exsiliumlogs | [closed]

"Yes," Bariyan said, as he began to walk. He didn't reach out to take Martin's hand; but he did pull out the medallion again. "Mostly. About this. This is... yours, isn't it?"

It'd been the first thing that Martin had gone for, when Bariyan had arrived. Bariyan remembered that clear enough. And it certainly wasn't Bariyan's; he didn't wear any sort of jewelry, as a rule. Bariyan already wasn't very good at fighting. He didn't need to give his opponents an easy target to grab him by.

Martin's eyes were already locked on it, his eyebrows pinched seeing it tugged, watching to see if it was meant to be pulled right off. Not possible, he knew, but the gesture...

"It was made for me," he said, his tone at first something more distracted, but once his eyes lifted away from the medal he seemed much more present. His mouth twitched a little before he looked ahead to better avoid tripping over something. "One of my baby teeth was melted into it when I was little. And then..."

And then...a lot. A great deal, some more confusing than most, but none of it simple. He let out a breath slowly, with a bit of sound, dragging it out to give himself time. Hardly time enough; he didn't know what was best to say of it. The truth, obviously, but that was so complex.

"Then I gave it to you. Or...Or I will." It was a Bariyan a time before, right? He squinted with a frown at the ground ahead of him before looking back up. "Did you...know that? That you're here – will be here.

"It's strange like that," he added quickly, trying to hasten some better explanation and keep unpleasant feelings at bay. "Time, here. A lot of people..." He swallowed, let out the breath. "A lot of people have changed, too. It's strange, but not...new. Not very new."

Melted baby teeth? Well, that was... slightly disturbing. Bariyan thought about asking if Martin wanted it back, but that truly didn't seem like an option, anyway. There was no clasp, and the chain too tight to get off his neck. Besides, if Martin had given to him -- he supposed he ought to keep it.

Bariyan shook his head.

"I was going to ask about that, too." He smiled off into the distance. "I suspected that... you and that Koltira fellow, both of you, I suspected that you knew me already. But I don't remember, and I didn't know."

But... it made no sense to him. He knew, now. He knew that if he ever returned home, he would have all of half a second to realize before the end came for him. So how could he have come here, again, afterwards? If anything, it had to be a past version of himself... which made even less sense, really.

Not that any of this had ever made sense to begin with.

Martin stopped walking as he listened, feeling cold. Well, colder. It hadn't bothered him so much, the bite at his skin – ears, especially – but. He felt colder listening.

Bariyan had been hurt, unhappy and lost, barely bandaged up and made safe from harm – Koltira's work, not his. And a dozen other questions, no doubt...Hadn't he felt the same way before? Back before everything. Martin faintly knew, but didn't entirely understand what he felt was not so dissimilar to his Darkov time.

He does understand, though, that it should be about Bariyan, not himself. He should do everything he can to help him, however he wants. It was as simple as that, being in his presence at first, untethered, but now...Now, Martin was frightened of what would happen if he said anything at all. Frightened, too, of what it would be like if this state persisted, and...if he was actually wrong to want it to change back.

He smiled, too, consciously pressing it on himself despite a quiver at his brow.

"Did you want me to tell you?" he asked, almost deadpan. Keeping his tone as solid a tone as he could helped a little, but it broke quickly for fear of how it sounded. "I'll do my best to answer what you want." If that's going to make you happy.

That thought, at least, softened his features for a turn. It was good if it he was doing something that pleased Bariyan, wasn't it? He always wanted that.

Bariyan was silent for a while. When he spoke again, it was in a murmur.

"No, that's all that I wanted to know about me," he said. Still smiling. "I thought about it, but..."

But he knew that he would be dead soon. It was a fact that he had to remind himself of, now. Being here and knowing that he was or would be here, earlier or later or again, all that was enough to make him wonder -- make him hope, falsely, that he might yet survive whatever was happening back home.

Futile to think that way. He turned memories over in his head, words said and unsaid, turned, looked at all the bridges burned, and knew that he was at his end. Even if it had been delayed by this place.

He would die. He didn't need the heartache of knowing what sort of life he might have led here to occupy his thoughts in the meanwhile. There was no more room in his heart for any sort of hurt.

