Krusu

Grief changes the tang and timbre of all things.

The year's delay took none of its power. Left it more twisted, perhaps: grief, relief, guilt, loss. The months of trying to acknowledge the good while all the rest was still there, and the stresses on us both of trying not to be whatever it was that would bring all those things to the surface... and failing too often.

And my warlord and touchstone lost the will to work within our constraints; once guardian of our ways, now flouter of them. I understand. It does not lessen the grievous losses of his counsel and his company.

The troika parts. We go our separate ways. We had good dreams together.

Arac's grieving, too; for deaths of some close to him. We were apart for the first blows, then subdued together, trying to endure.

Which brings us here, to the source of the Tronhadar in the Krusu ranges. Stone and sky and winding ways. Vistas that require focus beyond the distance of a room. The ache of unaccustomed muscles taking all their minor injuries and, perhaps, becoming stronger for them.

We passed ruined Salvation and headed to high hills. The mountains are. In the heights, ice cracks. Winds surge and flow. Mother-of-Snows lets slip her cloak of cloud and glories in the light.

The winds here speak of freedom. I don't know which hurts more: freedom, or the compromises we make to be together.

It's easing a bit. Enough. The other worlds call, and I can answer them. Enough. It surges like the winds, and is sometimes still.

They say grief keeps its own calendar. It does. I place on my own calendar the things that must be done so I can get through this, discharge my duties, and then take time to be and to become.

I need more changes. This is no way to live.

Dust

Sometimes there is no good resolution.

I had my chances to handle this one in the same way as always before. I knew what I was doing.

Doesn't mean I can't wish it were otherwise.

Take this reality away and bring me another one!

How can the duality be so strong? Still?

Am I mad? Are we both? If I'd just tried one more time...

Sometimes there is no good resolution.

Accept that, grieve, and move on.

Storm

Apparently it's inappropriate to say I danced with Storm Wind, although fine to say that Storm Wind deigned to dance with me.

There was dancing.

I started it.

Real

What is and what isn't. What's been too long neglected. 

Always strangers, though.

Will we still all be strangers after centuries of this, defined by our first years in the cradles of our kin?

We need specialists in new fields: things like "reconditioning bodies after long-term storage without actually changing them" and "really long-term relationship management".

Tumbling

They lined the systems up, and knocked them down. It didn't go quite as they'd hoped: we held our fortresses and made them pay dearly for our farms. We spoiled their plans of cashing out most profitably, and take some pleasure in that.

And then we started work to take it all back.

Nulli left, having done as much as it could do, and having a timeframe to leave to do Important Things with golden ships. Fweddit switched allegiance. The swarm decided to speculate on our success again. 

In another theatre the Caldari are pushing hard. Our old allies may need our aid.

Not the only Caldari on my mind.

Once I would've chastised myself for my taste and choices. Now I know that others will do that for me, so it's attended to. That leaves me free to feel, and think, and shape will into words. To consider morale and consistency, and the joy that cuts through the grind and makes it seem worthwhile again.

He turned up in my home fortress. Harassed our foes; worked with our fleets; was shot by one of our blues. Left a jump clone with me. He was irrepressible: the energy enthralling even as it seemed a form of madness. And he asked if I'd come and visit him. Couldn't get me safe passage or docking rights, though.

I haven't used InterBus for ages. Years, I think.

Until yesterday. Lust, curiosity and adventure are strong persuaders.

Hadn't had a soft scan done in a while, either. Slightly grotty headache and taste of metal. Always makes me wish I could take out my implants and clean them.

So here I am, under the cool glow of Deklein's skies, in the Isararach.

His implants mean his combat clones run hot. We share fevered joining and some of the most analytical pillow talk I've ever known. It intrigues me.

I'm growing fond of him, bonding over time and pleasures shared. Our lives do not fit together. I don't want to force them to. I like these stolen days. 

We have Kamela now.

Circling

A week of tracking and buzzing away at the vulnerable system count as the Mary militia and nullsec associates try to lay out their set of dominoes. It's been enjoyable work, despite the official seriousness of the situation. Weather reports say incoming thunderstorm soon.

In my quarters as I write my reports I wrap myself in a jacket far too big, enfolded in its firm and unfamiliar warmth. Then I hang it up, push the furniture aside, and dance.

Words

At last I'm finding them. Flowing through me. Anticipating, based on what I've learnt.

I don't need to drive toward the same obstacles. I can talk about them; steer a course.

