with him?”
“Noooo, I don’t want to think it,” Vasiht’h said. “Guh. You make the worst nightmares, ariishir.”
“I know, it’s a talent,” she said, pleased. “So when are you going to bring him home to meet us?”
“Sehvi!”
She snickered.
It was, Jahir thought, an exceedingly busy life, to be so satisfying. He had classes and studying to do every day. Once a week, he had lunch with the director of the clinic, dinner during the evening gatherings with the apartment’s quadmates, and an hour or so of playtime with the children at the hospital. He shopped for groceries in the morning, did laundry in the evening, and breathed, ate and slept biology, chemistry, and basic psychology principles. And all around him moved the bright, quick lives of the Alliance’s many species. As autumn grew colder and the skies grayer, the vibrancy of the people only heightened, until to be among them was to be struck painfully by the vivid scarlet scarves, the bottle green coats and lush brown capes.
“I wish we could go outside,” Persy said, perched on the window-seat and peering out it.
“It looks cold out there,” Kayla said uncertainly.
“It is cold out there,” Vasiht’h said. “I don’t recommend it.”
“Unless you have the density of fur of my companion,” Jahir agreed. “You have seen how I come in.”
They had—his coat was folded over one of the adult-sized seats in their room. He hadn’t brought his winter garb from home, so he’d bought some from one of the campus stores… and a very interesting experience that had been. He’d been measured, selected a style and color, and they’d put a coat in his arms ten minutes later. Remarkable.
“I miss playing, though,” Persy said. “I mean, running around.”
Meekie said, “When we have the energy, you mean.”
All the girls looked at her.
“What?” she said. “It’s true.” She looked at Jahir. “You know it, don’t you? Eldritch princes live forever, but we’re not going to.”
“I fear to tell you, Meekie,” Jahir said, “but I am not immortal either.”
“I can’t imagine you dying,” Amaranth said from the bed where she was resting. She was almost entirely covered in blankets, only her eyes and one of her ragged pigtails visible.
“Ah, but I will,” Jahir said. “In fact, Eldritch histories are replete with rather alarming deaths. Shall I tell you some of the more outrageous ones?”
“You mean like knights being spitted by dragon claws?” Persy said eagerly.
“Just like,” Jahir said somberly.
“You sure that’s not too gruesome?” Vasiht’h said with a grimace.
“NO!” all the girls cried.
“Come then, and let me tell you tales of evil mind-mages!” Jahir said. “And the women who saved them with the power of love.”
They dropped the books and markers and came eagerly to listen. Jahir pulled his chair closer to the beds and waited until the girls had arranged themselves, then began his storytelling. He would not ordinarily consider the tale of Corel killing off an entire army suitable material for children, but he had a sense of these six by now, and they were very aware of their own mortality. Epic stories where love redeemed the fallen both pleased their sense of drama and lulled their own fears by being safely mythical.
Indeed, as he told the story, he sensed them relaxing… so much so that he felt a pressure against his leg, and the hazy sense of someone’s drowsing thoughts: Nieve, falling asleep against him. He didn’t even think twice—he reached down and pulled her into his lap. How thin she was, and how light! Her mind barely impinged on his, something he found deeply distressing. Was she so weak she could barely project? He met Vasiht’h’s eyes over the heads of the girls, and saw his roommate’s concern. Whether it was for him or the children, he had no notion.
“And so, to this day,” he said, “the castle at Rose Point lies abandoned. Its garden has grown riotous with winter thornroses, climbing up the gates to the garden where the lady lies sleeping beneath the ground. She waits, like the castle, for a new tenant, and a new era to revive her story.”
“That’s so wonderful,” Amaranth said with a sigh. “All your stories are like fairy tales.”
“They need more dragons, though,” Persy said.
“Or unicorns,” Amaranth said.
“Unicorns next time,” Jahir promised. “For now, I see your keeper in the door.”
“Aw, do you have to go?” Kuriel said. “We need a story about the Glaseah now!”
“Next time,” Vasiht’h promised. “For now, will a ride on a Glaseah’s back to your bed be enough fun?”
That, the girls agreed, was absolutely enough fun, so much so that the two girls already in bed protested that they’d been cheated and were mollified only when Vasiht’h promised them a ride the following week.
Jahir carried Nieve to her bed and tucked her in. How thin her shoulder was when he arranged the blanket over it. His skin tingled from the memory of her slight weight and cool body—she had a pained look on her face, and he rested the backs of his naked fingers against her cheek. Sleep gently, he willed her. Dream of pollen-dusted sunlight and unicorns.
“Me next!” Amaranth whispered from the next bed over, and he could not but obey. Touching her brought him her thoughts, accelerated by exhaustion, a confusion of images of brave ladies and dark mages and the sense of what it was like to perch on Vasiht’h’s back: furry and warm and a little precarious. He obliged Kayla also, and found his roommate had arranged the others.
