#hakan camoa
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Portentous
It happened on the street.
Someone had scrounged up a ball, and on this sun – when Elias and Hakan had nothing better to do – that meant that the children of Ninth Stratum Alley were intent upon initiating their new Viera friend into their particular brand of roughhousing. He wasn't entirely certain that it was roughhousing, at first. The game looked innocent enough, until it wasn't.
Hakan recognized it almost at once as a form of Keep Away, though this variant was played entirely without hands: feet, legs, and heads only. As he was the newest member of their little "gang," he was the first to be thrust into the middle. He played along for a little while, to show them that he could be sporting and that he wasn't a threat to their hierarchy. Eventually, he took the ball off a large boy named Guin during a poor pass, and he joined the outer circle as Guin was thrust into the middle.
The game spilled out from the alley onto the street as more and more boys showed up over the course of that morning. Feet scuffled, kicking up sand, as the lads played at their game. They began to draw onlookers, until a small crowd loitered in the vicinity, cheering them on: young men, lounging in the sun on their day off; young women, watching from doorways or opened windows; a merchant or two, nostalgic over a game from their youth; the elderly, seated upon a bench not thirty fulms distant, trading snacks and gossip as they observed.
Hakan noticed, as the game continued, that Elias did not look entirely comfortable; as play progressed from the alley onto the street, as more and more children joined in, as the crowd grew in size, the boy withdrew into himself, grew reticent and less aggressive, and his performance suffered for it. The Viera could understand why: Elias was loud, exuberant, and confident, except when it came to large gatherings. The boy had a streak of shyness to him, not unlike what Hakan had seen in some of his own playmates back in Camoa.
The time came when Guin was in the middle again and Elias, who had possession of the ball, feinted to one side and then passed the other way. It was a good feint but a poor pass: it was not quite directed at anyone in particular, and the nearest fellow – a boy named Anry, who was even larger than Guin – made a paltry effort to retrieve it but was beaten to it by Guin, who was desperate to be out of the middle. The other boys jeered and tried to thrust Elias into the middle, but the boy shook them off and stomped forward.
"That's not fair, Anry!"
The big boy narrowed his eyes at Elias. "What's not fair?"
"That's the third time I've passed and you've let someone get it on purpose! I'm sick of being in the middle!"
It was Hakan's turn to narrow his eyes, not at Elias but at Anry. His friend was right: on two prior occasions earlier that morning, the big boy had been rather slower than usual, and only when a pass had come from Elias.
Anry grinned at the smaller boy and shrugged. "Not my fault. Maybe you should learn how to pass, that one was a malm wide."
This got laughs from some of the other boys. Guin was not among them; he looked a little ashamed as he stepped out from between the the two having the argument, dribbling the ball ahead of him as he went. Elias looked relieved, for some reason, at Anry's retort.
"I don't have to put up with this," he said, in his more usual manner: confident, mature. Hakan's chest swelled with pride. "We're leaving. Come on, Hakan."
Elias turned to go, and started walking. Hakan glanced around at the others, bidding them farewell; even back then, he could not help being courteous. It was because he lingered that he saw the red flush building on Anry's face, the ugly look that the big boy shot at Elias's back. The Viera would have thought nothing of it as he turned to follow his friend home – Raif would have the noontide meal ready soon – except that he heard someone bend at the knees, scrabble in the sand for something.
He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Anry was rising back up, that the big boy held a stone clutched in one hand. Such things weren't uncommon here in the city: sometimes they broke off, or were chipped off, from the walls, and sometimes a pour of mortar and gravel was not carefully attended to. Still, it looked large and dangerous, and Anry was rearing back for a throw. Hakan whipped his head back around and cried out, "Elias!"
He'd barely gotten out the first syllable of the boy's name when the stone flew. It ought to have struck the small boy between the shoulderblades, perhaps even – spirits forfend – on the head. But as the stone flew and Hakan called his name, Elias tripped. His feet flailed, his arms shot up in a desperate bid for balance, and he found himself bent at the waist… just enough for the stone to soar harmlessly overhead. The stone impacted the street and clattered across the the ground; Elias found his footing again, and looked around.
The other boys and the crowd at large had gone quiet for a second… but only for a second. Conversations started back up again, children resumed their jeering, and Anry went on looking furious.
"Hakan, I said let's go!" called Elias to the stunned Viera.
Hakan did not know what to think, other than that he was glad his friend was alright. What a fortuitous time to stumble, he thought… but at once, he chastised himself for having such a thought, for suspecting his friend. With one last glance back at the other children, he made to follow Elias back down the street towards Kermani's, and he put the incident from his mind.
Looking back many moons later, armed with a great many words and concepts from Lidenbok Books, he could think of but a single one for the events of that morning.
Portentous.
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FFxivWrite2023 Participation Prize
I was volunteer artist for the FFXIVWrite event once more ~ :D
Big thank you to @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast for organizing this for yet another year!
This cool bun is Hakan Camoa who belongs to @cfs-melkire ~ and I had so much fun drawing him! Such pretty hair ...
Thank you all who participated!! Until next year! o7
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It occurred to me a while back that I don't often share screenshots of my alts on this account. This is normally fine since this blog is Osric-centric, but, given that I just spent the past 30 days writing about one of said alts, I figure it's best to throw a few screenshots of Hakan Camoa up.
Enjoy!
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Amity
How had he come to play envoy in the first place?
It wasn’t something that he’d planned on, no matter what the fools claimed. Not that he had many detractors in the first place, but somehow the few he’d accumulated over the turns had a very loud bark to them. They were so adamant about making themselves heard that they rarely stopped to consider whether others saw any merit to their arguments.
Hakan did not mind in the slightest. In truth, his perverse self got a little kick out of it, to use a Western expression.
It did not seem at all likely, given how well things had gone, that he would be off the hook anytime soon. He found himself in the rather unenviable position of mediating on an international level, and not just between nation-states but between the more barbarous elements of his own home and the more civilized quarters. The tonal whiplash would have been enough to ring anyone’s bell and the aggression at his back was noisome and odious, but he persevered nevertheless, shed himself of such fickle concerns as consequences.
This was, he thought, the sort of arena in which he excelled: a veritable coliseum filled with panthers and vipers, and the path through them, the only path which offered any surety of survival, required a sometimes frantic but always gracious dance from maneuver to maneuver. Diplomacy was the game, and while it wasn’t truly lethal – he’d had his fill of senseless death for three lifetimes – a single misstep could bring his fortunes to ruin. But he played his part well, the part of a fair and impartial benefactor, and in doing so he would accrue favors. Those favors could then be leveraged in times of need, or to maintain momentum, or to disarm a foe.
Once bitten, twice shy? Not Hakan Camoa. Oh, he’d cut a dowdy figure in his earliest suns working as a mediator, certainly. That line of work had followed naturally after he had immersed himself in the legal profession, and he’d been checked many times over the course of his career, impeded by those more experienced or more influential. There had been setbacks, yes.
It became rather clear to those who made themselves his enemies that interfering in his work was a losing proposition. Hakan had the memory of an Arkasodara, and both the ears and long life of his own kind. The first time he’d brought a rival low had been rather… portentous. No one had dared to jerk him about after that, less they fracture what goodwill the Rava Viera afforded them.
He’d long since outgrown his novice status in this particular field, was no longer a fish out of water. No weal nor welt smirched his curriculum vitae, as the Sharlayans called it, and he had outlived those who would have hampered his ambitions, such as they were… and they weren’t much. His true aims wouldn’t shock anyone into an early grave, but he had no doubt that some would find them offensive. He hoped that a most fulsome reaping of benefits would allay any concerns, yes, but he expected resistance for however long it took him to sow the seeds of that particular harvest.
In the meantime, he kept his silence on such matters. He was in no mood, and would never be in the mood, to press his suit, to make his argument, when he could simply work towards the achievement in the fullness of time.
