The day of fishing and herb gathering is good. The roasting and soup experiment is good. The days are so good.
Which makes it more bitter, to be so damaged. To clock upright at maximum force in the middle of the night with the sensation of the ribcage caving in around a kick and the limbs pulling from the sockets. Fortunately, Flyndt had rolled off of him at some point in sleep, and is not catapulted across the room. He does shift and stir at the movement/loud gasping, but Foxen quickly brushes a shaking hand down his back and scalp, rasping, “Go back to sleep,” and it’s so fast that bleary sunset eyes drop closed again at approximately the same time the lifted head plops back down. Flyndt curls into the space Foxen vacates as the body practically levitates from the sheets. He wishes to kiss him and to stay.
But movement is required. He goes to check the perimeter.
Pauses. Retreats. Yanks on undergarments. Resumes perimeter check.
Their room is clear. Balcony: clear, but insufficient sightlines. Hallway clear. Lobby: clear. Outside: clear, with civilian activity still ongoing in quiet tasks of carts pulling to market long before dawn or social drinking with small cups of rice wine from the previous night still flowing late. The liminal hours.
The body goes back inside. The Foxen checks on Flyndt again, watches him sleep, breathing, for 26 minutes while vibrating in place. Then: more movement. 32 minutes of calisthenics with the table lifted and set quietly aside, as pushing would be too much noise. Then: 48 minutes of practice with each of the new weapons. Then: stretches, cool down.
By that time, the face is no longer wet with tears, the eyes have stopped leaking, and the respirations are rapid from exercise but not erratic from panic. The sweat is hot, not cold. The tremors still.
- The mind is less quiet. In the dark, he broods at himself as he cleans off and dresses. The vacation is perfect, the most perfect it can be, and the surprise of the day is a sour pit of bile lodged behind his teeth, risen gorge. In the dark, he wishes viciously to be more normal, healthier, unfucked in the head.
But he isn’t. He’s a broken piece trying to fit. Just like how Selen is an ill-fitting suit for Flyndt while this place is more like Omwat, better for him, closer to his home. Foxen has tried to tailor their house and their yurt and their food and all of it to match better, to be better, closer, homelier, safer, all without crossing the line into anything that could be too much; anything that would create social obligation, coercion, pressure on Flyndt to stay when he is going to leave. When he owes nothing. When he is free.
Foxen is broken. And he is pressure. And maybe this surprise is too much. Maybe this vacation was too much. If the Han'duwil had the concept of a honeymoon – honeymoon, echoes Minnie’s voice – then surely Flyndt would already be uncomfortable by comparable contextualizing.
Ugh what if the surprise is not good.
This is the problem with them. One cannot determine consent for surprises. Or discuss anxieties. Error. Intent.
Ugh, ugh, ugh.
He goes into the kitchen.
By the time Flyndt stirs, it is late morning; the long days of travel and good but busy activity necessitate hard sleep. Foxen drifts into the bedroom and curls there beside while the Omwati’s breathing changes, then quickens as he wakes.
“Bapti?” Is the grumbled coo. A yawn. Stretch. Then sniffing. “Hmm. Smells.” Another blink, and then sitting up in more alertness, reaching for him. Flyndt touches his face after a yes signal to a raised eyebrow. “Lots of different smells. You had bad night?”
The eyes want to leak again. The heart is sideways somewhere in the spleen direction. He leans into the touch, damning himself for the depth of the want of it.
- To be this known.
Dreamt. Pit Things, he answers, not actually the two separate words, but a shorthand sign they’d made, combining P- and -shit.
Flyndt frowned, then leaned up and touched their foreheads together.
“Need stay in today, hoo? What is word…not do.”
Cancel, C-A-N-C-E-L, Cancel, he supplied, and shook his head. Deny. Absolutely not. Have to go today. See nomads.
He would chew off another finger before he let Flyndt miss that.
His Home squinted at him, but huffed and nodded affirmative. Then, “Well…what cook, then?”
To be so, so Known.
Foxen showed him, presenting six different fusion dishes and one replicated purely Nousu one. And he still had all the hours until the speeder pick up at lunchtime.
