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Naesala hates sweating. This is a well-known fact, at least to the former king of Kilvas himself, however less well-known than the fact that he also hates to report back to Tibarn every couple of months. Complaining about old rivalries is somehow more publicly acceptable than complaining about the unpleasantries of excessive perspiration. Unfortunately for Naesala, he is currently about to face both problems at the same time.
While the scorching summer in Sienne has feeble beorc coughing outside from dust in the streets, the humid heat of the forest is nothing short of oppressive. Naesala feels the leather of his pants slide across his damp thighs and thinks, yuck. He doesn’t care much for sweat in battle, when his mind is occupied by more urgent matters and he knows that he has at least worked for the heat, but this? This is torture.
“Fucking summer,” he mutters under his breath and stretches his wings before folding them neatly against his leather-clad back.
“Language,” comes the unbidden reply from above.
One of Tibarn’s henchmen, Ulki, dangles his legs from the upper branches of a tree not even twenty feet ahead. Naesala startles and the pale hawk regards him with a single raised eyebrow, unusually expressive. He must have heard him transform and then approached while Naesala was preoccupied with his feelings of complete and utter disgust.
“Please tell me you’ve brought cold water for an old comrade,” Naesala says, sly smile back in place after his brief slip.
“I’ve brought a gift from princess Leanne.”
“Which contains no cold water, I fear?”
“No. She claimed you might struggle with the climate, so she made this for you.”
Naesala catches the bundle of black fabric in one hand and dramatically fans his face with the other. “Oh, isn’t that ever so generous of the princess.”
Ulki sighs and shifts into a crouch. “Don’t mock her, crow. There’s fresh water to your left, about a three-minute walk. I’ll let the king know you’ve arrived in Serenes.” Then he leaps forward, transforms mid-air and dashes through an opening in between the treetops with impressive agility.
“Don’t let that ruffle your feathers,” Naesala drawls, positive that the freak hawk can still hear him, “my mockery was purely directed at the messenger.”
The bundle in his hand feels light and slippery. Silk, he muses, or some sort of magic-infused linen. Did Leanne… make clothes for him? As he starts to untie the cord, a tiny bug lands on his chin and he takes a calming breath in through his nose before he wipes the insect off his sticky face and undoes the final knot. The fabric slips through his fingers and Naesala just about catches the outermost corner of a sleeveless shirt. Ignoring the crumpled pile of fabric on the ground, he holds up the shirt with both hands. It is of deep black coloring, not absorbent of the sunlight but reflecting it back with the softest silken shimmer. The neckline cuts as deeply as in his usual attire and an intricate pattern of square spirals has been stitched around it in silver thread. He gives a low whistle. If Leanne actually went through the trouble of sewing him a summer attire, a proper display of gratitude is in order. He bends down to pick up the other item, which turns out to be a pair of flowy black pants, and Naesala frowns.
“Well, well. So it’s style traded for comfort,” he mutters to no one in particular. Not that anyone cares around here. He’ll be happy as long as Tibarn doesn’t go naked in this goddess-forsaken heat, Naesala thinks and definitely believes himself. Another bug lands on his cheek. A bee buzzes past his ear so closely that his instincts kick in and he whirls around, ready to dash and tear through an archer with his bare hands, before he comes to his senses again. What a fucking mess. Where exactly did the hawk say there was fresh water again? Naesala clutches the fabric to his chest and starts walking.
He finds the nearby creek with ease, relieved to rinse the filth off his skin and change into the clean and pleasantly cooling clothes. The loose-fitting pants are discarded and exchanged for the usual leather, because Naesala has nice legs and a reputation to maintain. One thing that he forgot about, however, were the tattoos.
While he is far from completely inked, there are a couple of odd motives engraved into his skin for eternity. Two of them he got as a fledgling when he still believed in anarchy, another one drunk, then a few smaller ones that carry actual meaning, and a blackwork project he got less than a year ago. It covers the fine web of scars left by the blood pact and was done by a gruff tiger in Melior who asked no questions and only nodded with some sort of misdirected solidarity. He has no reason to keep his arms covered down to his wrists anymore, and still, Naesala thinks, and still.