Almost as soon as he had this thought, he became aware by dint of many ongoing conversations all about Rakusui Gardens that the bell had grown late. He stepped forward to propose that they call it a day, as it were, that they break for a recess. There was a short delay, while they waited to hear from the last announcements of representatives, but in the end there was not a single objection, and they ended the first conference there.
Not that this meant he could get off his feet, give his poor soles a break. No, the Basari family insisted upon a blunt approach to make Thavnair’s stance clear to those who were watching. This was no imposition, much less a contravention, so he made introductions and arrangements as was his wont. He relished social functions almost as much as legal and political maneuvering.
International amity. That was a worthy goal.
Now if only he could string them all along for long enough to actually accomplish it.
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Extra Credit 1: Kick
The night air was cool, a stark contrast to earlier in the day. His every step kicked up sand and dust, and why shouldn't it? Pursued by footpads, chased through an unfamiliar city, its winding streets and narrow alleys unlike anything he had ever known… Hakan ran with everything he had, lest they take from him everything he possessed, even his very life. Every lope of his gait kicked up more sand, more dirt.
They'd accosted him earlier that evening. He'd recognized their sounds and their scents: they'd been tailing him since his arrival. In hindsight, he understood that he should not have passed into the city with the sun still high in the sky. He was different. He was an oddity: not merely a stranger but one of a kindred rarely heard of, let alone seen. This had marked him, for this place was no different from Camoa in the most important way. There were predators and there were prey. These were the former, and they'd mistaken him for the latter. He had been outnumbered.
That was then. This was now. He reached up for his quiver, and found there the feathered shaft of his last remaining arrow. Not good. He'd bled them for every fifty or so yalms, and as his quiver had been spent, so too had been their manpower. His odds were better now… but they were still bad. One arrow left, and then his hunting knife. How many footpads still? He wasn't sure. There had been only four, at first… but that number had grown. Each shrill whistle from a thief drew in more thieves, and it had dawned upon him that this was something not unlike the perimeter back home: a band, protecting their territory. To them, he was an intruder, and his refusal to submit or comply had marked him for death.
He leaned to the right as he ran, one hand slapping against the bark of one of those strange trees which grew here as they did not in the desert which surrounded this place. An oasis, he thought, having learned the word just before sundown, but he thought no more of it. That hand arrested his fall and he took the turn into the alley at greater speed than he otherwise would have. His ears swiveled backwards to listen for his would-be killers. He righted his bow with the other hand, his left hand, and with the right he drew his last arrow.
The alley ended at a wall of limestone, and he knew that he was done running.
Someone shouted a warning in an unfamiliar tongue, someone young and rough and savage with anticipation. He nocked the arrow, drew as he turned, aimed, and let loose, let fly. His skill had not abandoned him; he had hardly needed a second, and the shaft found its mark, buried itself deep in the diaphragm of one of the two cutthroats he'd heard enter the alley behind him. That man grunted, doubled over in pain, fell to his knees as he clutched at the wound, and then fell over onto his side. His companion cried out in anger and dismay; that man charged, curved sword drawn, and slashed at the Viera. That overhead blow was great and terrible, driven as it was by the man's fury; Hakan underestimated it, and his feeble attempt to deflect the blade off to the side saw his bow cloven in twain. That same cut drew a line of blood down the Rava's chest, parted the fabric and leather as though they were a bad jest.
There was little else to be done; given enough time, the footpad would run him through with the next slash of his sword. Hakan didn't give him the time. His only regret as he stepped forward and clotheslined his assailant with an outstretched arm across the neck was that he had neither the size nor the bulk of knotted muscle that the women of his village did. No, not the only regret. Djt-Setlas had been possessed of the same strength as the women. But he was not and had never been Djt-Setlas; he was not even Djt-Dvre, not any longer. Hakan Djt-Dvre had ceased to be, had gone into exile forever.
And would soon cease to be, completely and utterly, if he did not focus. They were on the ground, the both of them, wrestling; the sword had fallen from the Dalmascan's grip and was out of reach. Hakan rolled, the footpad's right arm clutched in both his own; he wrapped both legs around that arm too, arched his back to keep the man pinned while his right hand reached for the knife sheathed behind his back. But the other man was quick and strong; he drew his own knife first with his left hand and, bucking once to dislodge the Viera for a moment; swept his left arm over.
Hakan cried out; this time, the cut was deeper and across the back of his left arm. He felt himself lifted and then dashed to the earth against his back. His knife flew from his grasp, dropped onto the sand. He reached up and caught the downward thrust of the Dalmascan's knife by the man's wrist; the footpad added the strength and weight of his other arm behind the first, leaned into it, and Hakan watched as the blade slowly approached his face, angled for a moment towards his throat.
The Rava balled up into fetal position instinctually, resting on his back for a moment, and then he kicked.
His foot struck the Dalmascan in the stomach: the other man chuffed, the exhalation sudden and violent. Hakan kicked him again. He kicked again and again. He kicked him over and over, and he did not merely kick him after that first time; at the end of each kick, he pushed out his foot to full extension, curled his toes, and dragged the leg down and back, raking the man's lower torso with the clawed talons of the Viera's sollerets.
Things broke. Clothes were torn. Skin, flesh, and muscle, too. The reek of offal struck the Rava like a sledgehammer, but he did not relent, not even when the squelch of guts and intestines struck his ears. At last, he kicked and the Dalmascan was thrown off him, thrown off to fall down onto the sands where the man did not move again.
The last thing Hakan heard before he passed out was the sound of someone's weight landing far too lightly in the alley where the little lane ended. A child? Or perhaps one of their women, so small in stature–
Battle fever fled, pain took hold, and the darkness embraced him.
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That's a wrap on my end! Thank to anyone and everyone who's been following along. FFxivWrite is always a damned pleasure. Thank you @sea-wolf-coast-to-coast for running this year after year! Always a blast.
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Sole
He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe.
He managed to get one lungful of air, one deep draught of refreshing air, down before he choked on it, before his galloping heart pulsed against the tight knot in his chest and sent his brain a message etched across a hundred thousand nerves that he was not alright, that he wouldn't be alright, that he would never be alright again.
He was the sole survivor.
Hakan broke down sobbing.
It was all a blur. Most things had been a blur since the intimacy with the twins had been kindled by Iona and then set ablaze by Elias. The loft, that had been, and the Waterways hideout after he'd confessed. He couldn't bear to think of it now but it came unbidden to his mind, the shock of the other man's touch upon Hakan's bare chest as he'd been pushed down and the other man's breath against the base of one ear as he'd whispered, "My sister and I share everything."
He hadn't known that to be the truth at the time, and so the shame and guilt of the thing had fanned the thrill into passion.
The following moons had been a tangled mess all their own, worse than his braids on their worst suns. First, Iona had asserted her rights, and the twins had bickered until they'd reached an arrangement between themselves. They had included Hakan in the conversation as an afterthought, which would have unsettled him further had he not been so completely windswept and discombobulated – that had been a fun word to learn from Lidenbok Books – by everything that had happened. Second, no one had told Raif a damned thing. The twins had seemed content on keeping the whole affair a secret from their father – as was their right, he thought, they were grown adults by the measure of Humes and children no longer – and the Viera had not been able to bring himself to so much as broach the topic, not even at a tangent.
The blur encompassed everything: his training, his idle moments walking the aqueducts, their assignments, his forays into the southern quarter, their heated interludes. He'd been living in a fog which had clouded his every waking moment. He couldn't remember much in detail.
He could remember the blood.
They'd sat down to their usual evening meal, after closing up the restaurant, only to realize that Elias was missing. He'd gone out on assignment that sun, to the western quarter, and he hadn't come back. This was not highly unusual; sometimes assignments required discretion in returning home, and such discretion often made for delays. They'd eaten without him, saved him a few cold servings to be reheated later.
He'd not been back the following sun, either. Nor the one after that. By the third sun, Raif was shooting down Iona's requests in favor of sending Hakan out.