“Maybe see if workers want some?” Flyndt wondered to the sheer amount of food. Foxen nodded. They could pass out things. Offer some to the Jins, Longshun, any day staff.
Eventually there was getting ready and dressed. Thankfully Flyndt’s typical attire was flexible and would still be suited to surprise riding. Foxen chose not to think about drawing and quartering and other oh so fun arena topics. This would be another good day. Nomads. Flyndt’s sort of people. Like Gaile. Unlike him. And his damage. And not wanting it near Gaile. And–
Mild percussive maintenance necessary and completed. Flyndt poked his head out from the bathroom at the smacking sound, but Foxen just waved at him. They finished up.
Once they had packed and quadruple-chcked every conceivable supply they might need for the overnight trip, F² sent a message to Longshun to see if they might meet with the lodge staff. Longshun answered in the affirmative, so the boys bundled the ✨dishes✨ down to the staff break room at the lodge and tourism centre’s main hub.
Longshun greeted them there, as did Meihua, who was dressed in the typical restaurant chef’s uniform. The kitchen was just coming off the lunch rush at this time of day, and the lodge staff were both stunned and thrilled to have an entire spread just appear out of thin air. Some of them asked after the details of the ✨dishes✨, especially the fusion versions using techniques unfamiliar to them. Unfortunately, the discussion was cut short by F²’s timetable and the staff’s need to do their jobs, but Meihua assured everyone she would collate questions to pass along. (Meihua hadn’t yet returned the paperwork Foxen had sent her the previous day, but the assumption of future contact gave a clue as to her intentions.)
Once the impromptu lunch party was over, F² gathered their belongings and went to their appointed pickup spot near the front doors of the lodge. Their driver was to be someone named Ganzorig. A few minutes after the scheduled time, a speeder truck older than most people F² knew rumbled to a stop, and a stocky man a head taller than Flyndt climbed out. When he spotted the two offworlders, he offered a waem grin and waved cheerfully.
“Sain baina uu! You are Foxen and Flyndt, yes? I am Ganzorig. Come, put bags in truck.” The truck’s cargo area was already stocked with daily living supplies like electronics and grain products, making F²’s belongings seem small by comparison. Then they bundled into the vehicle and set off for the nomad settlement.
✨Plains✨.
Almost as soon as they left Shanjiaoxia, the terrain opened up into grasslands as far as even Foxen’s eye could see. There was the odd thicket of trees here and there, but the majority was open space and clear skies that made the world feel enormous.
“So what brings you out to the plains? We don’t see many offworlders.”
With the morning’s broodingruminations still fresh in mind, Foxen felt no need to answer. The opposite, in fact: hesitance. Minnie’s voice still ricocheted in his mind, along with the shrapnel lines of Flyndt’s sleepy face twisting in a defensive frown, protesting the assumption that Gaile would have negative thoughts about him. Not honeymoon. Not boyfriend. Not partners. But courting. Taking vacation.
So banal a term. Vacation.
What brought them to the plains? A food tour? A cultural curiosity? On the surface. But deeper, truer: a longing for a home Flyndt had lost, left, spurred by the saving of his stolen sibling. A wish to reconnect him to his roots even the tiniest bit, where Foxen’s own house and auspices were facsimiles and aberrations, violations. A bandage over a bullet hole, as one of his sister’s favorite lyrics went.
Hope, maybe.
Red eyes clocked back from the endless rolling horizons to sunset Home, to the driver’s occipital suture, to their hands. His fingers twitched as if with answer. One that would need translating. Burdensome. And to speak for them both would be incorrect. That couldn’t be his place.
If only vast undisrupted plains of the same vegetation/elevation were more visually distracting.
Foxen lifted his gaze to Flyndt and rolled his shoulders in a shrug, nodding at their chauffeur, as if to say, you go?
Crimson feathers rippled in the wind as they traversed across the grasslands. Flyndt had raised a hand to brush back the couple stray strands when the question came. Habitually, his sunset gaze met Foxen’s crimson, always keen to check with him, listening. A small nod and light smile to the shrug and offer. Balancing to the jostling that comes from the hoover of an elder speeder, a familiar sensation, he glanced over to Ganzorig.