"You, though...." Bariyan stopped briefly to look around, to decide where he wanted to turn next. "You were... important, weren't you?"

A strange impulse was there. Martin didn't want to say yes. It was strange, wasn't it? He thought so, realizing it. It tugged at his smile on one side, the rest of himself standing a little stiffer.

"Yes," he said, despite himself. Clearing that hurdle seemed to start a gradual ease in tension. "I put you through a great deal of trouble. But you wouldn't give up on me. You've been very good to me."

Bittersweet was the word he didn't have for it, that moment. Perceiving it to be more painful than it turned out to be...It's not so hard, is it? It'll be alright.

He made his decision and took them left, dodging under a broken archway overgrown with vines. He brushed his hand over the vines as he went, disturbing leaves and little curls of stems.

He smiled at Martin, warmly, blue eyes light and clear.

"I'm glad to hear that," he said. And he meant it. But he did not inquire any further; did not ask what sort of trouble, did not ask what giving up meant. It was good enough to know that he'd done right by this child.

If... Martin was a child, at all.

"Can you tell me about yourself, then?" Bariyan asked. "I don't mean to be rude, but... what are you?"

His head ducked, hiding the uncomfortable smile that stretched on one side. It was as strange as it was exciting to see such warmth so plainly – so unasked for. This is Bariyan, too? He knew he was kind – always – but seldom saw it light up outside. It had been in words, in reassuring touch (cold, without pulse), but very rarely in his eyes or face.

Strange and exciting. It was alright because it was him, truly, wasn't it? Maybe that would be enough to quell his mounting, nagging uncertainties. It seemed to validate the part of him that knew best, after all.

But humans seldom followed what was best, no matter how glaring.

"It's not rude," he said, ducking a branch as he followed along, falling behind a couple steps. "It's just hard to explain. For me, I mean. I'm not very good at explaining..."

But he would, because he asked.

"But I'm...a new person. This body is months old, made here. I used to have a different existence before then. I was raised believing I was...like a broken thing. That I was made to be a weapon, but I hadn't ever been good at it. And I let...awful things determine what I was.

"You didn't let me get away with it so easily."

Bariyan slowed to a gradual halt to look at Martin more closely. He quirked an eyebrow.

"You look quite a bit older than a few months," he said, but this, too, was accompanied by a smile. It faded as he took the rest of Martin's words into consideration.

Of course he didn't understand fully -- he didn't know the details, and he wouldn't ask. He didn't feel like it was his place. And it would have been strange, for both of them; for one to inquire intensely for details of something that the other might have expected him to know. But it seemed, at least, that something here had been fixed.

Saved, perhaps? Bariyan's smile returned, faded, distant.

"Was that a good thing?"

Martin had to watch Bariyan's expression for a while to find his bearing, somehow guess at what his explanation was even doing for him. He was nervous – almost giddily so – and the feeling kept him teetering in a confusing tightrope walk between fear and excitement, a hope for...for what? For some light to click? For the Bariyan who recognized him, cared for him to suddenly be there, just as alive? As though talking about himself as Darkov was enough to reverse whatever circumstance caused this change.

A boy's imagination, perhaps.

It was the question that rattled that imagined end. No revelation, just one more question and one more flutter in Martin's stomach. He couldn't read Bariyan's expression well enough anymore – it was too animated, too influenced by things the boy had little claim to or...or none, if it were all from that other world.

"It was," he said, a little weakly. It was a tone he quickly corrected, speaking up, insistent, earnest. "It was the best thing. I'm here because of it."

He couldn't stop himself from reaching, grabbing at Bariyan's arm to stop him, no longer minding a stranger's manners.

"You gave me a whole new life," he said, his mouth breaking into a smile, quickly twitching with a shade of fear when he realized he had overstepped. He let go, holding his breath, feeling his face heat up.

"But please don't...Don't think you owe me anything! It's the other way around...Did I say so before?" He was faintly certain he did. "I promised..."

"Oh," Bariyan said, weakly, as Martin reached for him. He recoiled a bit -- mostly out of surprise -- but not enough to avoid the grip entirely. And he stayed, when he felt those fingers close around his arm. But he did not do anything when Martin drew away afterwards.