The blur continued. He couldn't recall what the assignment had been, nor its significance, nor how he'd picked up the trail, from where, from whom. All that he could remember was walking into the room, seeing Elias chained and hanging from the ceiling, watching Miriam's eyes grow cold as she turned and – in spite of his desperate pleas – ran Elias through with her sword.
What followed was still a blur, but he knew that they'd crossed blades, that her footwork had been impeccable, that he'd not been afforded even an instant in which to contemplate forming a mudra, and that only by dint of his greater strength had he been able to fend off her greater skill. That, in the end, he had won out because of what he was, and what she was not.
He had listened to her breathing and to her heartbeat. He had heard her decide for the lunge before she could have registered that'd made the choice. He had parried, stepped in, and stabbed her, cut her open from her navel to her chest.
There had been nothing he could have done for Elias, no opportunity to recover his body. In truth, Hakan had barely managed to escape the building himself. He had left him there, and that would haunt him.
The blur continued. The restaurant billowing flames. Iona, badly wounded on the rooftop across the street, clutching at him, begging him to do something. There was nothing to be done. Hakan watched, horrified, as – surrounded by an entire platoon of city guards – Captain Bafram first berated a bloody, beaten Raif for his impetuousness in taking in the Viera, the self-same Viera who had slaughtered Bafram's entire gang and sent him groveling to Miriam Janeth for support, Miriam Janeth who had deputized Bafram on the spot on suspicion that Doman spies had been responsible for making the Viera disappear.
And then Captain Bafram lopped off Raif's head.
The blur continued. He wasn't sure how he'd managed it, doubling back across the city in secrecy and with Iona in tow. He could remember slamming his fist against the door and hissing, "Let us in!"
"Hakan?" grumbled a deep voice. "That you?"
"Yes, Sala, it's me. I… we need help."
"...side door's open. Quickly."
So they'd shuffled inside, themselves in shambles, and they'd had to wait out an argument between the Seeq brothers thanks to Vazz. The sandwich maker had concerns over harboring fugitives, but Iona's wounds decided the matter: neither brother could stand idly by and allow a pretty little thing like her to bleed to death. One of them had seen them to the attic, and the other had gone for a doctor who could be trusted.
It hadn't mattered. In spite of bandages, in spite of her self-control, in spite of medicines… she bled out before the doctor arrived. The blur, by some cruel trick of mercy, ended just before she did.
"We were… you were… so lucky. We don't always get… to choose. Me… Elias… you and… Soraya. Lucky. See her–"
'Again' might have been her last word, but it hadn't been.
That was what broke him.
He was still sobbing, cradling Iona in his arms, when Sala brought the doctor up.
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Last
“How,” she asked in a whisper, “did we cock that up?”
He managed to look quite cross as he eyed her. “Mokuton was a poor choice.”
She favored him with a glare that was twice as nasty. “They were going to see you!” she hissed. “You and Wagner both!”
Mister Wagner was an Ilsabardian, much as Mister Lidenbok had been. More significantly, the man was an Ilsabardian engineer of some renown. He had been offered considerable funding for his own projects in exchange for consulting on certain state matters which required his expertise. Word of this had gotten to Raif, no doubt courtesy a generous helping of liquor in the cups of a customer, and the eldest Kermani had dispatched his daughter and Hakan to snatch up the engineer for some questioning. Anything they might have learned from the man concerning Dalmascan plans for construction and fortification would have proven invaluable.
Might have; would have. Wagner was dead.
“You wanted his wits addled, I addled them!”
“By bashing him in the skull?” Incredulity mingled with scorn in Iona’s voice.
“Sleeper hold! What am I, an amateur?”
“By our standards,” she shot back.
“Your standards are slipping. Ninjutsu, where the other guard could see? Might as well step out into the open and announce ourselves at the top of our lungs!”
“I had to keep the dolt from wandering in on you! We discussed this before we went in, I had the ground floor, you had upstairs. How did you miss two guards?!”
He held up a finger; she bit down on her tongue. They both went quiet and strained to listen… not that it did her much good. By the time Iona heard anything, Hakan would’ve already gotten them both moving.
They sat on their haunches in a stable’s loft, just beneath the rafters. There was enough hay on the loft with them to obstruct anyone’s view from down below, but the constant noise from the penned animals down below, chocobos and horses both, made it difficult for them to hear anyone else. Not that they expected anyone; they had marked this stable as a safe house of sorts, a waypoint in the northern quarter to fall back on in the event of….
Well, a botched job. A right cock up.
The folk on the street passed the stable by; Hakan heard this, and turned back to Iona. “They weren’t there.”
“What do you mean, they weren’t there? You lost focus, you didn’t check all of the rooms, or you missed a hatch–”
“No, I mean they weren’t there! …there was no one upstairs, no one except Wagner. And no one came up, either.”
She rolled her eyes. “Impossible. That would take–”
“–magicks, yes.”
She stared at him again. “Still, you should’ve fought your way out. We could’ve done for those two–”
“–no–”
“–yes, we could’ve done for them and then gotten Wagner out–!”
“–I’m not killing anyone, Iona!”
They were both left in a huff, the rising heat having crept its way into their voices. It was a miracle that they’d managed to keep their voices low, hissing their frustrations at one another rather than yelling.
Hakan hadn’t come out the same door that he’d gone in… the only door on that side of the house, when it came to the second floor. When Iona’s technique had rooted the one guard in place, the fellow had hollered for his partner to check on Wagner even as he hacked at the new-grown roots which bound him in place. The partner in question had come running… and the Viera had consequently chosen a different point of egress.
It had been a source of rising tensions between himself and Iona. He had insisted upon it to Raif, as his condition for his ongoing involvement in clandestine operations: no killing. Raif, who had no particular need nor desire to expedite matters in such fashion, had agreed, but Iona had always been a fan of efficient solutions.
Hakan’s point of egress had been the window, to land on the awning below. This, he’d somehow managed with Wagner in tow… but the second guard had spotted them from above and let loose with a crossbow. The bolt hadn’t done any lasting damage.
Not to Hakan, anyroad. Oh, true enough, it had struck him in the leg, but they’d gotten it out afterward and bandaged it up. No arterial bleeding. That bolt had cost him his footing at the time, though, and the resulting uncontrolled fall from a full story up had cost the unconscious Wagner his life. The fellow’s neck had snapped upon impact with the ground. Iona had every right to be upset, but he knew what he knew.
Those two guards hadn’t been upstairs when he’d entered Wagner’s room. They hadn’t even been in the house.
“Stubborn,” she said, her tone spiteful, “arrogant–”
“Oh, name-calling,” he shot back, “is this what we’re doing now?”
“–idiotic, infuriating–”
“Insufferable, demanding–”
She grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him onto his back, even as she stepped over him. “Demanding, is that what I am? Insufferable? You were shot. I found you and Wagner in a tangle. I thought you were–!”
“What?” he barked. “Better than that? Competent? Sorry that I’m not perfect, apologies if I make mistakes!”
“Dead,” she finished, “you idiot.”
Then she leaned down and kissed him.
One thousand and one thoughts shot through his head over the course of the following few seconds. She was half his age or less. He was aimless in life. They were practically family. Raif would be furious. She wasn’t thinking straight. He hadn’t been touched like this for turns upon turns. Now was no good time for this. There was no good time for this. They had to be getting back to the restaurant. The search parties were likely still out on the streets.
One thought cut through the rest.
This could not last.
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Suit
The truth was somewhat more complicated than that, he was told.
“City life,” grumbled Hakan.
“City life,” agreed Raif.
In truth, Raif Kermani was a Nagxian… or half-Nagxian, as it were. He had been born to Satir Kermani, his father, and Shion Okeya, his mother. Satir had considered himself a lucky man, to have met with such a match, but he had not known – and never discovered – that Shion was a Domain shinobi, sworn to the service of her lord. Life in Nagxia was village life, not city life, and so – for great stretches of each sun – Satir was away from home, working to provide for his new family. Shion had been the one to raise Raif, and she had been the one to train him from a young age. She had taught him loyalty, secrecy, serenity, dedication, and all of the skills required for the initiation and induction into the ranks of Doma’s most covert agents.