“To get away,” he said simply.
An unintentional bump into Foxen’s elbow just from the movement of the vehicle, prompted him to perhaps elaborate on that. His mottled tongue clicked against his beak, inked lips pressing together thoughtfully. “Hoo, a vacation, yes? Friend of ours invited to visit her, see her business. But also, we wanted to witness and learn of the people here, see their cultures, yes?”
“Ahh. Well, we got lots of culture,” Ganzorig chuckled. “You’re just in time for a feast, too. One of our mares just foaled out of season, so we’re celebrating and praying for its health through the winter.”
“Anything in particular you want to know about us?”
‘To get away.’
In the 3.714 second pause that follows the statement, the mind clicks and cascades, shifting from absorption of the perfect frame that is: Flyndt, wind whipping his feathers and crest back, sunset eyes lost in a melancholy of sheer, displaced belonging, the horizon above and the grasses a smear of color below complimenting his olive, mauve-marked skin.
The cascade follows:
Get away from what?
What if Flyndt wanted to get away from him?
But that is illogical. It was Flyndt who suggested this trip together. Most likely possiblity: the shitshow that accompanied the Clan and ghost armies in alternate dimensions.
But also what if it’s the house–
Their elbows bumped, and that familiar, beloved tongue-beak click-clack arrested the program’s hallucinations. Process paused. Errored. Restarted.
He loves that hoo so much, fuck.
What were they talking about like undamaged stable people? A feast?
A foal?
Oh.
Oh this is excellent.
His cheeks pull back in a smile that he notes Ganzorig blanch at when the driver glances back at their pause. He quickly quells it before suspicion can arouse and narrows red eyes at the Mari man. The surprise is meant to stay intact.
Don’t you ruin this by being chatty, pal.
The unfriendly expression is perhaps more suiting to what Flyndt would expect when he turned to check in. Again, Foxen’s chest is tight from the warmth and weight of exposure. Of just living, walking about every day, with his chest flayed, ribs exposed, heart there bare for viewing…but only to Flyndt. (Okay, and some to his family. Confirm. Ridiculous, too wonderful, too-kind doofuses.)
-
That Flyndt is checking on him.
The earlier brief of anxiety seems even stupider.
The Nautolan softened his features, gaze adoring as he held up their, O.K., assuring first before gesturing further. His own signs were slow, easing, touching at Flyndt’s arm and sleeve between vowels, as if to fold them into the fabric, just for them.
It will be O.K. Suspected animals would be present, with described lifestyle. Are you excited? For the foal, F-O-A-L, foal? Can tell him for me, congratulations, typically such things are good omens, yes?
The pause on Flyndt’s face as he blinked made it abundantly clear that he had not made the same connection. His own mind was backtracking with the realization that he should have. He sighed lightly in relief and pleasant surprise, his hands repeating the O.K. They habitually also replicated the foal sign, making a note to recall the new word.
‘Yes, good omens,’ Flyndt nodded. ‘Will share for you, and yes…curious of it. Young is…how Minnie say?’ He paused, then raised a hand to his chin and stroked two fingers on his chin twice. ‘Cute.’
Smiling, Flyndt turned back to Ganzorig. “Foxen says congratulations, to Foal. That is good to hear and wish it well. What do you raise?”
Foxen smiled, happy that Flyndt would find something cute. Positive serotonin development. He looked to their driver.
“Aduu are the most important animal to the Khunnu. There are more aduu than people on the plains. Khyatad call them ma,” Ganzorig explained, as the speeder truck rattled over the grasslands. “Aduu are strong-spirited, but kind. They allow us to travel and hunt, brought us victory in war, even feed us with milk.”
From context clues, F² could glean that khyatad was the nomad word for those who lived in Shanjiaoxia and spoke that language, just as the residents of Shanjiaoxia had referred to the “Mari”. Someone in the city had mentioned that mari meant “horse-sun”, so ma must be “horse”, or something similar.
“We also have sarlag, khoni, and yamaa. Mao niu, yang, and shan yang in Khyatad. They like to use the same words for different things,” Ganzorig laughed. “All three give us milk and meat. Sarlag pull carts with our belongings. Khoni and yamaa give wool to make clothes and ger.”
