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I need to talk to you.
Taam-kas, in the dark, one chilly Kingsway evening. Haunted, grasping for straws, aching. Reth lit a candle, sat him down on his bed. Took one of his hands, let his fingers trail over the scars. Listened.
The candlelight painted shadows on his brow that made him look older than his thirty or so years. The breaks in his voice had him sounding older, too, so tired and hurt. He was hurting, and he had come to Reth for advice and help, as he should. And he bared his heart to him, all that conflict. All that struggle.
There is nothing to struggle against. Victory is in the Qun. They’re the most reassuring words Reth knows. Don’t worry, because the Qun is safety. Don’t question, because the Qun is answer. Don’t stray, because the Qun is the way. It’s kept him safe and warm and fed and happy for the last thirty or so years, and so many others too. But it’s hard to shake the look of pain that was in Taam-kas’ expression when Reth reminded him there was nothing to struggle against, because he was so clearly struggling.
The re-educators, they messed me up, Reth, they couldn’t have me feeling so soft and sorry for the dangerous ones, so they made them scary. They scare the shit out of me, Reth, it’s been more than ten years and I’m so fucked up about it. I pitied them, bound and leashed and hurting, and now I can’t look at them without my stomach turning to ice. Is this just? How can this be good if it feels so awful? Why is it better for me to feel fear than kindness?
It’s hard to believe that this is really happening, that his kadan doubting so, suffering so. It doesn’t feel real. He was always so reliable and hard-working. He took good care of his men, followed his orders and kept them safe. Where did he go wrong? At what point did he go from a part of a whole to feeling like a renegade?
The pain in Taam-kas’ voice was hard to handle. He’s seen him struggle before with injury and exhaustion, but never like this, not this bad, this emotional, he was shaking.
Still. It’s okay now. For that brief moment he saw him balancing on that knife’s edge, stuck between following his gut and trusting in him, trusting in the Qun. And then Taam-kas sighed and nodded and let Reth hold him close. They reported to their commander first thing in the morning, after a night on a bed too small for two grown Qunari soldiers where Taam-kas clung to him like he’d never see him again.
He might not.
But it’s okay. He gives his kadan an encouraging smile, and he still looks like he’s having his guts dragged out on fish-hooks, but he’s trying to smile back for him. Always trying to be strong. Reth kisses him and hugs him, lets Taam-kas pull him into a crushing embrace for what may well be the last time. And then he watches him board the ship back to Qunandar. The first frost in the air makes him shiver, but he stays at the harbour until the ship disappears over the horizon. He may well have lost the use of an entire limb.
-
A long journey. The sea rises, the sea falls, but the ocean is changeless. Taam-kas watches the waves and waits, and waits. One of the sailors plays chess with him to pass the time between his shifts. Past Eastwatch, past Rivain, through the Northern Passage. The jungles of Par Vollen come into view and he feels a wild ache to get there, to walk on familiar ground. He missed his home so fiercely these last years. The hot air and bright sun soak into him, the Qunlat chatter all around him. A place where he doesn’t feel foreign and overly large. Somewhere he fits in.
He’s going to miss the snow.
The sight of the viddathlok temples makes his stomach churn. He recalls the first time without wanting to, tries to force the thought down with all his might. They’re here to help him. They won’t mess up this time. He can walk out a better Qunari. Trust, kadan. In me. In us. We can fix this. Fix him. Make him a part of the whole again.
The whispers make him flinch for days.
-
A Qunari walks out of the viddathlok. He takes in the sun of his home, breathes deeply. Casts his eye over the pyramids in the distance. And then he goes to his new quarters. Three days later, he reports in to train the future Taam-kasari in the axe. In the midday, when it is too hot for physical activity, he teaches the future Beresaad soldiers Trade, sits in the shade with a scattering of young boys and lets them pronounce foreign sounds. One of the boys asks about the triangle, the faint tan line just under the dip between his collarbones. The instructor smiles and teaches him how to translate kadan into Trade and how the Southern sun is weaker even in the middle of summer. Somewhere, faint, he feels that his chest is too light without, but the tan will even out under the Northern sun.
One of the Ben-Hassrath under the Viddasala regards the wyvern’s fang. It’s too worked and worn to be of much use for study. The craftsmen will take it and use the components, pry off the metal to re-use, grind down the fang for the alchemists. There is no waste under the Qun.
In Amaranthine, a Qunari wakes. He has an awful cold. One of the others brings him soup and tells him to get well soon. The fang is heavy on his chest and he thinks of the sun over Qunandar, hopes that his heart is well.