Besides his mother, he had met and known only one other shinobi in all his years: their contact, who on infrequent occasions bore messages to and from Doma for them. Only after the passing of his father, when his mother was too old and weak to travel, had Raif been summoned to the Land of the One River, where he had met with the direct descendant of Lord Shoen. There, he had found his lord a most honorable and just man, and there he had renewed his oath and pledge to his lord.
Raif had been bidden to abide in Nagxia for a time, and to await any opportunity whereby he might move West into Dalmasca. The Nagxians posed no great threat to Doma, but Dalmasca was a rising power, strong and terrible; his lord feared that, without certain precautions in place, the insatiable appetite of Dalmascan conquest would look East. So Raif had gone home. Moons rose and fell, turns passed, before opportunity presented itself in the form of one Malta Gavvar.
Malta was one of those Dalmascans orphans fortunate enough to have drawn a patron’s attention. They had sought and found good service in her, from her; even as a child, she’d shown a proclivity for the preparation of food and drink in all their forms. Ever was she drawn to the kitchens, and so she’d been brought on board as a scullery maid, rather than adopted. In time, she had shown such promise that the kitchen maids had recommended a furtherance of her education. So it came to pass that she had been sent to the best cooks, chefs, bakers, and winemakers in Rabanastre. There had been no schools for such things in the city, but from each of them she had absorbed a great deal, until there was little to be left for her to learn at home.
Lately, her patron had acquired a taste for more exotic fare. Naturally, rather than deprive the household of the more experienced maids, Malta – who was very nearly a kitchen maid herself, by that time – had been sent East to Nagxia, to learn of that region’s dishes. Somehow, Shion caught wind of this girl long before her arrival, and so she prepared for Raif to make her acquaintance under the most favorable of circumstances.
Malta had been a beautiful woman, to be sure, but Raif had found that he was not attracted to this woman on a physical level. Her smile, however… her radiance, her general exuberance, was intoxicating. She stayed in his village for the better part of two moons; by the end of the first, she had met his mother and shared a meal with them on the regular. It had been his mother who had interceded with her on his behalf, had begged of Malta in those final days to permit Raif to accompany her back to Dalmasca. The village had little to offer him in the way of a future; Shion wanted the best for him, for him to travel and to see the wider world, to become a man of means in his own right.
She had taken Shion’s suit to her chaperones, who – not knowing better – agreed to assist the young man. One more on the road would not be a terrible inconvenience, and there was always safety in numbers. They would return the way they had come: through the jungles back to Valnain, and from there they would south along the coastline, around Greylic’s Bend, until they came to the river delta which would see them across the Westersand to Rabanastre.
He courted her on the road and on the sea. Slowly, as he’d been taught, and carefully, as he’d been bid.
Her homecoming was not as she’d expected. She had gone to the maids, who had in turn relayed her request to the household staff, who had in turn relayed her request to her patron. It turned out that her patron was a jealous sort; that she sought assistance for this young man to make his start here, in the city, prompted all sorts of heinous thoughts and foul accusations. There was a scandal, and Malta – despite all her good service – was thrown out.
She was distressed; he was supportive. She didn’t know what to do; he had no contacts in the city who could help. Hers was a distraught state, turbulent and emotional; his was a steady presence, calm in a storm. Once she had her bearings again, they spoke for a time and they came up with a plan. They went around, together, to see the many cooks and chefs and bakers and winemakers she had apprenticed under. They started a collection, which grew in time. With that collection, they went around, found, and bought their own building.
“The restaurant,” Hakan said.
“The restaurant,” Raif said.
It was a struggle, at first, making their own way. But she knew what they needed, she had the skills, and he was both a willing student in the kitchen and a charming face out on the streets. In short order, they stocked the pantries and cupboards, they gathered pots and pans and spatulas and ladles and plates and cups, they distributed pamphlets and rumors, so on and so forth.
The opening was a success, and their success was a relief. The celebration afterwards… well, no one could have blamed them. A young woman and a young man, together alone, making their way in the world.
They were married not long thereafter, and the restaurant became their home, the city their world. They did well together, but Shion’s teachings were deeply rooted: Raif met regularly with his contact, though he had little of worth to report for a long time. Still, he was in place, as had been the plan: an agent of Doma in the city of Rabanastre, capital of Dalmasca. It was not until some turns later that his world turned upside down.
He walked into the kitchen one morning to find her there.
She told him that she was pregnant.
This changed things. He was struck dumb by the news, and by the dawning comprehension that he would be expected to raise the child as he’d been raised. Something in him broke… rather, it was more accurate to say that, after all the scheming in which he’d had no say, he picked up a metaphorical hammer and broke it himself. Enough was enough.
Enough was enough, he realized, because – at some point along the way – he had fallen in love with his wife.
She’d been concerned at his lack of response, but he assured her that was overjoyed at the news. This brought out a bright smile in her, though he dashed it with his next few words. He had a confession to make, something he ought to have confided in her long ago, and nothing he could say now, he knew, would ever make that right.
He told her.
She didn’t speak to him, didn’t deign to remain in the same room as him, for three suns.
She forgave him, after a fashion, but she made him pledge to her that never, ever would he treat their child the way Shion had treated him: as a tool, rather as a person.
He swore. He swore, and within a moon he had informed his contact that he would no longer be able to serve his lord. His honor would not permit it, for he’d be staining his lord’s honor in turn by abusing the trust of such a woman… a woman who had been a girl, and had deserved no such ill fortune. The contact had not been pleased to her this, had reminded him that shinobi dispensed with honor to serve Doma, but Raif had held his ground. He was then told that his message would be relayed.
Life went on. There was a celebration held in their community at the news. Iona and Elias were born many moons later, unexpected twins, with the girl preceding the boy by mere minutes.
“Then she grew sick, you said. Something about the birth?” Hakan asked.
“Yes,” Raif said, not looking at him. “She grew weak. Fell ill more often. I suspected my lord’s hand in it, at first. I sought an explanation. I was convinced there was foul play at work. I drew her blood, examined, ran all the tests I knew for any substance I was familiar with. Nothing.”
“Misfortune,” Hakan said.
“Misfortune,” Raif said. “You know the rest. We had a few happy years together: Malta, Iona, Elias, and I. But sickness took her in the end. I was left with the children, a desperate need to protect them, and no one to turn to. Oh, the community promised to remember us, to drop in, to assist a single father, out of their love for Malta, for her memory’s sake… but time lays waste to lies, and Rabanastre is a dangerous place. I took up their education, though I have ever kept my promise to her. They are not tools.”
Off to one side, Iona and Elias both raised their chins with pride… as if daring Hakan to disagree.
“You reached back out,” Hakan guessed.
“...I did. My lord understood. And he could provide what no one else would: stability, protection, and somewhere we could call home, if our home was ever taken from us.”
“In exchange for your renewed loyalty.”
Raif shot him a look. “You have seen much since you came to the city, Hakan, but you have not seen everything. You have not seen the soldiers at Nalbina. You have not seen what goes on in the palace. You have not heard what I have heard.”
“You fear Dalmasca will turn against Doma.”
“And Nagxia, too. My village, the people there… and yes, my lord’s people as well.”
“It was you. The assassin who struck at the dignitary. You, on the rooftop with Iona.”
“I was spotting for Baba and Elias,” Iona said. “We were out of harm’s way. I… I didn’t expect you to–”
“To attack me,” Raif finished. “We had thought that you had fled. But you drew on me, for Iona’s sake, and that is when we knew you could be trusted.”
“Hakan,” Elias said, “we could use your help.”
“Politics are not for me,” the Viera snapped, heat rising in his voice alongside his anger. “I will not kill for you.”
“We are not asking you to,” Raif said. “The business with the Bozjan was… unfortunate. A desperate measure. But they will send another, and their security measures have improved, and my lord must know what will be said behind the palace walls. If we are to maintain the peace and forestall war… conquest… then my lord must know the worth of Bozja’s offers, so that a counteroffer can be proposed.”