For the rest of the speeder ride, Ganzorig answered F²’s (and especially Flyndt’s) undoubtedly endless questions, stopping only when Foxen marvelled at Flyndt while Flyndt marvelled at the terrain. The vast sky and lush grasslands were, aside from a disappointing lack of koskoto, pleasantly similar to the savannahs of Omwat.
When they arrived at the Khunnu camp, Ganzorig enlisted F² in helping to unload the speeder’s cargo under the pretext of giving them a tour. The nomads seemed a bit more hesitant to engage with the offworlders than the residents of Shanjiaoxia had been, though they were always cordial with their greetings and thanks as Ganzorig and F² made their deliveries. Foxen did spot a pleasant number of hunting weapons, both “modern” blaster rifles and slugthrowers of similar design to others he’d encountered in his travels. Ganzorig had mentioned using them from orbak-back.
There were also animals… a lot of animals. Besides the orbaks (which Ganzorig confirmed were aduu), there were yaks (sarlag), sheep (khoni), and goats (yamaa). Most of wandered freely around the outskirts of the camp or stayed near their designated keepers, but a few of the juvenile animals (especially the lambs and kids, when their mothers allowed them away) were both curious and entirely too comfortable around people.
At least the livestock didn’t seem to be allowed in the dwellings, which the Khunnu called ger, but were essentially yurts. In the course of their deliveries, Ganzorig showed F² to where they would spend the night. The structure was spacious but not opulent, most likely converted from a larger family dwelling. It also contained a chemical toilet and private bathing amenities, sparing F² from the awkwardness of communal hygiene facilities.
Once the deliveries were done and F² had had a chance to settle in, Ganzorig circled back to check on them. “There’s a few hours yet before we start making the feast. The tourism board folks said you wanted to try riding an orbak. This is the best time for a leisurely ride—tomorrow’ll be busier. You can see the new foal, too, if Mama lets us.”
Foxen shot Ganzorig another look that would peel platisteel. So much for a romantic ✨ reveal ✨, but tactival flexibility.
Turning to his partner, Foxen knelt so they’d be on level, offering a small smile Flyndt would know as shy, at least on the Nautolan hybrid.
Surprise, he gestured, fanning nine scarred digits and shaking both scarred hands in celebratory expression. If his hands were also shaking-shaking with the sheer plethora of animal stock, well. I thought you might like the taste of real home.
Leather-clad hands caught Foxen’s when he finished signing his piece, stilling them as Flyndt leaned forward. Those heliotrope eyes – in both color and the way they are the sun to turn to – fixed on the Nautolan-Chagrian’s, searching. He opened his mouth to say something but closed it, the rise of emotion drowned out his thoughts like the swell of river rapids in the spring’s melt. The leap from nomads having animals to also riding was not that far of one. Yet, this act was vastly more than that, especially after he reminded himself the ‘taste of home’ wasn’t literal. This was another deep consideration, a knowing of him and his life.
And if Foxen felt a brush of emotions grace his psyche while he willed some way of expressing them, then so be it.
“You…made this? Hoo, arranged?” Flyndt leaned back a bit, still hunched towards Foxen with a hand latched with one much larger. A small crooked smile graced his lips, free hand gesturing down from his chin, “I, thank you. I do, very much like.”
Flyndt squeezed the hand he held, pausing, “Will you…? Earlier said it will be O.K., still?”
As sure as fingertips pressed to lips, the hands holding his gently demanded silence while simultaneously offering the much more common steadying of sea in storm. That swell, thawmelt, a cresting wave over pebbled banks– it was like a rescue breath, passing from Flyndt to Foxen, joyappreciationdamnationinBeingKnown.
He inhaled, slightly loosening the vice of anxiety in his chest that had commenced tightening 1 kg/cm² per second since they parked. Then, nodding. A simple flex of the fist not being held to say, yes.
Yes, he’d arranged this.
And.
And Flyndt liked it!
✨ Very much.✨
Foxen squeezed back, gently, then turned over their hands so that he could press a kiss to leather-covered knuckles. He held up their sign, O.K.