In the end, he decides not to give a shit. A gentle breeze caresses the skin of his torso through the flimsy fabric, and he is not about to give up this relief just to avoid the occasional stare. He definitely is not going to give in to the discomfort that baring his forearms brings. Naesala ties his hair up and transforms quietly, dunks his beak into the creek and gulps down the cold water. He caws once, twice, enjoying the sharpening of his senses every time he shifts into his bird form, then stalks over to grasp the discarded clothes in his talons. Let’s get this over with, he thinks and takes to the skies.
He drifts on a benevolent current of hot air only for a short moment. Beneath him a circular opening disrupts the swaying greens, dotted with the scorched granite of three small temples that survived the fire. A fourth display of ancient architecture, an elevated colonnade, extends underneath the tree canopy to the West. On overgrown steps leading down onto the clearing he can make out the figure of a large man, the shape of his wings blurred by the heat. Naesala transforms right in front of him. The bundle of clothes slides to the ground. A strand of hair must have come undone from the messy bun on top of his head so he tucks it behind his ear and musters a smile. Tibarn stares.
“King Tibarn,” Naesala says amiably. “I’d proclaim that it is good to see you, but I’ve been working on honesty lately.”
The hawk king doesn’t reply. His golden eyes flit from Naesala’s hair to his neckline and then fixate on a spot on his exposed biceps before he shakes himself out of his apparent stupor.
“There is… a horse on your arm.”
“…Accurate observation.”
“Why?”
“Yes, why indeed.”
The look of utter confusion on Tibarn’s face is almost funny enough to make up for the immediate prickle of unease that spreads through Naesala’s body under his scrutiny. Hide, his instinct rings in his ears, but he resists the itch to clutch at his arms.
“And there we have a jellyfish?”
“Two species of animals correctly identified, a true king of –”
“Cut that, Naesala,” Tibarn interrupts, “since when do you have these tattoos?”
“I never knew you to be so invested in my appearance! Most of them precede even my coronation, you can ask Reyson if you care. Actually, don’t ask Reyson. I did not fly all the way from Sienne under constant risk of heatstroke to discuss the ink on my body.”
“I am sure you can spare a minute to humor me,” Tibarn says and reaches for his wrist. Naesala pulls away and crosses his arms to press the old scars into his chest, black wings bristling in defense.
“Why don’t you at least invite me inside first like the cavalier history wants me to believe you are?”
Tibarn snorts at that but finally averts his gaze. “Please, crow, what history books have you been reading? Surely nothing of that sort is told about me by beorc.”
“Handwritten memoirs by sweet queen Elincia, much steamier than expected.”
Tibarn’s barking laugh cuts through the surrounding birdsong as he turns towards the open stone corridor. Naesala rolls his shoulders back and catches up with a few long strides. An unfamiliar hawk passes them, bows his head to Tibarn in greeting and then regards Naesala with a curious glance that he chooses to ignore. The air takes on a pleasant chill the further they move away from the sun and down the stony colonnade. Out of its immediate reach, the colors are fading into muted greens and greys and breathing is becoming slightly more bearable again.
“I assume that you are short on time as always, Naesala?”
“Frankly, I’m not going to take to the skies again in this fucking heat before sunset, but I would appreciate if we could stick to the protocol and keep things simple.”
“Simple, sure,” Tibarn drawls and stops in front of an iron gate to their right. The aged hinges creak as he pushes against it before it gives way and opens up into another, less spacious stone hallway. Naesala follows on quiet steps until they reach a shaded patio; water pours from a frog-shaped fountain into a basin on the far wall and spanning branches obscure the view of the sky. The center of the patio is occupied by a low table covered in scattered documents, and an assortment of four beautifully woven chairs. After Naesala’s first couple of visits the room has become sort of familiar.
Tibarn gestures vaguely towards the furniture. “Make yourself comfortable, ambassador.”
“Please tell me we don’t have to work through whatever mess you made on that table?”
“Well,” Tibarn says with a pained smile that promises headache, “it’s a good thing we got until sunset today.”