“My ears,” Hakan grumbled.
“Your ears,” Raif agreed.
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Noisome
Hakan took a bath first.
It was a matter of some embarrassment when it was brought up. He hadn't realized that the cramped confines made matters worse; he had spent most of his life out and about, not in a confined space, and rivers, tributaries, and other such things were always near at hand around Camoa. High plateau, yes, but that caught rain well enough, fed the rolling grasslands, and Tulque Grove never lacked what it needed.
But the city was not Camoa. There was little in the way of running water to be had. The wells and fountains were meant for drinking. The public baths may have served their purpose, but Hakan had distinct markings – this was how he learned that Dalmasca had its own population of Viera, however small; Elias was shocked to learn it, too – which would not go unnoticed. Nor could they cover those markings with powder, for that was sure to come off given enough steam, let alone bathwater.
Rather than fret over how to sneak him into and out of a piblic bath, they brought a bath to him. One of Raif's neighbors, old Eustine, she owned a wooden tub. Father and son went over to borrow and fetch it while Iona walked Hakan through a number of soaps and fragrances that the family had on hand. There followed soon after something of a minor comedy, as the two men struggled to get the tub down the stairs to the cellar while the twins snacked on sweets and watched.
Elias helped him with his hair while he washed. This arrangement permitted them to resume their conversation, which delighted the boy. The girl sat at the bottom of the stairs on the far side of the archway and she listened. Raif had returned upstairs to prepare for the following day, but he had reassured Hakan that the twins would surely regale their father – repeatedly – with all the details of the Viera's story.
So he sat there in a borrowed tub in a cellar in a city which he knew very little about, and he scrubbed himself clean so that he would not be so noisome, and the boy helped, and he told the boy his story. It wasn't a long one. It wasn't even a very good one.
It was simply the only one he had left to tell.
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Envoy
"Esteemed personages…? No, no, too much and too soon. Dearest representatives…! But they are not necessarily elected or appointed. Is 'friends' too presumptuous…? Gaaaaaah!"
The Rava Viera crossed his arms over the still-as-yet blank parchment and proceeded to slam his forehead into said arms repeatedly. His long black-tipped ears flopped and the dull smacks of flesh upon flesh drew the attention of his guest.
The aged Arkasodara in the kitchen looked up from the kettle and smiled. "Hakan, why are you struggling so? This is not like you. We have known each other for a very long time, and I have never seen you so… so… so rattled."
Those words brought an end to the self-inflicted abuse, at least. Hakan Camoa raised his head a few ilms; he pulled one arm back to draw long locks of white hair off to the side and out of his face. His skin tone was dark; the ancient golden tattoo shone on his face where light fell upon it, and his sky blue eyes gleamed as he squinted at the other man. His ears drooped as he snorted.
"It is not every day, Murtaza, that I am asked by both my Houses to attend to a task.. much less such a task! Envoys from every corner of the star, and they are coming here! They are coming here, and I volunteered my services, true, but I did not expect to be asked to… to…!"
"To play the host?" prompted the old alchemist as the kettle began to whistle. Murtaza at first glance looked typical for his people; but another moment's consideration was enough to mark him as unusual. His skin was extraordinarily weathered, for one thing. He was in the habit of wearing, as he did now, an embroidered kurta. He also wore a pair of custom-fashioned spectacles which rectified his failing eyesight; Murtaza was an old Matanga.
Old, and yet not so old as Hakan Camoa.
"To play the host!" cried Murtaza's host as the Viera sat back and threw up his arms. The dry quill was flung from one hand onto the table to clatter there until it came to rest. Hakan, disgruntled, tugged the hem of his vest down to adjust for comfort. He eyed the parchment. "It is a great responsibility."
"Hmmm. Yes, very great."
"And stressful. I wish to do well."
"Yes, very stressful."
One black-tipped ear twitched; the other rose and swiveled in Murtaza's attention a scant second before Hakan looked up. A rueful smile crept its way onto his face. "Out with it, please."
The Arkasodara did not look up from pouring tea. He simply said, "Hakan, your services would not have been accepted if the Houses did not have the utmost confidence in you. You are excellent at everything you set your mind to. Why, just the other evening, Parisa was singing your praises over the fertilizer lawsuit. So, Mister Excellent: be yourself. That is what everyone expects, no?"
The man at the table frowned, even as both of his ears rose to their full extension. He glanced back down at the parchment. "...'friends' is okay, then?"
Murtaza nodded as he carried two cups and saucers over to the table. "Congratulations," he said after setting down their drinks and taking a seat, "two hundred years later, you have finally embraced Hannish hospitality."
Hakan kicked him under the table. Murtaza laughed.
#ffxivwrite#ffxivwrite2023#hakan camoa#it's finally his turn in the limelight#osric's backstory is so fleshed out now#time for someone else to shine#and tengri geneq is not the sort of oc that works for prompts like these
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Contravention
"Why are you here?"
He hadn't gotten further than perhaps a hundred fulms past the tree line before he was confronted. This was a good thing; it meant that standards had not fallen and skills were still sharp. As expected, as ever, from the wardens of Tulque Grove.
Hakan stood there and he smiled. He couldn't help that his regrets, buried for so long, surfaced long enough to twist that expression into a rueful one. He stood opposite his number in all regards: Turan Rewh-Marouc, he of the Spring. Turan kept his hair short where Hakan grew it out long, favored the spear where Hakan had favored the bow, had proven himself useful when Hakan had proven himself useless. Many things had changed after the coming of the Great Boar, whose life Hakan had taken; in so doing, he had risen to Djt-Dvre, he of the Thunderstrike. One thing had not: Turan and Hakan had remained rivals. Friendly rivals, but rivals nevertheless.
"You know why I am here, Spring. I want to see her. There were many things left unsaid."
Turan frowned. "You know the Green Word."
"I do."
"You should not have come."
"I know."
"...wait here. Rewh-Dvre has drawn on you, and Djt-Setlas waits to break your neck should you advance farther."
Hakan suppressed a shudder. The strength of Djt-Setlas was legendary, and Rewh-Dvre had been his mentor and partner – though it had been Rewh-Gilda who had fetched him from the village all those turns ago. It often fell to the elder of an elemental pair to train their new comrade.
Turns… he was one hundred and twelve, give or take a few. A full sixty turns he had dwelt in Thavnair, in Radz-at-Han, venturing forth on occasion on official business. The latest such journey had brought him back to Camoa – the town, not the village – and he had sworn to himself that he would try.
He would do what he could to honor Iona's last request, her dying wish for him.
So he waited as Turan left him there, waited while he took word back to the village. The wait was long, but he had brought his pack and broke bread there beneath the boughs. How he must have looked to his former comrades! A true city Viera! A disgrace!
It mattered not.
Soraya came to him.
She looked no different than she had when they'd last parted. Timeless: the dark curls of her hair, with the occasional streak of white here and there; the sweet curve of her face, the hint of a wry grin ever lurking and awaiting any excuse to emerge; the fullness of her, enticing and the talk of all the men; the gleam of her eyes which spoke to intelligence deep and wisdom profound. He was, as ever, stunned into silence for a good long moment upon catching first sight of her.
They spoke for a long time. They left Turan behind, walked the perimeter. Hakan knew that they were being watched, but he also knew that she would be afforded privacy as was her right. She wanted to know if he was alright, where he had been, why he was back. He regaled her with the tale in parts, doling out pieces here and there. He asked after her well-being; she was fine, as ever, and her studies as an apprentice had culminated in her appointment as village herbalist. She wanted to know what he had learned, what he had seen. He shared everything with her, impressed upon her that outsiders were not all so terrible, that – like the Rava of Camoa – they came in many kinds, many of them good and trustworthy. He told her of their vast stores of knowledge, of their arts and crafts and techniques, of the medicine they had developed. He bid her to invite learned men and women to the Grove, so that the village might benefit. She heard him, but commented not on the matter.