Then adding, with necessary finger spelling out just to not let go:
Don’t think I can ride. But O.K. Wait here for you. Always. Want you enjoy.
When F² were finished their exchange, Ganzorig led them to… well, an open field, since the Khunnu didn’t really believe in penning their animals. The space was marked with a large creek and boulder. Several orbaks grazed nearby, dragging their snouts through the grass without a care in the galaxy. Ganzorig let out a warbling whistle, and one of the orbaks—a roan with a white mane and a large black spot on its side—lifted its head and sauntered towards the trio.
“This old mare’s very gentle. Good for a first-time rider,” Ganzorig said. The mare stopped beside Ganzorig, a few long paces away from F². She pricked her ears forward and flared her nostrils as she studied the newcomers, but otherwise seemed about as concerned with the offworlders’ presence as your average Shame Corner employee, even returning to grazing in front of them.
Ganzorig patted the mare’s snout and opened a large trunk, revealing a collection of orbak-riding equipment beyond the narrator’s expertise. The nomad eyed Flyndt, then selected a medium-sized saddle. “We’ll have to rig something up for you if you want to ride,” he said to Foxen as he fastened the mare’s tack. “Khunnu don’t get as tall as you.”
With the tack secured, Ganzorig—if Foxen didn’t do so first—helped Flyndt into the mare’s saddle. “Here’s how you hold the reins so they don’t get tangled up,” he instructed. “Don’t worry about guiding her; I’ll make sure we don’t go too far.”
Then Ganzorig whistled again, this time more of a trill than a warble, and a maroon orbak trotted over. The nomad repeated the saddling process with the second animal, allowing Flyndt time to just get accustomed to being on orbak-back.
No sooner had Ganzorig secured the girth and come around the old orbak’s head did a shadow fall over Flyndt. He turned to find Foxen crouching beside him, being very still and all too keenly keeping the tusks behind him in his peripheral. A soft hoo escaped the Omwati, surprised was an understatement. To see his lover so close to a creature, willingly. This was far closer than the Nautolan-Chagrian has even been to Drakor! One thing to sign his partner up for riding, but this? More than endeared by the willingness to push past the bar of comfort, security and safety.
‘May I offer a boost up?’ Foxen asked.
Flyndt nodded in affirmative, adding in a quick “Yes, thank you” then stepping into two large laced together hands. Foxen easily and smoothly gave him a leg up, the avian’s vest coat’s woven fabric drapping loosely over the saddle. A palm gently padded his thigh and before it could retreat, Flyndt snagged the hand, drawing it in for a quick press to his lips. He let go with a gestured ‘ILU’ and watched Foxen retreat to a place to watch as Ganzorig tacked up his own ride.
The tri-colored mare shifted under him with a light huff, patiently waiting with her head low. Flyndt leaned forward and carded his fingers through the long fur. It was an odd sensation, good, but different than the lighter wiry feathers of the Taruku‘ manes back home. He kept the reins loose and himself relaxed. Not the most skilled rider in his clan, Flyndt was known in his youth for his tenacious determination, unflappable seat and balance. Yet in truth, it came down to connection and trust. He projected this forward now to the aduu mare, his palms pressed lightly on her withers and his eyes catching one of hers. A nudge against the creature’s mind.
He breathed in and the mare breathed out, chewing lightly on the bit in thought. A smile graced his lips in a hum as he gave the mare a pat and looked on to see if Ganzorig was ready.
Ganzorig had been born ready.
Well, maybe not literally, but the man was a nomad through and through. By the time Flyndt had synced up with the mare, Ganzorig was already mounted. He brought his orbak around to Flyndt’s other side so as not to trample Foxen, waiting a short distance away. “We’ll be back before long,” he called out to Foxen.
He also tossed a riding crop to Flyndt. “We let the horses set the pace when we aren’t in a rush. These two are relaxed, but if you need to urge her on, give her a tap on the haunches with that.”
Then, Ganzorig turned his orbak away from the Khunnu camp and into the open plains, leading Flyndt along at a relaxed trot.
Meanwhile…
If Foxen thought he would be left alone to brood, he was sorely mistaken.
