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kasihyaThe Apocalypse happened. There are a dozen survivors, who are locked inside Yggdrasil House. As a pan-dimensional house, it's the only durable safe house during the storms of magic. The survivors are: Matt Xanatos, Diana Richards, Kephri Hekt', Enya, Julian dn Arasia, Reed Henry, Neil Glass, Stephen Semprevivo, Tanwen Oboureon, Naike Oboureon, Nyali, and Čhatma. While I was writing out a scene in my notebook, I noticed that Čhatma and Nyali ended up bonding a bit during the time when the house's babelfish magic was working. Then Sky Is Over by Serj Tenkian came on my music player while I was thinking about it, and I just started crying. So I guess you could say it's songfic.
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Nyali is crying when Čhatma gets to their room, sobbing uncontrollably. He is curled up on what should have been Čhatma's bed in a fetal position, holding his head like it's about to come off. He isn't wailing; he is trying to muffle the sobs as much as he can.
Čhatma doesn't know what to do. He can't deal with this; he just lost his entire fucking family, he just lost his best friend, how is he supposed to offer comfort to someone he can't even communicate with? He wants to sit and cry himself. And he can't be selfish; there's no time for that.
Čhatma goes to sit on the bed next to Nyali. He inches closer, and remembers how the boy responded positively when he hugged him earlier. So he nudges him, and picks him up, wraps his arms around Nyali's thin, shaking shoulders. Nyali doesn't look at him; he keeps his face hidden, but he leans against Čhatma and continues to cry. Čhatma desperately wishes that he knew any Uzoma, any Yasuin, anything that would help this person. He buries his face in Nyali's greasy, unkempt hair and squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel the tears coming in his own eyes. Nyali nods under his cheek.
They hug each other and cry for God only knows how long. It's … good. They cry together for their lost homes and their lost families and their lost friends. The front of Čhatma's shirt gets all wet from Nyali's tears, but it's okay, he hates clothing anyway.
Čhatma stops first; he's not much one for crying, although he's going to start again if he thinks of anyone in particular for too long. He finds that it helps to focus on Nyali. The boy is very, very thin and bony, and tiny; Čhatma would guess that he's about ten years old, if that. He strokes his hair, and rocks back and forth. It worries him, that he is feeling so protective of the Kasihya boy, and wonders if it's creepy the way that Julian says it is.
When Nyali's sobs have died down to sniffles, he lifts his head. His eyes are puffy, which is to be expected, and bloodshot. He looks up at Čhatma and gives a very shaky smile, and says something in his language.
'I'm going to learn to talk to you,' Čhatma says. It gives him a goal in life, to keep him moving. That is always necessary. 'You need more people to talk to than those two crazies.'
Nyali frowns, casting his gaze downward. 'Tsuya,' he says.
'Tsuya,' Čhatma repeats. 'Wasn't that your brother's name, didn't you say?'
'Tsuya jaka ekomir.'
Čhatma nods. He holds up his index and middle finger, crossed. 'Nyali?' he says, pointing to one finger, and, 'Tsuya?' pointing to the other.
Nyali gives him a slightly firmer smile. 'Eh.Ijaka ekomir.'
'It's a start, I guess,' says Čhatma. He smiles at Nyali, and hugs him again on impulse.
'Sabya,' says Nyali.'Eh?'
'Sabya?'
Nyali repeats the crossed-finger motion, and puts down his middle finger. 'Sabya Nyali,' he says, smile gone as he points to the remaining finger.
'Lonely,' Čhatma interprets. He speaks to him in Lahed-Samekh, his own language. He realizes that he is the only person on the entire Rift World who speaks it now, even if it's comforting to know that there are people on Mamra who still do, and who are still alive. But they're not likely to be people he knows, and he doesn't want to think about that right now. 'Sleep,' he says to Nyali, flopping back on the bed. Nyali hesitates, and lies back with him. Then he realizes something else, and has to get up to turn out the lights overhead, which are run on what Willow — no, don't think about Willow — called 'electricity'. They flick out, and he lies back down.
'Sleep,' repeats Nyali, and they do.
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Nyali is crying when Čhatma gets to their room, sobbing uncontrollably. He is curled up on what should have been Čhatma's bed in a fetal position, holding his head like it's about to come off. He isn't wailing; he is trying to muffle the sobs as much as he can.
Čhatma doesn't know what to do. He can't deal with this; he just lost his entire fucking family, he just lost his best friend, how is he supposed to offer comfort to someone he can't even communicate with? He wants to sit and cry himself. And he can't be selfish; there's no time for that.
Čhatma goes to sit on the bed next to Nyali. He inches closer, and remembers how the boy responded positively when he hugged him earlier. So he nudges him, and picks him up, wraps his arms around Nyali's thin, shaking shoulders. Nyali doesn't look at him; he keeps his face hidden, but he leans against Čhatma and continues to cry. Čhatma desperately wishes that he knew any Uzoma, any Yasuin, anything that would help this person. He buries his face in Nyali's greasy, unkempt hair and squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel the tears coming in his own eyes. Nyali nods under his cheek.
They hug each other and cry for God only knows how long. It's … good. They cry together for their lost homes and their lost families and their lost friends. The front of Čhatma's shirt gets all wet from Nyali's tears, but it's okay, he hates clothing anyway.
Čhatma stops first; he's not much one for crying, although he's going to start again if he thinks of anyone in particular for too long. He finds that it helps to focus on Nyali. The boy is very, very thin and bony, and tiny; Čhatma would guess that he's about ten years old, if that. He strokes his hair, and rocks back and forth. It worries him, that he is feeling so protective of the Kasihya boy, and wonders if it's creepy the way that Julian says it is.
When Nyali's sobs have died down to sniffles, he lifts his head. His eyes are puffy, which is to be expected, and bloodshot. He looks up at Čhatma and gives a very shaky smile, and says something in his language.
'I'm going to learn to talk to you,' Čhatma says. It gives him a goal in life, to keep him moving. That is always necessary. 'You need more people to talk to than those two crazies.'
Nyali frowns, casting his gaze downward. 'Tsuya,' he says.
'Tsuya,' Čhatma repeats. 'Wasn't that your brother's name, didn't you say?'
'Tsuya jaka ekomir.'
Čhatma nods. He holds up his index and middle finger, crossed. 'Nyali?' he says, pointing to one finger, and, 'Tsuya?' pointing to the other.
Nyali gives him a slightly firmer smile. 'Eh.Ijaka ekomir.'
'It's a start, I guess,' says Čhatma. He smiles at Nyali, and hugs him again on impulse.
'Sabya,' says Nyali.'Eh?'
'Sabya?'
Nyali repeats the crossed-finger motion, and puts down his middle finger. 'Sabya Nyali,' he says, smile gone as he points to the remaining finger.
'Lonely,' Čhatma interprets. He speaks to him in Lahed-Samekh, his own language. He realizes that he is the only person on the entire Rift World who speaks it now, even if it's comforting to know that there are people on Mamra who still do, and who are still alive. But they're not likely to be people he knows, and he doesn't want to think about that right now. 'Sleep,' he says to Nyali, flopping back on the bed. Nyali hesitates, and lies back with him. Then he realizes something else, and has to get up to turn out the lights overhead, which are run on what Willow — no, don't think about Willow — called 'electricity'. They flick out, and he lies back down.
'Sleep,' repeats Nyali, and they do.
