kawa~ inspiration #94

[annarti.livejournal.com]

Title~ Smoke
Author~ Annarti
Disclaimer~ Still mine, even tho I haven't touched them in months
Notes~ kawa~ 94. I've had an idea like this on my mind for AGES, and I've tried to write it two or three times before, but it's never worked. This time tho, I think I'm happy with it. From Inel's pov, the night before they cross the border into Kazin, specifically on the mission they're currently on. Not really a fic so much as observations.

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Tonight is the one night when nobody hides. Not a word is spoken, but with these faces, so lost in their own thoughts, none need to be. Everyone sees something different in the smoke and living embers of the fire. Some see comfort, some see impending doom, some see the warmth of home, some see the last glitter of hope dying away.

Ulkar’s thoughts are written on his face as clear as ink on parchment. He may have lived in the city most of his life now, but he still has the simple, clear ideas of the country. He’s going to cross that border, deal with everything Kazin throws at him and return home to his family. He may break a bone or lose a digit while on the other side of the border, but if that happens, so be it. He’ll still be alive, and that’s reward enough. There is fear in his eyes, but he blinks and frowns harder, thinking of his family to beat it back.

Melraan has perhaps the most dramatic of transformations, at least among the swordies. At any other time, he can ooze bravado with the best of them, but on the eve of the border crossing, he changes completely. The confidence and relaxed attitude of the day is not a mask, but neither is this silent, almost morose Melraan. He can remember the details of every time his blade has taken a life, and though I don’t think he tries to, they’re more prevalent in his thoughts now than ever. I think he’s the only one who actually thinks about the effects of what we do.

Nimay is much the same as ever. Cool, calm and calculating. She’s slipped into the black and silver so easily that it’s hard to imagine her in swordie red now. All the possibilities tick over in her mind, where we should aim to be by this time tomorrow, next week, in a month. Whether we can afford to spoil ourselves as often on this mission as on missions passed, how we can approach this in the best way so that we get back home as soon as possible. The only sign of worry is in the way she fingers the yrae stone at her wrist.

Tonight is one of the few nights we actually remember that Nol isn’t just another blue shirt. He has his moments, as it were. He sits with one knee up, chin resting on it as he stares in determination at the glimmering embers. His determination has little if anything to do with pulling a bowstring. He thinks about what lies at the other end, talking with foreign royalty and doing his best to convince them to cooperate. He thinks about the bigger picture, which I think too many of us lose sight of. That insignia on his shoulder is a small way of reminding us.

Gylepi smiles. He gives no consideration to the mission that lies ahead, only to his family at home in Ni-Yana. They haven’t seen him for a month, and won’t for another five or six if all goes well. Gylepi doesn’t want to think about what might happen if things go wrong, so he doesn’t. He thinks about his daughter, swinging her wooden toy sword and pretending to be our dear General. He’s missed her birthday already, and will miss his son’s next month, so he’ll have to remember to buy them something.

Garuk is the other veteran, from the same year as Rumal but the latter end of it. This is what he lives for, though not in the same way as Haenel. His thoughts are hardest to read, perhaps because he’s done this so many times that he allows them to wander. The archer, who is almost a nervous wreck at the ‘Thrai without his other blue shirts, is calm and almost relaxed. He yawns, stretches and watches the trail of orange sparks dancing erratically up to the sky.

Murali’s breathing is so smooth and regular that he must be thinking about it. It’s all he thinks about, to keep his mind focused. Occasionally his mind wanders, to past missions, to the mission he missed when Naraan was killed, to what might happen in this one, but he gives a brief shake of his head, a slight spasm to bring him back to the present and concentrate on his breathing. Keep the mind clear, that’s how Murali works. It’s a good philosophy.

Yoryl is terrified. He’s fine in Kazin now that he’s worked over the initial shock of his first mission, when Rau was killed, but tonight he’s absolutely petrified. He stares resolutely at the coals, clinging to this last drop of Raykinian warmth. His knees are drawn up to his chest and his arms hug them tightly, fingers digging into his shoulders to keep them from shaking. I don’t think anybody assumes this is from cold. There is terror in those eyes. He’s the first to catch my eye to talk later on.

Kaen has similar thoughts, but much angrier. He’s already silently compiling his complaints, about the rain, the mud, the nightly ambushes, the lack of any decent liquor, the food, the beds, the wildlife, the trees, the grass… He hates Kazin the most of all of us, so he reaps as many benefits from the empire as he can to make the stay as bearable as possible. These minor pleasures creep into his thoughts sometimes, but he prefers to complain.

Anganur almost treats missions as holidays. A change of scenery, a chance to get away from the pressures of home life and just let loose, indulge in as many pleasures as humanly possible, and Lin’s blood does Anganur indulge. That’s what he sees in the smoke. All the foreign mystery, the thick steaks he plans to throw on the grill and call dinner, and of course, the lovely ladies of the night. Any encounters with Kazinians trying to kill us are mere inconveniences along the way.

Rumal, always directly opposite Anganur and myself, sees death. Not his own, certainly not. Kazinian deaths. Past Own deaths that he feels personally responsible for. He sits with his knees up, elbows hanging over them as he viciously kneads the stump of his right little finger. He won’t let that happen again, any of it. He’s the veteran of the Own now, and has been for a few years, but he still has the same angry fire in him as when I first met him.

Emon never hides anything, and tonight he’s more paranoid than ever. Even here, still inside Raykinian borders, his eyes are darting around at any movement. He fidgets more now than when he’s on horseback. He’s scared, is Emon, but he’s not afraid to show it. His worries fall on deaf ears most of the time, we hear them so often, but they’re always genuine. He sucks on the stump of his left pinkie as though he just lost it, but with none of the conviction or vengeance as Rumal.

Kurae’s eyes are deep set and shadowed under his heavy brow, glinting in the firelight with steely determination. But his brow is furrowed in mild worry. Not for himself, I don’t think, but the rest of us. He came in the year after me, and he’s seen enough of our own die to know we’re not invincible. He’s not the strongest of the swordsmen, but rather than fear for himself, he fears he’ll fail the rest of us. It’s strangely calming to see compassion on a habitually stony face.

Haenel is… scary. We had all expected that his eagerness to rush headlong into battle would diminish early on in his first mission, if not by the end of it, but this one is genuinely happiest swinging a sword in aggression. He glares at the fire with the same burning anger as Rumal, but with none of the tact or forethought. He’s seen death in Kazin—his father’s caravan was attacked and Haenel the only survivor—but the Own is the same now as when he joined. I think he still feels as though he has to prove himself. He could well be the one Kurae worries over. I know I do.

We all see something different in the smoke of our last Raykinian fire. What do I see, you ask? Dear reader, you’ve just read it.