A few minutes after Ganzorig and Flyndt set off—though not out of sight, the land was too flat for that—Foxen heard the thump-thump of tiny hooves. When he inevitably turned, the thump-thump became a clack-clack, and a creature jumped up on the rocks beside him.
Said creature was a medium grey goat kid with a white muzzle. To Foxen’s eye, it was likely the local version of the wool-producing animals he’d seen on other planets; Ganzorig had said they used several types of animal for wool. The kid sniffed at Foxen, then looked up inquisitively with its big, dark eyes.
Clearly, the animal was either too young, too brave, or too dumb to know a predator when it saw one. And yet, it still had the cuteness that all babies had–
“AAAAAAAAAA!”
Maybe Foxen had anticipated the scream. Maybe he hadn’t. Either way, it sounded remarkably like a humanoid child’s cry.
The kid bounced in circles around Foxen, clearly eager to play.
“See you soon,” Flyndt signed.
He turned and caught the tossed riding crop with ease and a twitch of feathers, subconsciously sensing the coming projectile. Listening to Ganzorig, he gave an affirming nod of understanding, then adjusted his hands on the reins to accommodate the whip. Flyndt followed after the man, or more the senior mare – with her years of training and countless rides – ambled behind her herdmate.
They treked away out into the open plains. The herd and gers grew smaller in the distance behind them, yet the sounds of voices and the livestock still drifted in the wind. Flyndt kept his seat, attempting to ride with the rise and fall of the orbak’s pacing. It was smoother the the stocky taruku back home but rockier than the aerial gliding of Drakor. He paused and breathed in the scent of green, of coming rain, and the heavy musk of animal.
“Ganzorig,” Flyndt asked, urging the mare to come up alongside the other man’s steed as they came upon a low rise in the steppe to ride along the top in a circle back towards camp. The Omwati glanced from the grassland to the Khunnu nomad. “May I try take her for a lope? Run?”
The man paused before chuffing and cracking a smile. He gave the maroon orbak he rode a half-halt to collect their jog, shifting his hands to prep for accompanying a possible wild gallop with the seemingly daring foreigner.“If she is willing to, may try.”
Flyndt smiled back and nodded. Turning back to the mare, he sat forward and wove his fingers into her mane. The white wild locks mirrored the threads of their connection lacing through his finger tips and the breeze left in their wake, willing and together. Heartbeats later and hooves were pounding over the grassland. A graceful gallop. Her fur waving and rippling like the grasses around them. He squeezed his calves around her girth and rose up in his seat just enough to feel the air rushing past, rustling his feathers but not his balance. .
Ganzorig kept pace easily, his younger orbak more fit and Flyndt not fully opening the mare up. Whether due to skill or respect was debatable. But the nomad humored it. After a couple moments of cantering, he whistled, snapping Flyndt’s attention away from the freedom of flying and slowing both Orbaks to a steady trot, then walk. Chuckling, he rode close enough to clasp the young man’s shoulder and then patting the mare’s afterwards. A shared nod before turning them back on course in a trot once more.
Flyndt sat back in his seat, catching his breath as he stroked her mane with silent thanks and appreciation. He let her walk a couple more paces before popping into a light job once more to return back to Foxen and the other Khunnu.
.
Watching Flyndt ride away is a frakking metaphor.
It’s a metaphor of oceans ripped between them, yawning ever larger, waiting. Of the retracting snap of space after supernova, collapsing back in on itself, swallowing all light, mass, gravity. Of building a life out of an empty house and watching the–
–Home walk away.
It is practice.
Like this morning, it is practice.
Let go.
He is beautiful. Free. Flying. His face is open and happy, uncreased, like it never is.
Let go.
Flyndt kicks the mare into a– gallop, that is the term. He’s researched for this. Like the Han'duwil. Like forging. Like building garden boxes and climbing lattices and the soil most suitable to drupes and the diets of gigantic chiroptera and the best junkyards in every system between Dajorra and the Core. The dyes and threads closest to those of Omwat if not the exact ones and the best rugs and puzzles by texture then color and which hoos mean breathe and which twitch of feathers are yes and no and… And none of it…
Please.
None of it is this.
He looks so happy.
Please.