If Naesala was actually working on honesty, he would admit to himself that he doesn’t hate reporting back to Tibarn because he is Tibarn. While they are not exactly friendly, the hawk king does a decent job at leading the united bird tribes and in turn lets Naesala in on all of their political interna. He represents the interests of Serenes in front of the Begnion senate, after all. It is being back in these woods that makes his chest tight and his wings itch every time he is careless enough to let his thoughts wander. Guilt, Naesala has learned, is a guest that tends to overstay his welcome. Better not test anyone’s patience by overstaying his own.
Unfortunately, the pile of papers in front of them looks exactly like it did an hour ago, because Tibarn keeps getting distracted. Naesala has not even started on his own report.
“Tibarn. Focus.”
“I don’t function in this weather,” the hawk yawns and clasps his elbows behind his head in a stretch, showing off his bulging triceps in the process. A bead of sweat trickles down his neck. He looks annoyingly attractive. Naesala pinches the bridge of his nose and pulls a face at the sticky feeling.
“I don’t care, and neither will the senate if I return without an appropriate reply. I’m not exactly enjoying this either, which is why I would expect my king to take responsibility and get this over with.”
“Gimme two minutes,” Tibarn says and flutters his eyes closed. Naesala fights the urge to crumple the fucking building permission he is reviewing in his hands and hurl it at his face.
He rises from his chair with a pointed sigh and treads on the spot to ease the stiffness that has taken hold of his legs after an hour of being seated. Shifting lights flicker over the stones where the sun reaches far enough through the branches and leaves above, some catching on the gold of Tibarn’s earring. Behind him the trickle of fresh water promises some relief, so Naesala makes his way over to the basin and lets the welcome coldness pour over his hands. He splashes water into his face in an attempt to revitalize, then some on the back of his neck before he undoes the tie that holds up his hair. Silky blue spills down his shoulders and he collects the strands in his hands again to tie them back up. When he turns around, Tibarn is staring.
“…what?”
“Tell me about your tattoos.”
“Really? This again?”
“Just humor me a little, Naesala. The jellyfish actually looks good. Just, why the hell would you get that?”
“Why would you be more interested in my tattoos than the actual wellbeing of your nation?” Naesala finishes his bun and points at the table. Tibarn smiles lazily.
“You wound me. You know how much I care. There is no enemy hard on our heels, and there hasn’t been for months, so allow me to take a break and become interested in your appearance instead.”
His words stir up something old and familiar in Naesala’s gut. Face warm despite the cold water, he shakes his head and takes up his seat again. Tibarn’s eyes sparkle with mirth across the pile of papers between them.
“We’ll take a break once we’re halfway through,” Naesala says, “and then I’ll tell you about the jellyfish. All right?”
“And the horse? And the circle?”
“For Goddess’ sake, Tibarn, how old are you? Yes, and the horse, and the fucking circle if you so desire.”
They make it through four building applications still in process, an open letter from the Begnion Spice Trade Union, two cases of ravens indicted for theft before the court of Sienne, eleven cases of beorc indicted for racist behavior, a proposal to relocate a minor auction house to the outskirts of Serenes, the overview of monthly reparation payments, and a handwritten message of a Phoenician food stall owner. The stack of documents has shrunken down to a third of its original size and Naesala kind of wants to claw his own eyes out. Tibarn smacks his hand squarely across his face and groans.
“If you don’t start talking about your tattoos right now, I will indict you for racist behavior.”
“I’d advise the senate to drop the case,” Naesala sighs. “How very fortunate for you that I am learning to become a man of my word.”
The words are swimming on the pages in front of him and Tibarn looks ready to doze off at any second, so yes, they likely both need a break. Naesala turns in his seat to reveal the black jellyfish that wraps itself around his left upper arm. The fine lines of its tentacles shift around his muscles every time he flexes, and it really is way too pretty considering the circumstances under which he got inked.
“Well, let’s call this a piece of Kilvan culture. One of my ancestors proclaimed jellyfish to be a delicacy… I was drunk when I got it.”
Tibarn snorts. “You what?”
“Yeah, moving on,” Naesala rises to his feet, “I actually have more on my right arm. You see this little circle? That’s my first.”
“What does it mean?”
“I was pretty young back then, you know. I had this realization about the way history repeats itself – don’t laugh – and had it done by one of my anarchist friends.”
“Your anarchist friends?” Tibarn gets up, face split in half by one of his wide grins, and pushes a few strands of hair off his sweaty forehead. “I should have known you had a rebellious phase. So did your anarchist friends also do the horse?”