It was strange, listening to Martin, hearing the obvious adoration in the boy's voice... adoration for another man with Bariyan's name, Bariyan's face, Bariyan's character. Strange. Strange to see how obviously loved this Bariyan was. But here was Bariyan now, lost, confused, distant, feeling rather like a uninvited stranger.

This wasn't his life. This wasn't his place.

But nevertheless, he was here.

"You don't owe me anything," Bariyan said, gently. He picked up walking again, at a slower pace, looking up to the dome above them as he went. He laughed. "Please don't worry about me. I'm just glad that I-- or, someone like me-- I'm just glad that your life is good now."

He raised a hand to rub at the left side of his neck. "Everyone deserves to be happy. We've all only one life to be happy in, after all."

He didn't understand because it wasn't time to understand. That was the truth of the matter, but even with Truth whispering deep within, Martin the boy, a breathing figure in Time, couldn't hear it well enough to understand himself. Instead, it was another unhappy Why? Another pulse of hurt, of feeling slighted by some mystery circumstance.

It wasn't supposed to be that way. He had to have been doing something wrong to feel as he did, he thought; he was supposed to have a happier life. Being a human was different. He didn't need to be remembered to do the right thing.

Only one life? Was that the way of it? The way Bariyan thought of it – at least, in this moment. He had to believe otherwise – the "he" who knew him. Who lived on after "life." This Bariyan didn't know yet.

So it's alright, isn't it? he thought, trying to comfort himself as he fell further behind in step, feeling a sharper, sharper tightness in his throat. It kept him from saying anything, so all he could offer was a closed-lipped sound, neither approval nor disapproval.

It's alright, he repeated again and again, coaxing himself off a rattled, nervous edge in his mind. He could catch up again, then, with a blank, mild smile etched on his face. Eyes forward. It's alright.

Bariyan paused when he noticed Martin falling behind, calling the boy's name out once before falling silent to let Martin catch up himself. Bariyan knew it had to be hard for the boy, too; here he was, a relative stranger, a poor substitute for whoever it was that Martin held so dear in his heart. And no guarantee that the other would come back.

If it'd been as sudden for the other Bariyan as it'd been for him, then there wouldn't even have been time for a proper goodbye. Bariyan thought about that, and swallowed.

"I'm sorry," Bariyan said, as Martin came forwards again. He reached out, placed a hand on Martin's shoulder, light and uncertain and ready to pull back should Martin show any sign of discomfort. "I'll try to be as good to you as he was."

It's alright.

Martin stared up at him, slow to understand what he said, what he meant. Slow to react. It sounded like something he, himself, would say, actually. Strange. He was sorry to not remember, right? To not understand. But it wasn't his fault, even if it hurt.

"It's alright," he said, echoing his thoughts, and pushed ahead, out of reach. "You can just be you, and that's good."

A few paces ahead, he turned around, pushing a better expression. "I can protect you either way. So you should just do what you like best."

This time Bariyan lingered behind, watching carefully, a little sadly. He didn't understand, probably never would; didn't understand why he had to be protected, what he'd done to deserve this. Any of this. But all the questioning in the world wouldn't help him. He was too far away. Had missed out on too much.

He followed after Martin, silent for a while, eyes wandering through the gardens and taking in the quiet.

Then: "How old are you?" Bariyan wasn't sure if there was an answer to that. Martin was boy in his mind, looked like a child, but it was obvious that there was much more to him.

"I don't know," he said, a flash of pain in his smile. It was hard to answer the big questions, couldn't he have the means of answering the simple ones? "Someone helped me pick a birthday...In September? Do you know about months?"

"That I do," Bariyan said, though birthdays was a bit of a new concept to him. He let that one slip by, though.

He considered Martin carefully, rubbing his chin.

"You don't look very old," he said. "Perhaps... fourteen or so."

Sixteen. Sixteen was Bariyan's reference frame for all children. Sixteen was when Ko had left home. Sixteen was the age that Bariyan remembered and knew best.

"I'm older than I look," he insisted. "I always looked...smaller."

Granted, the shoes were getting more snug and the pantlegs a little shorter, but not by much. Not noticeable yet. "So maybe older than that."