He’s so close to happy.
Please–
-# Please, stay.
Let. Go.
This is practice.
It is a metaphor and it is practice. For when he will let go and Flyndt will walk away. And it is practice for when Flyndt will be happy again. Because he hasn’t let himself, not really, not since Gaile disappeared, likely not since his father died to protect him. This is practice for when Flyndt goes home again, and has his animals back, and rides them with his brother around their steppes and is with his people again.
- Sounds nearby compete for the rushing in his ears, the wind across the grass, the distant hoot of joy the Omwati releases unconsciously. Clattering, clacking.
Movement.
The smell of animal, mildly fetid, warm, musty.
Let go.
Red eyes rip from the sight of his soul spiriting away to the small creature before him. Blank, dumb black eyes. Round. It is objectively, 99% likely an adolescent of its species. Objectively not large enough to gore or drag the body. Objectively.
Objectively not large enough.
Decrease reparations. Decrease them. Let go.
The hand lets go of the knife and replaced it in its hiding spot. Just in time, too, as the infantile ruminant screams in his face.
Distance achieved: 3.5 m, velocity 2.3 m/s².
The creature stares.
And then is screams again and bounds after him, going in circles, as if this is hounding its prey to a more ideal location.
DENY.
Or objectively more likely: playing.
DENY WITH BAD GRACE.
The body forces an exhale three times. Forces itself to return to the rock and tolerate the bounding and leaping occuring, even when the bounding and leaping starts to involve the body being a springboard. How does the ruminate achieve sheer verticality up the body?
Unknown.
He grits his teeth and sits extremely still faster, even when the creature tries to headbutt him. Clearly not very intelligent. Their horns are not remotely similar.
He will be here. As promised. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for Flyndt.
Waiting for the day when he will be letting him go.
The vast Marid Plains held space despite their emptiness, filled with the presence of nothing. The wide-open skies and prairies were the perfect playground for galloping orbaks and thoughts to immerse themselves in.
The Khunnu herders had left Foxen alone. For one thing, they were busy. There were animals to be tended. Work to be done. No time for dilly-dallying, unlike those carefree city-dwellers. The offworlder wasn’t demanding attention, which was very considerate of him. The Khunnu also, frankly just didn’t quite know what to make of the massive horned man. Some of them sent inquisitive glances his way, but the rigours of daily life didn’t allow much time to contemplate anomalies, and they clearly had more survival instincts than the juvenile ungulates.
As Flyndt and Ganzorig returned to the staging ground, the emptiness reigned, broken only by the sound of hooves.
Many hooves.
Absurdly many hooves.
For while the two nomads had been busy with their orbak-back ride, several more young goats had joined the first. Rallied by the war-AAAAAAAAAA! of their mouthy grey ringleader, the herd of kids were running rampant over Foxen and his surroundings, using him as equal parts climbing wall, headbutting target, and springboard. After all, if he was going to sit as still as an oddly vibrating terrain feature, they might as well treat him like one.
The Marid Plains’ emptiness was broken by a peal of laughter as Ganzorig saw what fate had befallen Foxen. He clearly knew what “uncomfortable around animals” looked like, though, because he promptly hopped off orbak-back—giving Flyndt enough time to engrave the image of “Foxen bedecked with goat kids like a holiday tree” into his mind, or even snap a quick photo with his datapad—and began shooing the kids away.
The Omwati blinked and pulled the mare to a stop as he took in the sight, surprised and…endeared? Amused? Yes. The soles of his shoes slapped the ground as he slid off the saddle and followed after Ganzorig towards the frolicking gang. He stumbled-stepped to a stop, letting go of the orbak’s reins, who wandered a short distance away to eat grass happily.
“Foxen? You O.K.? All good?” Flyndt asked, checking in with a light caring trill.
Foxen’s red eyes and pierced brows were the only things that moved, zeroing in on Flyndt, having snapped to him the second his step skipped. He hadn’t been able to be present in watching the return, even as the eyes had followed the figures, the mind recording, all of him waiting, waiting.
Now his brows creased and rose, lips mouthing a silent, “help,” as he dared not move his arms to sign and draw more attention from the kids. His hands, flat against his rigid thighs, made the shape of a flattened Kesh alone– conveyance of not O.K. but ‘managing.’