They spoke at length. They walked the woods. They enjoyed each other's company, and – when night fell, and the wardens withdrew a ways – they made love, such as they had not in turns upon turns.
She told him that there had been no one else.
He confessed weakness where she had strength.
She accepted him anyway, and he swore to her that never again would there be another.
When dawn came and birdsong woke him, Hakan bid her farewell and he left.
He left and never again returned to Camoa.
He left not knowing that he had kindled in her the desire to turn the medicine of the outside world to the village's benefit, not knowing that this new course of hers would turn the village against her in the fullness of time, not knowing the many repercussions this would have.
He left not knowing that he had gotten her with child, nor that she was full glad to have something of him for her to cherish forever after.
He left. She thrived.
Some hundred turns later, Thekla Camoa followed in her father's footsteps when she left Tulque Grove behind her.
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Call It a Day
He sat on the edge of an aqueduct, legs hanging out, and he took another bite of his lamb-and-cacti wrap.
The suns after their little palatial adventure had been rife with indecision on his part. The Kermanis were friends, almost family, to him, but he could not in good conscience condone their… extracurricular… activities. That said, he had nowhere else to go. He'd been made when Miriam had recognized him; the city guard had been rather thorough afterwards. Raif had gotten word out by discreet channels, using go-betweens to conceal his involvement, and so both Deiter and Eustine had been afforded an opportunity: they'd fled the city. Hakan couldn't help but feel guilty about this. The Kermanis themselves were spared anything more than a routine inspection; no suspicion fell upon them. Still, Hakan had come to call Rabanastre home, a place no like other he'd known since leaving Camoa… and, besides that fact, there was simply nowhere else which came to mind. There was nowhere he needed to be, nowhere he wanted to be.
So he had lingered. Suns had turned into sennights which had turned into moons. Moons had become turns.
It hadn't been so bad. Raif had continued to house him in the Waterways and his training had continued, albeit not at so accelerated a pace as before. After a few short moons, they concluded that it was perhaps safe for him to walk the streets again, so long as he went about in disguise. This was something of a bother, as it meant dying his hair a deep brown, covering his tribal tattoos with makeup, and mastering a small bit of magick which shifted the hue of his icy blue eyes. Those eyes, they supposed, were how Miriam had identified him back at palace. So he changed his appearance, wore clothes that were not to his liking or preference, adopted a different gait, and deigned to stick his head above ground to wander the city.
No one recognized him. He did not make contact with anyone he knew; he avoided all of his previous acquaintances. Considering that he'd spent a significant amount of time East and West, as well as frequent visits North, to do so meant spending most of his time in the southern quarter of the city. This proved no great hardship, but it was strange to be back after so long, to peacefully walk the streets where he'd been hunted on his first sun in Rabanastre. Still, there were markets enough, shops enough, people enough, and sky enough. He breathed in fresh air, basked in the sun, and relished every moment he could.
Today, he had gone topside long enough to purchase himself a decent meal. He was just swallowing the last of it down when the boy walked up and sat down alongside him. 'Boy,' he thought on reflex, but in truth Elias has grown into a man, no longer so young that Hakan could rightfully liken him to a child. He was taller, ganglier; he had cropped his hair short and grown a short beard.
"How fares the South?"
The South was Hakan's responsibility. The West went to Elias, and Iona managed the North. The East was Raif's; he was getting older, lack of sleep wore on him more, and any prolonged absence from the restaurant drew unwelcome remarks about him.
"Not much to report," he said by way of an answer. "Skimble's still bribing the city guard to look the other way. Yolando bought up that empty shop on Low Valnard. Colette hasn't made her move yet."
"Not yet? You'd think taking money from the Hingans would have lit a fire under her."
"She's being cautious. One wrong move and all the gangs will know she's been bought by foreigners. No, she needs them dependent on the funding first."
"True enough."
"How fares the West?"
"I'm calling it a day. Pity you grabbed lunch." He lifted something on his far side from Hakan, raised it into view; it was a paper bag. "Fresh from VoSa."
"...give it here."
"Not until you confess. When'd it start?"
The Viera sighed. "So you know."
Elias pursed his lips, looked away, and nodded. "I know. So? When?"
"After we botched the Wagner extraction."
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Hamper
Life returned to normal, more or less, for a time.
The most significant difference of the following moons from those which had preceded the assassination – successful, claimed the reports, sorry to say – were his regular luncheons with Miriam at Hamadan's. This was more of an expense than his usual fare, so he forewent his occasional forays to VoSa's in order to save up the necessary coin each sennight. The meals were worth it, not so much for the food (which was inferior to what the Seeq brothers had on offer, to his way of thinking) as for her company. If flatbread and jam had to carry him through breakfast and lunch on most suns, so be it.
They learned a great deal about one another. She was a domestic servant; he was a shop clerk. She had lived in Rabanastre all her life; he had crossed the woods, plains, and desert from Camoa. She preferred second servings to snacks; he had a sweet tooth, and could not be dissuaded from partaking. She had no surviving family, only fond memories; he had sisters back home, but they had never been close.
He did not mention the Kermanis to her. It seemed odd, not to, but he could never quite bring them up.
He visited them once a sennight, same as before. He and Deiter shared dinner together, same as before. Customers were scarce and priceless, same as before. There was no great change, no surprise upheaval, and he grew convinced that he was past the worst of it.
No sooner had he thought this than he was accosted, at length, the following sun by Bangaa with a foul air about them and even fouler temperament.
He did not suspect trouble, not at first. They didn't look like customers, but looks were deceiving. Why, just the other sun they'd had a floating ball of fluff fly in on bat wings to make a purchase; Deiter had called it a Moogle. If a Moogle could appreciate a book, why not these three? No matter that their leather harnesses, their gauntlets and heavy boots, their sword-belts, and their glib manner with one another spoke to martial prowess and a ruffian's outlook. Knowledge was power, and these men looked in search of power.
Of course, he thought later as he was lifted bodily off his feet and slammed down against the countertop, I could be wrong.
There were three of them: a yellowback, a greenhide, and a redscale. Mister Yellow seemed to be their leader, as he'd been the only one to not comment on the shop as the trio had wandered in off the street. The other two had exchanged insults at rapid fire pace.
"Looks quaint," said the greenhide
"Where are the chairs?" said the redscale.
"What for? You gonna read?"
That had gotten deepthroated chuckles out of them both.
"What if I'm wanting to rest my feet?'
"Can't do it here. This look like the Great Library to you?"
"No, why?"
"Cuz they want you to buy books, not read them. The reading ain't free. Buy them, take them home, get to rest your feet there."
"...smart."
"Aye. Unlike you."
Deepthroated laughter, that time, which actually elicited a response from the yellowback who was, at that point, most of the way to the counter. "Jang, Darios, shaddap! We're here to work!"
"Aye, Bafram."
"Aye, captain."
Captain Bafram reached the counter and turned to face Hakan. The Bangaa's face was an older one, more weathered and patterned with rough scars. "You the clerk?"
"Yes," Hakan answered, some of his hairs already standing on end. It was his work shift, and so his khukuri was upstairs, in the harness under his bed.
"Lidenbok home?"
Several moons' worth of customer service experience saw the answer falling out of his mouth on pure reflex, before his instincts could inform his thoughts that honesty was a Very Bad Idea. "No, but he'll be back later this afternoon."
One of Bafram's arms shot out, and one of his clawed hands seized Hakan by the shirt and wrenched him forward. The Viera slammed into the counter, the edge of the countertop bruising his waist, even as the yellowback's other hand slammed down over his shoulder and tightened like a vice. The Bangaa's maw opened wide in a grin, exposing the ridges of teeth and the lolling tongue within.
"Good," Bafram said.
The pain that shot through him when his back impacted the countertop was so great that Hakan blacked out for a moment. Coming to was difficult, he found, because he couldn't breathe: the yellowback had gotten his own left arm across the Viera's throat and was leaning on it to restrict Hakan's windpipe. The Rava Viera began to struggle at once: both hands on that offending arm to buy himself space to breathe, both legs kicking to try and find purchase, to wound, to accomplish something.