“Are you mocking me, hawk?”
“Maybe. But it suits you. The tattoos, I mean.”
“This one is supposed to be a joke. I used to find it hilarious that beorc actually learn to ride these things to keep up with our speed. It looks like crap, though.”
“It does, yeah,” Tibarn says. He has stepped closer, eyes trained on the shitty line drawing of a little horse that will forever remind Naesala of his fledgling ideals. Above the horse, years later, he got a bone tattooed on his shoulder that now peeks out from underneath the silky black fabric of his shirt. Below his elbow there is a simple black line that circles his forearm like an armlet.
“This ring I got just because I like the look of it. The bone… it’s supposed to be a talisman. Hasn’t done me much good now, has it?” Naesala chuckles and pushes the fabric up his shoulder a little to reveal the full artwork. His sarcasm is met with silence as Tibarn follows his newly exposed skin with his gaze, and he really is standing rather close now. Close enough to touch, in fact, and then Tibarn presses a finger to a spot on Naesala’s shoulder blade that bears another small tattoo.
“Is this a daisy? What does it mean?”
“It’s just for aesthetics,” Naesala lies without missing a beat and ducks from his touch, tense as he meets Tibarn’s eyes. You can ask Reyson, he thinks but keeps his mouth shut. Tibarn is looking down on him with doubt written in the crease on his forehead, but his smile is warm and teasing.
“Sure,” he says and doesn’t back off. “You got one on your wrist, too, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Does it cover the… I mean, does it cover –“
“It covers the scars of my blood pact, yes.” Naesala turns his wrist upwards and forces down the rise of unease that being studied so closely brings. Those lines on his skin don’t make him vulnerable, not anymore. Through heavy blackwork the fine web of scars left by the blood pact is barely visible, the shape of Kilvas on a map now etched into his skin in dark ink.
Tibarn’s breath hitches when the realization hits. “Can I touch it?”
“No, you can’t,” Naesala says, sharp, and clutches his arm against his ribcage. A complicated expression flits across Tibarn’s face as he winces, guilt maybe, but he also can’t seem to keep his eyes off Naesala’s body. He studies the jellyfish, then travels further up the column of his exposed neck with a gaze that is heavy on Naesala’s skin. The lingering unease in his gut is beginning to dissipate into warmth. Naesala swallows.
“You can touch this one, though.”
Slowly, he reaches for the silver-adorned neckline that cuts halfway down his torso. He has another tattoo to show, a bird’s nest stylized into a circular shape close to his heart. The fabric is cool against his fingers as he pushes it aside.
“Go on,” he says and casts Tibarn a challenging glance. His golden eyes seem to be searching for something on Naesala’s face before he lifts a hand to the pale expanse of his exposed chest. Rough fingertips brush carefully over the blackened skin, more air than touch.
“It’s a nest, right?”
Tibarn’s voice sounds just the slightest bit strained. They are already in the middle of a game, Naesala understands this much, and he blames it on the heat and exhaustion when he says, “Yes. You know, you can feel the ink around the edges if you apply a little more pressure.”
“I didn’t know. Let me try again.”
A large hand settles firmly on his waist and Naesala masks his surprise with a sly smile. This time, when Tibarn explores the tattoo on his chest with his fingers, his touch is warm and deft. Naesala hooks his thumbs into Tibarn’s belt loops and is rewarded with an audible exhale. A finger brushes his nipple. Sudden pleasure sparks at the base of his spine and Naesala snaps his head up, wide blue meeting molten gold.
“I think we should get back to work right now.”
“Yeah, probably,” Tibarn murmurs. If Naesala was younger, or if he wasn’t an ambassador looking up at his king, or if there never had been a war at all then he would crush the stupid wonder on Tibarn’s face with a bruising kiss and make them both forget about responsibilities for a while. But he is not young anymore and they are stuck in a patio with another two dozen pages of paperwork awaiting their attention, so Naesala extracts himself from Tibarn’s hold and fixes his smile back in place. It tastes oddly of regret.
The hawk’s expression is unreadable. With uncharacteristic tenderness he tucks a strand of Naesala’s hair behind his ear, then he stretches, groans and turns away.