“Rest well, ariisen,” Vasiht’h said, and they left to the chorus of their sleepy promises.
Outside, Berquist was handing off a data tablet to another harried looking nurse. She looked up at their arrival and said, “Did they—”
“They’re already in their beds,” Vasiht’h said.
“You put them to bed?” she said. “No, wait… you got them in bed? How??”
“My colleague offered them rides,” Jahir said.
“You what?” Berquist said, staring at Vasiht’h. And then she slumped onto a chair and started laughing. “Oh, you two. You’re golden. Thank you.”
“It’s our pleasure, really,” Vasiht’h said.
“As long as you’re working miracles, maybe you can see why Amaranth’s so bound and determined to fight me about her treatments?” Berquist said. “She knows they’re required, and she knows they don’t hurt, but she always gives us trouble.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Vasiht’h said.
“Thanks,”
she said. “I mean that.”
Since it was obvious that the Eldritch was reticent to discuss his thoughts, his family or his world with anyone, Vasiht’h did his best to respect his roommate’s privacy. He reminded himself that being content with what one had was one of the Goddess’s first commandments, and sat on his curiosity as much as possible. When Jahir detoured to one of the benches outside the hospital, he followed to be companionable, and also with a hint of worry that maybe his roommate had overtaxed himself physically, or mentally from holding the girl. He waited until Jahir sat before settling beside the bench on his haunches, mantling his wings and refolding them over his second back. And there he did his best to cling to his decision to respect Jahir’s silence even as the Eldritch leaned back and closed his eyes, and gave every evidence of discomfort.
After a moment, Jahir said, “You observe she is beginning to rely on us.”
“The healer-assist?” Vasiht’h said. “Well… yes, I’m not surprised.” He studied his roommate’s face. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” Jahir said, and sighed. He rolled his shoulders and said, “That poor child, Vasiht’h. Too tired to think through her skin.”
“I know,” Vasiht’h murmured. “I know. Sick children are the worst.” He sighed. “Can I tell you something?”
Jahir glanced at him.
“Some days, I wonder if this is a good idea,” Vasiht’h said cautiously, hoping he wasn’t about to offend his roommate with this bit of selfishness. “For us.”
The Eldritch smiled a little. “I don’t blame you for the thought.”
“You don’t?” The relief at hearing it was so powerful Vasiht’h flushed.
“No,” Jahir said. “No, not at all. We are doing a difficult thing.” He pushed himself off the bench. “But we will survive it.”
…and the children might not, is how that ended, Vasiht’h thought. He fell into step alongside the taller male, his paws hushed on the pavement compared to Jahir’s boots. And at some point, he said, “You learned to say my name right. You didn’t when we first met.”
“It is your name,” Jahir said. “To fumble it is inconsiderate.”
“Did you practice?” Vasiht’h said, and Jahir glanced at him but didn’t answer.
All the way home, Vasiht’h struggled with the image of the Eldritch training himself to get the last curt sound and huff of air right, just to be polite. And grumbled. If Sehvi could hear his thoughts, she’d be crowing.
CHAPTER 9
Jahir had known there would be consequences to his decision to touch minds with others. He’d been expecting nightmares, perhaps. Had even prepared for them: done as his mother had done for him as a boy, made himself a hot tisane and practiced his breath control, resting on his bed with his hands light on his knees.
But he had had no nightmares, nothing he could have defended himself against. Instead, he dreamed. Of transfusions and gloved hands and the smell of antiseptic. Of weakness so profound it made even lying in bed and dreaming exhausting. Of longing for sunlight on his face. Of the horror of touching his head and finding hair loose in his palm.
He dreamed of losing the acuity of his hearing, and knew that the dreams were blending his memories with the children’s because the pain of losing music was so intense he was surprised he didn’t break from sleep.
When he did finally wake, it was with dried tears on his cheeks, and the sense that he hadn’t rested at all. He thought as durances went it was mild, but he did not fool himself into thinking it wasn’t affecting him.
“So you’ve made a decision,” KindlesFlame said over their coffee.
“I am closer to one, we’ll say,” Jahir said and studied the Tam-illee’s face. “And you have misgivings. Am I correct?”
“ ‘Misgivings’ is a strong word,” KindlesFlame said, refreshing his cup from the pot they were sharing and adding honey. “The medical psychology program is… rigorous.”
“Rigorous,” Jahir repeated.
“The residencies are killers,” KindlesFlame said bluntly. “Most healers-assist have a rough internship. But there’s a kind of shield in not being entirely responsible for someone’s suffering.” He paused and frowned, stirring, then set the spoon on his saucer. “They’re responsible for someone’s injury or disease or physical maintenance, you understand. That’s not suffering. Suffering is up here.” He tapped his temple.
“And the psychiatric healers-assist are called upon to deal with suffering,” Jahir said.