Someone had told Bafram what to expect, or else he had enough experience with Dalmascan Viera to know for himself. He stood alongside Hakan, well clear of those dangerous legs and feet, and the captain's knotted muscles which were half heritage and half training kept his captive pinned in place by the arm and by the hand which still clutched Hakan's shirt. He was asking questions, which Hakan could barely make out over the struggle.
"Where are they, you little sneak? Your accomplices, your fellow spies. Where are they?! Who sent you?!"
This made little sense to Hakan; he was too busy reaching down with one hand – he kept the other in place on that arm, he had never quite appreciated Bangaa musculature before, this strength was terrifying – behind the counter to scrabble for something, anything! He could hear the others chortling in amusement over his predicament… but then his hand found something.
The inkwell.
He aimed his swing, he timed his swing, he struck. The weight and force caught the yellowback in the right eye, and ink splattered his face; Bafram cried out, staggered back, clutched at his injury with one hand as his arm came off Hakan's neck.
Hakan wasted no time: he rolled, dropped off the counter to land in front of it on his hands and feet next to Bafram. He shot back upright, legs already in motion, to sprint for the stairs.
"Ha haaaaa!" cried the redscale as it rounded the corner out of the blindspot of a bookcase.
Darios had interposed himself between Hakan and the stairs, true, but the Viera was more nimble and more reckless than the Bangaa had expected. Hakan turned and leapt up onto and against the bookcase; the impact of his weight sent it toppling over, and he rode it to the ground accompanied by a cacophony of bound parchment. Jang, the greenhide, had been at Bafram's side earlier, but he rounded the alley between bookcases from the other end of the shop and ran Hakan with his scimitar drawn. He got a book thrown in his face for his trouble, and promptly tripped on another volume.
Hakan ran up the stairs.
"AFTER HIM!" hollered an enraged Bafram. "HAMSTRING HIM IF YOU'VE GOTTA, BUT DRAG HIM BY THE EARS TO HEADQUARTERS!"
Darios and Jang were hot on his heels, but Hakan knew the apartment and they didn't. He rushed into his room, stooped long enough to fetch his harness, and rushed back to the door, drawing his large knife and tossing the harness towards the back of the room as he did so. The sound of it impacting the far wall drew them, as he knew it would; from his position behind the door, he swung said door shut as hard as he could with impeccable timing. It crashed into Darios, must have struck him in the head because he reeled away and almost collapsed into the corner.
Hakan stepped back at once because Jang came through next. The greenhide slashed at the Viera as he came forward, but Hakan knew the counter. Poachers came into Tulque Grove often enough, and their spears were little different. It didn't matter that Jang was a decent swordsman; he didn't know about the khukuri, didn't see its recurve in time, didn't anticipate how his sword would slide along its inner edge, all but caught. Hakan thrust the scimitar aside, stepped in and past the Bangaa, and as he did so, he swept his knife-arm in a long slash which eviscerated Jang.
The greenhide dropped to his knees, gaze distant.
A furious roar preceded the charge of Darios, but not by enough for Hakan to sidestep the redscale's tackle; the brute carried the Viera into the wall of the room, and the impact made Hakan lose his grip on his khukuri. With his foe thus disarmed and his friend dying, Darios did not bother drawing his own sword. Instead, he carried Hakan across the room and, with another roar, slammed him down into the bed. The frame broke, the pain was unbearable, and soon enough the Bangaa's weight was upon him.
Darios was straddling him, strangling him with both hands clenched tight on Hakan's neck. Clawed thumbs groped for the Viera's eyeballs; Hakan, terrified of being blinded forever, arched his head back in defiance, but while this saved his eyes it exposed his neck further. He couldn't breathe, his arms were pinned by the redscale's legs, everything was going black again, slowly, slowly down into the black–
His ears registered the alien sound, and his eyes registered the red beam which suddenly flashed before his eyes, a thick red string which was drawn impossibly taut and intersected the Bangaa's head. Blood splurted out one side, the side farthest from the room's door. The brute's eyes lost focus, the hands let up, and Darios slumped over, fell off Hakan, collapsed onto the shattered bed frame.
Hakan drew in a deep breath as he scrambled backwards; he coughed repeatedly, his back hit the wall, and he looked around.
Deiter stood in the doorframe, strange weapon in one hand. This, he held leveled in the direction of the redscale. The dead redscale.
"Well, then," he said in his usual chipper tone, as though the scene before him was merely an argument over breakfast, "at least now I know the design works."
"Wh–...what?" said Hakan.
"We'll need a large trunk," said Deiter Lidenbok. "Or, if one's not available, a hamper. Not for them. For you."
"...what?!"
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Jerk
"Are you going to tell me about her?"
They were at the bazaar again, with Hakan serving as Iona's chaperone. This was a particularly opportune time for it: a foreign dignitary was expected that very evening, there was a parade planned for his arrival, and so every merchant at the bazaar was planning on closing out their stalls within the next few bells. Consequently, there was significantly less haggling to be done… say rather, the merchants were content to sell something, anything, for more marginal profits than usual, which meant that one could get away with quite a few discounts if one was clever.
Iona was clever and she had a silver tongue to wield.
He had spent the afternoon as he usually did: following her around, carrying her things, and regaling her with the latest in what he was learning at Lidenbok Books. His grasp over the written language has improved by such leaps and bounds over the past few moons that Deiter had taken to encouraging him to peruse the shop's texts whenever there were no customers present. Hakan had gravitated towards World History, Geography, and, surprisingly, Law. He found himself possessed of a fascination with nation-states as discrete entities in and of themselves.
"Did you know," he asked the girl on one occasion, "that Garamscythe Waterway has its source in the Skatay Range, and that it services even Nalbina Fortress? Truly, Bangaa masons are masters of their craft. What a long and arduous project that must have been, but it is now the very lifeline of this city, and buried so deep that it is not vulnerable to foreign interference!"
He had learned much of Dalmasca, of the Light of Kiltia, and of the Royal Line of B'nargin, but his reading encompassed so much more. He knew of many villages in Nagxia, such as Dagluk and Bunlai; he knew that Bozja had been saved from a great calamity at the expense of Queen, which left that nation-state in the hands of an engorged nobility; he knew of Doma, a great power to the East, and its neighbors the Xaela who honed their warriors upon their Steppe; he knew that Hingashi lay beyond their shores, a jewel upon the ocean rivaled only by the rising power that was Thavnair in the West. He was enchanted by all such places, and by the differences in how their governments treated their own people: Dalmasca with equity, Nagxia with hospitality, Doma with honor, Hingashi with civility, the Steppe clans with brutal honesty, Bozja with temerity.
Iona would oblige him by listening at length to his ranting; there was ever a smile upon her lips, though at times this seemed more sardonic than genuinely mirthful. "Tell me more," she would say, or "Why is that?" With her permission in hand, he would launch himself down another avenue, falling silent only when they had pleasantries to exchange with friends or business to conduct with shopkeepers. Yet always, in the end, she would chide him with, "That's interesting, Hakan, but you really should brush up on your other subjects."
So it came to pass that – while Deiter built in him a strong foundation, Raif taught him to cook, and Elias showed him the streets – it was Iona who set the course of Hakan's extracurricular studies.
He obliged her with zeal, if only because the twins' smiles brought him the greatest joy. He set aside timelines and court cases for a time each sun to turn his mind's eye towards practical applications of mathematics, towards music's many forms and instruments, towards the aetherological field, and even towards that ghastly realm of "fiction," which he had come to understand as utter falsehood rather than the somewhat-historically grounded mythologies and legendariums. He learned something new each day, and he took pride in that. So too did Mister Lidenbok and the Kermanis.
On this day, however, he found their usual routine abruptly interrupted – while he'd paused to catch his breath – by the question, "Are you going to tell me about her?"