He ducked a branch – a well timed, validating branch. See, he had to duck things, too! But what did it matter, his age? A lot of people seemed to be really intent on knowing...

"How old are you?"

"Me? Thirty-four. I'm an old man." Bariyan laughed to himself. "I'll be dropping dead any moment now."

Thirty-four... thirty-four was a good time to die, perhaps. Better than sixteen, better than fourteen or fifteen or however old Martin was. Thirty-four was long enough to have made mistakes and learned from them, and if you hadn't -- well, then. Then you wound up where Bariyan was.

Martin's expression distorted in a quick wince. Of course, he knew very little about human biology; for all he knew, they lived twice the life a Darkov (more true) or twice as less (not so true). The notion of having Bariyan die at any moment...

"You mean that?" he asked, afraid to assume anything otherwise.

"Ah-- no, I don't! Don't look so worried." Bariyan couldn't help but laugh, though. "I won't be dying here. At least, not in any way that I can predict."

Unless Cat was here, and just hadn't found Bariyan yet. But Cat seemed so remote now, in the face of all this new strangeness, and Bariyan wasn't convinced that he'd been followed. Still, he nearly shuddered to think of what might happen if Cat stumbled upon him with Martin. Martin had spoken of protecting....

"You won't have to worry about that," Bariyan murmured.

He watched Bariyan, not wholly reassured. The laugh...Bariyan didn't laugh much. At all. And in the context of being alive, well...Martin was left very uncertain.

Was it best to take him at his word? What did it say about him if he couldn't do that? Bariyan was different now, but still Bariyan. Laughter, life...pieces of Bariyan he hadn't know until now. That's all, right? It was as he'd just said: it wouldn't matter, so long as he could take care of him.

But not worry about him? Impossible.

"Is it better here?" he asked, trying to get ahead of his circular thoughts. "Now that you're healed...seeing this place. What are you thinking about it?"

"It's strange," he said, quite truthfully. "There's much that I don't understand. And I don't like the weather -- I'm from a much warmer, drier place."

He contemplated the question some more as they walked, navigating around the broken statues, avoiding going over carefully tended flower beds.

"But I like it," he added, after a bit. "It's... alive. There's people here, and they're living as best as they can, and it all seems to be holding together. I'd... like to stay, I think."

He didn't think he would be allowed, though. He had faith that death would come and find him, sooner or later. Most likely sooner.

In that quiet time breaking his response in two, Martin worked to keep as much of his attention on Bariyan as he could without risking tripping over or smacking into something. That much had changed little between bodies: still a very single-minded boy, giving nearly his all to one thing at a time (though nature mercifully allowed him to keep up the involuntary stuff like breathing business as usual). He nearly did trip, scuffing his step before a root snagged the toe of his shoe, but only quietly hissed a sound before stepping over it. Not his fault, not the root's...he had been wondering about warmer, drier places.

That was where he was from? Something like that bright, dusty land they had all just been in? Bariyan rarely mentioned things of the past, and always pretty briefly...Martin was quick to jump at the chance to know more. Even if this Bariyan didn't know him...somehow, Martin could know him better? And be better for it, if he were to see the one he knew the best ever again.

That idea fluttered nervously into his head at stay. Martin watched him as much as he could between steps and turns, ignoring the scenery for the most part.

What if he did stay, like this? Alive, smiling...laughing sometimes. A stranger for the most part, but...would it always be that way?

Scary thoughts, he felt. A betrayal to what he already loved? Even if it was the same Bariyan, estranged?

...More confusing than scary, then.

"You might stay," he heard himself saying, barely aware at the start. He hesitated, licking his lips. "I mean, there's little control over it, from individuals...some stay a long time. Some don't."

Bariyan thought about that. He'd spent the past day assuming that it would all be undone, soon, that he'd blink and feel a sharp edge against his throat and that would be that.

He hadn't dared to think about what would happen if he were allowed to stay here. A while. A few years. Perhaps longer....

No. That couldn't be allowed to happen. He was not going to run away from death.

So he laughed instead, a defense mechanism that kept his doomed mindset from cracking through the surface, and looked forwards.

"Perhaps," he said. "That appears to be out of our control, however. Have you been here a long time, Martin?"

[closed]

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