The thought of Mordeleg getting clobbered with a well-peeled tree trunk tucked a grin into Tokela’s cheek.
“Look at me, Tokela.”
Uncertain, Tokela did so. Našobok still hunched on the bank, resting his forearms on his knees. But he had taken up the hareKin mask, was twirling ša in his fingers.
“Ai,” he ventured, very soft. “In thisNow you bear a very different face than when we Danced.” A frown teased at Našobok’s brow as he considered the mask, almost thoughtfully.
Tokela found he’d talk for this as well; still awkward, but there. He gestured to the mask. “It was that face.”
“Was it?” Našobok’s eyes met Tokela’s own, darksight glinting in the full Moons flickering through the trees. Long heartbeats spun out, heavy yet underlain with the soft soothe of the Riverling’s song.
Tokela looked away. It seemed a nest of viperKin lay writhing in his belly, all coils and tiny, stinging fangs.
“Do you always run to Her?”
He didn’t have to ask, he knew what Našobok meant. Forbidden, but this more sweet than rue; Našobok’s voice held a low and reverent quiver, which the Riverling—and so River—somehow echoed. She lapped at Tokela’s belly, soothing and startling both. He was beginning to wonder if She had always been present, outwards and inwards, even before the tides of Changing had begun flowing through him, before…
Before the t’rešalt. Before Chepiś.
Panic rose then flirted itself dry within him. There was nowhere left to run. And Našobok’s expression held: open, accepting.
Does She speak to you, too?
Sometimes… I think She does.
Neither did Našobok turn away; he just kept squatting there, chin on forearms, arms about bent knees and toes digging into the sand. The steady regard should have been uncomfortable, a warning flare within Tokela’s Spirit—too close, too close to your secrets. Instead, it held comfort.
Našobok was here. Even as Anahli, somehow, had been. Listening. Not judging. Not waiting with white-rimmed eyes for the half-breed to do something Other. Just… Here.
And it tumbled forth. Not what Tokela truly meant to speak, but nonetheless what lay within his heart. “I didn’t know Mordeleg was following me. I should have… paid attention. Inhya’s right about that.”
Našobok seemed puzzled.
“He saw the mask’s Power, too. Just as you did.”
“You keep making such talk. If you mean there was nothing of you in Dance, I don’t believe you.”
“Then you don’t understand what a mask is for.”
Našobok’s eyebrows went up. He reared back, ever so slightly, then rolled forwards to sit on his bent knees. The clouds veiling Sister and Brother Moons gusted aside, pooling their light downwards.
There were still smears of oil on Našobok’s chest and thighs, catching light as he shifted. Tokela went weak-kneed just with the sight of him. Particularly where oil splotched a faint scrim over the tattoo on his belly, particularly where it glittered on that beringed nipple. Particularly considering he had gotten the oil from Tokela’s own skin.
Wind blew across Tokela’s neck, a light touch that set warmth first, then wet chill. He shivered. “You were raised here.”
“I was indeed.” It was wry; Našobok gently tossed the mask back onto the bank. “I understand masks better than you might think.”
“Then you should believe me. Should know. It’s easy to… better to… when none knows wha—who—you are. Even you. When you saw me, you stopped. Because it was me. You saw the mask, not me, and when… when I…” Talk started to tangle again, unwieldy and untrustworthy; Tokela repeated, “The mask.”
“The mask only covered up part of you—”
“The important part, obviously.”
“N’da.” A sudden grin. “N’da, not really.”
“You’re making fun.”
“Only a little.”
“Is…” Tokela’s throat closed up, tight; he made it work. “You wish we hadn’t. You… touched me, made Dance with me, and…” The memory of that rose him again, here and now, cool Riverwater merely a support for what was kindling just beneath Her surface. “Now you pity me.”
“Tokela!” It was a growl. “How can you possibly think—?”
“I know I’m… odd. I know I don’t look like anyone else.”
“Sink me! Of course you don’t look a’Naišwyrh. You look a’Šaákfo. There’s an entire tribe of firstPeople with your look, cousin. Your mother’s blood cam from dusk as much as dawn. How can you not know this?”
Tokela squinched his eyes against a sudden, humiliating sting.
“Have you even bothered to ask? Ai, Tokela.” Našobok lurched to his feet, running hands over his face and chasing back through his hair. “Has it truly come to pass no one has told you how lovely you are?”
And Tokela didn’t know what to say to that. Had little breath to make an answer even if adequate talk would glide from his tongue. Instead his chest heaved and hot, sparse trails spilled salt-wet down over his cheeks. It was only then he realised he was weeping. But silent; as silent as his throat.
An utterly foul curse from the bank, then a slosh and rush of steps surging as quickly as they could into hip-deep water.
“Ai, sink me is right, you’ve already sunk me too far. Just drown me this time and be done with it, leave my bones to wash up on a blighted shore.” A growl and grumble, and before Tokela could turn around, Našobok’s hard arms had wrapped around him and yanked him close. “I really don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone cry as fetchingly as you.”
Tokela suddenly didn’t care what weakness it betrayed, what tale it told if he should submit, only that he could, that he wanted to. He set his teeth against Našobok’s forearms, sucked in a breath that strained against the tight hold, then reached up and gripped back, slender, strong fingers digging into hard tendons.
“You think I saw a mask?” Našobok’s whisper was almost angry. “I saw beauty and grace that made my heart leap. You were a wilding current, pulling me in your wake.” Našobok bent closer still—Tokela hadn’t thought it possible—and whispered against his