I like this. It's exciting and exhilarating in its own way.

And wildly, wildly inappropriate.

I've barely stopped grinning.

Impressions

Intrigue, banter
Contention, concern

Another damaged giant
This deep-thinking clown

Nightmare screams...

Lullabies in lost language
Soothed in safe arms

Eidolon

Another gap in the record. I haven't marshalled words here since before Kerem's son was born, and now he's named.

Tibor Harvest Atamahara

I think he's a Cuthill Atamahara. He has that line to him. I could probably request tests, but... Kerem chose to conceive him as a festival child and it'd be cheating the deal to tell her which one was the father.

So, in summary, Kerem had a seizure a week before her due date. The clan argued about whether to intervene, while she slipped into a coma. This was not meant to happen. All my work for the clinic, and she shunned it until she was carried in there. He was delivered and drew breath while she dreamwalked beyond our reach.

The alliance was arguing about customs offices and rules of engagement.

And I was half trying to follow it from home, with all this, and with Maia, who is... small and increasingly stubborn as she explores her will. And looks to Kerem, not me. And with Kerem lying there...

The rhythm of life goes on. I know how it works for the young ones in the clan. I took up Kerem's role, for a few weeks, with Maako and Maia and the others. Even with Tibor.

A son. All this for another son. I could have wept, had there been time and a place for it. Can I stop Kerem killing herself to make a daughter within the traditions? And, like the elders arguing, should I intervene?

She believes: in selection and the necessity of failure; in the traditions, young as ours are. Should I respect her belief, even if it'll be the death of her?

I don't think she wants to die, but she wants to do the right thing, even if that may bring her death.

And I want her there. To disapprove of me and my "Gallente baby", while caring for Maia and raising her in the traditions. To be a touchstone of the way things ought to be, even as we each live our lives in other ways around her.

Why do I want her disapproval, while Jacob's was ultimately intolerable?

A third of a year. I still ache for him.

Grieving for Jonny came easily, and immediately. Grieving for Jacob... is something I still haven't really done.

We are civil. With thorns.

It was hard, putting out the news and having people assume we knew what we were doing and it would, of course, all be okay. Having them believe us. Wanting to rage, but having jobs to do.

No one's been closer than Jacob. I don't know that I want anyone to be. After that, everything else seems... mundane... banal. But also, those times with Jacob were the only times in years that'd taken me out of myself like that; that had made me willing to yield, and not just outwardly. And if what we had couldn't work, what chance has anything else?

So... poor Helmund, selected and sent to space to try to minister to me. I left him there to go and look after Kerem and the children, then made my way back to find him unsure how to deal with me. I agree to the physical disciplines: the body hacks. I limit the drugs he can use on me when I'm flying, and have limited my flying somewhat to give him a chance. And he... tries to get me to talk. I don't particularly resent him. I could tell him to go away. I just...

I have reservations of the mind. Easy to blame it on active duty; things he shouldn't see; opsec, even. I bat him away from the things that matter.

It's a bit like I imagine having a pet would be. Some creature to notice that you're there; to keep you to some sort of schedule; to need things from you that keep you human and a bit responsible; to stroke and keep you warm when there's no one else to hold.

And thinking that way, while true-for-me, makes me wonder if Bacch's ideas are rubbing off on me. And there is, really, no one I can talk to about that... except Bacch himself.

I don't use my real body now. It's there: a flesh ghost of who I was and who I might be again. It's not who I am. Even at home. Even...

And there's the other thing. What does it say that I choose the company of a non-Matari who rejects his own--and all human--culture? One who's red to us and who has ideas that most of my colleagues find abhorrent and a manner they find offensive?

I like sharing virtual spaces with him. It's grown familiar, for advice and venting and verbal sparring and... comfort. Astringency and concern. An antidote to groupthink and the weight of expectation. 

I'm under no illusions. I think.

How many times have I said, over the years, that I wish him well... and well away from me and my people? And now his people's road trip has them dipping into our space, and we could meet. Breathe the same air, which we've done only once before, at Maia's naming.

I surprise myself at the strength of my reaction to the idea of sharing physical space with someone who--within limits--happily shares my mind. Helmund and Bacch have different parts of me.

Jacob, I let you in. We bruised each other with words and silences and ourselves. I miss the intensity. I don't miss the despair. I want to know: can I ever have one without the other?

Perhaps if we keep playing our parts I will start to feel mine is real.

But which one, of the parts I play?