“More distinctly,” KindlesFlame said, “you are called upon to deal with the worst suffering. A good bedside manner will take care of a lot of problems. You only want a psychologist-nurse for the extraordinary cases. The chronically ill. The dying. Those deranged by pain or medication or trauma. Parents who’ve lost their babies in childbirth. The elderly who’ve been abandoned.” He looked up at Jahir. “It’s not like clinical practice, where for every harrowing case you’ll get a handful of people who have existential anxieties, are upset about some temporary loss, or need a little help getting their life sorted out. The medical psychology program turns out the people who deal with the equivalent of psychiatric trauma care.”
“And yet, individuals are needed for those roles,” Jahir said, turning his cup on its saucer.
“They are,” KindlesFlame said. “But I would caution you against romanticizing it too much. Trauma-care can sound—and be—very heroic. But the mundane, everyday sort of cases need handling too, and there are a lot more of them.” He smiled. “I’m the head of the student clinic. I see a lot of flus, sprains and anxious stomachs. On the surface it doesn’t seem very exciting. But a life like that keeps you grounded in reality, so that when the trauma does come, you see it in context.”
“Does that not make it hurt more?” Jahir asked.
KindlesFlame looked at him for several heartbeats. Then said, “If you can ask questions like that, you should consider your course carefully. You’re still in your first semester, alet. Don’t make any premature decisions.”
“This is the story of how the Glaseah got their black and white coats,” Vasiht’h said to the girls grouped around them. He had Meekie in the curl of his forepaws, and Kayla’s head on one of them, and the others were in a loose semicircle in front of him. Jahir was sitting cross-legged behind Amaranth, hands resting on his knees and expression as attentive as the children’s. It made Vasiht’h smile, though he ducked his head to hide it. He lifted his hands and began the story.
“Long ago, when we were fresh from the thoughts of the Mother Goddess’s head, She asked us what gifts we would like… because, you see, we were unformed at that time, just little bits of fluff and maybe-flesh that She hadn’t yet shaped to completion.”
“Did you have four legs already?” Meekie interrupted.
“That’s probably too much form,” Persy said.
“But if you have maybe-flesh…”
“Patience,” Vasiht’h said, once he had schooled his expression. “You’ll see as I go along.” Once he had their attention again, he continued. “Yuvreth’t, the first of our race, told the Mother that he would like for us to be great thinkers, like Her, and to be able to create as She did. So She separated us into male and female, so we could make babies—” This elicited a giggle. “—and gave us the ability to think.” He tapped his forehead, between the eyes. “Like Her, which means She made us espers.”
“What’s it like?” Amaranth interrupted. “Being able to read people’s thoughts?”
“It’s like being able to talk to people, but easier and across longer distances,” Vasiht’h said with a chuckle. “Now. Yuvreth’t, being clever, asked for wings that we might fly, and long legs to swiftly flee those who preyed on us, and keen noses for smelling their coming, and large ears for hearing them, and farseeing eyes that we might spot them before they spotted us—and, that not being enough, he also asked that we be as colorful as the flowers so that we might have better camouflage in the jungle, and he also wanted hands so
we could make tools…”
“What didn’t he wish for?” Kuriel asked.
“That is exactly how the Goddess reacted,” Vasiht’h said, nodding. “She said ‘These are too many gifts. If I give them all to you, I’ll have none left for anything else I might make. You must choose two, and I advise you to retire and consider those choices carefully before making them!’ So Yuvreth’t went back to his rock and joined his new mate, Slesvra, whom you recall had just been made for him. He asked her, ‘What should we give up? All these gifts are important.’
“Slesvra considered at length, then said, ‘I think we should keep the gift of the mind, for if we can think, then we will find ways around our physical limitations… and the hands, so that we can make what we conceive.’ “
“Ooh, she was smart,” Persy said, eyes wide.
“She was!” Vasiht’h agreed. “So the following day, Juvreth’t returned to the Great Mother and said, ‘O Goddess, let us keep the mind so that we might think our way out of danger, and our hands, that we might make the tools we conceive.’ And Aksivaht’h took away the wings, the long legs, the extraordinary senses of smell, hearing and sight, and the colored coat.” Vasiht’h held out his hands. “Well! Juvreth’t returned to his mate very upset! ‘Look at us, Slesvra! We have hands and we are smart, but we are ugly!’”
The girls giggled and he waited, grinning, before continuing. “ ‘What good is this, my mate?’ And Slesvra said, ‘We will make do,’ but Juvreth’t didn’t think it was any good at all, and he wasn’t interested in making do.”
“Oh, no, he’s going to be baaaaad,” Meekie said, bouncing a little.
“That’s exactly what he was,” Vasiht’h said. “While Aksivaht’h the Mother Goddess was dreaming—for that’s how She makes new things—he sneaked into Her trove of gifts and stole the wings, the long legs, the colored coats and all the heightened senses! He brought them home to his mate and paraded in them for her. ‘This is how we were meant to be!’ he said. But Slesvra was not convinced. What do you think she did?”
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