He turned to look at her. Iona did not meet his gaze at once; she was rocking back and forth on her feet, watching innocently as Nabkov the Bangaa, their usual supplier for cutlery, shuffled to and fro behind his counter to fill Raif's latest order. This, Hakan was sure, was an affectation: Iona was far more mature than most children her age and usually comported herself that way. Her delayed glance, the raised eyebrow, and the way she uttered, "What?" were some sort of deliberately calculated ruse.
He adjusted how the strap of their satchel sat across his shoulder, crossed his arms, and leaned a few ilms away from Iona as he eyed her and asked, "Tell you about whom?"
"The woman you slept with, before you left your village," she said, before turning back towards the counter. "Oh, thank you, Nabkov, Baba will be delighted."
"His walnut stew is to die for," the Bangaa said, passing over the bundle, as Hakan struggled to find his voice while fighting off a fit of indignant outrage in the background. "This is the least I can do. Help keep him in business, so he can keep me coming back, eh? Ahahaha."
"I'll make sure he remembers to save you the usual table," she said with a brilliant smile. She slipped the bundle into their satchel and walked off. "Come on, Hakan, I want to reach the square before dark, find a good place to watch. I bet the foreigner's handsome."
He caught up to her in short order, pausing only to securely fasten the satchel's top flap. Falling back into step alongside her, his ears pressed back against his head, he scowled and said, "I will not."
Her smile had twisted into a mischievous rictus. Women are trouble, he thought.
"Why not? Elias has been dying to ask, Baba's too polite to press the matter but he's just as curious, and I need to know these things. How am I supposed to find you a lovely Viera lady if I don't know what you prefer? I don't need to know all the details, of course, you can leave out all the rutting, I know all about that."
He swatted her shoulder, and she let loose a peal of laughter which some might have mistaken for devious.
"I am not telling you about Soraya because it is personal," he said. This was a concept he was now thankful to have learned was common here in Rabanastre; back in the village and on the perimeter, nothing had been private.
"Oh? So her name's Soraya."
He ran a hand up into his hair and over one of his ears, frustrated with himself for the slip. Iona was nothing if not exasperating, especially when she was in the mood to rattle his cage, so to speak.
They reached the palace square in good time, bickering the whole way, only to find that the streets were packed save where the city guard had secured a wide lane for the dignitary's procession. Rather than force themselves into the crowd to stand elbow to elbow, where Hakan would surely need to boost Iona onto his shoulders to afford her a view, they decided to scale a stack of crates and an awning or two to reach a rooftop. There, they sat on the edge of a parapet, legs dangling over. Hakan set the satchel down, and Iona drew from it her sewing kit. She was in the habit of sewing when idle, and he knew that she meant to pass the time until the procession's arrival by working on a little tea coaster she'd started the week before.
"Listen," she was saying, "we worry about you. We’re happy that you’re happy, we are, it’s just… when Elias found you, and how hurt you were, and how little you knew… if… if you wanted to go back, or if there’s anything we can do to… I don’t know… help, then–"
He’d opened his mouth to respond to her, to tell her that there was no helping him, that the Green Word was law, that he had forever stained himself by breaking custom and violating tradition, when he was distracted by a very familiar voice, down below, muttering, “Pardon me.”
Startled, his ears swiveled at once to listen for more, and he leaned forward to scan the crowd which had gathered on the edge of the square. It was difficult, spotting anyone in that crowd which was a tangled mess of various hues of brown, red, green, and blue, but he heard something else: her voice again. He looked, and there he saw someone pushing her way through, someone whose dark curls peeked out from beneath her scarf–
"Hakan? Hakan, what’s the matter?"
"Stay here," he told Iona as he boosted himself up with his hands and pulled his feet under him. He stood up, flashed the girl a reassuring smile – she looked extremely confused – and then ran for the awnings, for the stack of crates which would see him safely back onto the street and into the square.
He ran to find Miriam Janeth, whom he had not seen in moons but had somehow come to occupy his waking dreams. He couldn’t have told you why he went, couldn’t have explained why his subconscious had latched onto her so, not back then. Later, he suspected that some part of him recognized the truth, saw the danger, but misinterpreted it as a second chance, a second Soraya.
Still: he, a grown man, left a young child alone in the city. On a rooftop, true, where she was mostly safe from harm, but that was little excuse for his callousness, his selfishness, and his negligence.
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She beamed at him as she reached up to pull back her head scarf. Hair cascaded out from hiding, long tangles of dark curls framing her face. The scarf, she settled about her neck; as she did so, he noticed that most of her hair had been drawn back and tied up in a bundle or knot. That was about all that he had time to notice; she looked around, as if to confirm that there was in truth no one else present, and spoke again.
"Good health to you, Hakan. Please excuse me, I'm looking for a certain book and I shouldn't be long. You'll be at the counter?"
He had to fight off a stammer, hold his tongue until he could compose himself. He said, "If you need any help, please call for me," and then, a moment later after realizing that he had not given her a proper answer, he said, "I will be at the counter, yes."
The Viera shambled away, but not before her smile had dimmed at the suggestion that she might require assistance. It was as if a thin cloth had been drawn across the sun. It was this image that struck him and imbalanced him most. He kept an ear trained on her as he returned to the counter and slipped through the gate there. Why was he so awkward around her all of a sudden?
He supposed it was her curls.
Hakan seized that serpentine line of thought with both hands and strangled it before it led him somewhere he did not wish to go, to things he did not wish to see again.
She was between the World History and Geography shelves. Opposite those were Crafts and Cooking. He could hear her picking up texts, paging through them, closing them back up again, and replacing them. He caught himself fidgeting, playing with a long slip of material which Deiter had called a "bookmark," and forced himself to stop. He eyed the front door; no one was there, no one else was coming in.
She was fully a bell into her search – with sundown near at hand, which was when he'd been instructed to close and lock the door – when at last she came up to the counter, two volumes clutched to her chest. These, she set down upon the countertop. He busied himself with arranging them side by side so that he did not have to look at her.
"I'm sorry to say that I haven't the coin for both of these," she was saying. "Do you think Mister Lidenbok would be alright if I wrote him a–?"
"No coin today," Hakan said, cutting her off. "I am to take a note, which you will sign, and you can pay the balance upon your following visit."
He had already flipped open the front covers and drawn out, by the tassels, two slips upon which were written two sets of numerals. These matched the small handwriting – Mister Lidenbok's, surely – on the inside of the covers, in the bottommost corners. He shut the books closed, drew these slips off to one side, and fetched a fresh sheet of parchment, a quill, an inkwell, and a blotter as he'd been bid.
"Just mimic the shapes," he'd been told. "So long as all of the numbers match, and they are each in their respective positions and in their proper order, that will suffice."
This he did, writing as slowly and delicately as he had while practicing the day before. Two sets of two: four strings of numerals. One string was an identifier of some sort, and the other was the worth of the book in coin. He had not bothered to glance at the titles – "Mandated by Heaven: An Overview of Doma and Her People," Deiter told him later that evening, "and Eastern Cuisine: From Nagxia to Hingashi. Curious. Perhaps her employer means to entertain guests." – because he could not have read them. He simply copied out the numerals, then turned the parchment around and offered her the quill.
"Your signature, please."
He could not help but look at her then. Her lips were pursed, and those violet eyes of hers flitted back and forth between the parchment, and the proffered quill. She glanced up at him, smiled, and took the quill. She bent down, dipped the implement into the inkwell, and then scrawled out her signature across the bottom half of the parchment.
Hakan, meanwhile, stacked her books one on top of the other again. She finished, setting aside the quill and blotting the ink. He pushed the books over towards her as she pushed the parchment over towards him. He picked it up, blew lightly upon it, and stared for a moment at her signature. It was a beautiful one, and resembled the calligraphic sign hanging above Raif's door a great deal.
She must have mistook his regard for something other than what it was, because she smiled again as she picked up her books and said, "Miriam Janeth. Please thank Mister Lidenbok for me."
He nodded. She turned, walked out of the shop, and walked out of his life… until she walked back into it a few moons later.
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