“It’s a nice one,” Tibarn says over his shoulder, “the nest. Maybe when we’re done with this bullshit, you can tell me if you are planning for more tattoos in the future.”
“Still so interested?” Naesala taunts and is glad for the excuse to sit down. His legs are shaking and he feels adrenaline running through his veins alongside conflicting emotions that he would rather file away right now. Across the stack of papers, Tibarn only smiles.
“More than ever, crow.”
The sun has long set when they finally sign off the last document. On the table a burning oil lamp has attracted a flock of moths, their wings casting fluttering shadows over the papers and along the walls. Softened by fatigue and the warm glow of the light, Tibarn looks less like a king and more like a man. A companion, even, if Naesala dares to imagine.
“We fucking did it,” Tibarn yawns and weakly pushes his fist into the air. Naesala chuckles.
“Solid work, hawk. You realize that I haven’t really reported on anything happening inside Sienne, though, right?”
“Can’t we just leave that for tomorrow?”
Naesala closes his eyes and listens to the hushed calls of nocturnal birds and jittering moth wings for a moment. Tomorrow, he ponders. Spending the night in Serenes is an inconvenience he tries to avoid whenever he comes back, something Leanne usually berates him for. Leanne. He could thank her for the shirt if he stayed until morning, and then he would have to stay at least until early evening for the sun’s vigor to wear off, and he might even exchange a few tense words with Reyson in between. Lovely. Naesala opens his eyes again, pupils adjusting to the dim light.
“I left my shirt on the clearing,” he says. Tibarn watches him from beneath heavy eyelids.
“That’s not an answer.”
“Well, it’s my answer.”
“You’re annoying,” Tibarn says, “and I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
“I want to get a tree tattooed,” Naesala says suddenly, aware that he is not making much sense. “You asked me before, right? I’ve thought about it for a while, and I don’t really know if I have the right to… to make that mine, you know? The forest. But if you’re asking about future tattoos, that would be it.”
He expects Tibarn to joke about it maybe, to brush his hesitation off, but what he was not expecting was for the hawk king to look offended. Eyebrows drawn together, Tibarn pushes his chair back and stares Naesala down.
“If you have the right? You get a horse tattoo and wonder if you have the right to wear a tree on your body when all of our people, your people, have moved to Serenes? I don’t get you, Naesala, I really don’t. Tattoo an entire forest across your arse for all I care –“
“Tibarn –“ Naesala tries to interrupt, but the hawk presses on.
“No one here would believe for a second that you have no place on these lands. These trees belong to you as much as any other bird laguz out there, and frankly I’m tired of this whole self-punishment thing you’ve got going on. Just stay the night, at least speak to Reyson and Leanne tomorrow, and then get that tree tattoo if you want it.”
He huffs out a breath, arms crossed in front of his wide chest. “There, I’ve said my piece. Now let us eat or I will actually punch you. And if you have new ink on your body next time, show it to me.”
“Damn, you ever consider taking an anger management class?” Naesala scoffs, but a small smile tugs on his lips despite his sinking guts. He has nothing to say for himself, no belated defense when Tibarn’s words have already hit right home, but something tells him that maybe he doesn’t need to make up an excuse right now. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tibarn has already moved to stand by the archway that leads out of the patio, oil lamp in hand. His tan skin looks golden under the light.
“Shut up, crow. Let’s go.”
“So you’re gonna ask if you can touch the new tattoo then?”
“That depends on the placement.” Tibarn smirks and Naesala brushes his wingtip against his warm shoulder as he steps outside.
“I’ll think of something,” he says into the darkness in front of him, and when he starts walking the rhythm of Tibarn’s footsteps matches his own.
(He searches for the same gruff tiger in Melior and asks him for a poplar tree on his calf. Months later, he returns to Serenes during fall season and finds that Leanne has sewn him two new dress shirts and a coat. He doesn’t take off his leather boots, but he describes the tattoo to Tibarn and their knees knock against each other under the table. Naesala has always preferred colder weather; ever since he was born on the unforgiving stones of an island cliff, he grew up with harsh winds whipping ocean salt into his eyes. It is the first in a series of small victories to admit that the colors of changing leaves can bring their own kind of comfort.)