A coo slipped from the shorter man before he nodded in understanding and stepped closer to the sitting Nautolan-Chagrian. He held out his hands, grasping them around Foxen’s one and helped pull him to his feet.
“Come, stand and no longer be good uh jungle gym? For them,” Flyndt paused and squeezed the hand in his, a conveyance of ‘I’m here. It’s okay. Stand here with me as needed.’
Objectively, especially to the stray glance of a busily working local, the stocky bird should not have been able to lift or assist the enormous shark-cum-goat jungle gym. But it was as though Flyndt was holding little more than one of his feathers, for the way Foxen flowed with him. It wasn’t easy; it was a great, terrible weight the Omwati bore in burden, this fear, the thousands of hours of abuse and trauma, the nightmares and inconveniences and senseless inconsistencies. But it was obvious that Flyndt was what was needed, the key to this lock…or perhaps more aptly, the other half of a pair of forged blades as one.
The Nautolan was gently pulled upright, disturbing the ✨ ascent ✨ of one spotted kid, who screamed as it plopped down and promptly got right back up and charged an errant flying insect. The squeeze of his hand was an anchor, was wings, tethering him down while uplifting to freedom and grace. Foxen squeezed back, bending down steeply to drop his head against a padded shoulder, inhaling the scent of his partner’s skin, only slightly polluted by that of the orabak.
He didn’t need to say thank you. It was in the curl of his spine, sheltering nearer to Home as the goats were herded or generally shoo’d. (And if one happened to be running off with an absconded knife in its mouth, well.)
Driven more by their own sparse attention spans than any Khunnu intervention, the goat kids stampeded off to… somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn’t where F² currently occupied. It didn’t really matter where; the important part was that the chaos had receded.
After chasing them away, Ganzorig sighed and shook his head, then returned to his guests. “I hope they weren’t too much of a nuisance. You know how kids are.” Then, to Flyndt: “How did you like the ride?”
Flyndt withdrew the hand that had snuck into the mass of tendrils waterfalling over both of their shoulders, gently nudging Foxen upright as he sensed Ganzorig approaching. A final brush of assurance mentally before he himself pivoted to face the nomad.
“It was good. Like flying over the grassland, embracing wild nature and lifting spirits. Reminded of home,” He replied, though his sunset gaze had drifted to the Nautolan-Chagrian beside him. The corners of his inked lips curled up in a warm thankful smile. Flyndt looked back to the Khunnu man with a nod, then the orbak mare happily grazing nearby. “I am not familiar with these creatures but they seem well trained and bred. Honored to meet them.”
Foxen’s lips curled up back, some of the knots of emotion in his chest emerging from the bloodbath of ripping one another apart snagging on to that smile and kneeling at its altar. Supping at the sacrament of successful surprise, of reminded of home.
This much, here now on Kasiya, he could do.
His fingers twitched, greedy for more, to ask and confirm, you are happy, love? This made you happy?
But he didn’t. Not with sunset eyes on the Khuunu and the orbak. There was more to be seen and had here. He didn’t want to draw any attention away from the tribe Flyndt could immerse in for a time. Instead he merely inclined his head to Ganzorig in a silent well-done.
Ganzorig returned Foxen’s nod, not quite understanding the context but knowing a sign of gratitude when he saw it.
“A Khun without a mor is like a bird without wings.” Ganzorig carried the two saddles back to the storage racks and secured them. “They’re how we look after our family. They feed us with milk and meat, clothe us with their hair, let us ride them for our daily work. Our legends even say a divine mor bore us on her back to this world across the stars. We’re nomads to the soul.” He laughed.
“It’s time to start preparing for the feast. Come, I’ll show you how we make food.”
If Foxen’s eyes returned to Flyndt and stayed there for this speech even when food was mentioned, well.
Who could blame him.
Flyndt listened intently as they gathered the gear, handing off the bridles once the saddles were stored away. He nodded in understanding with a smile, a moment of wonder by the bit of lore shared.
“They give so much, to be honored in legend like so,” the Omwati uttered. His feathers twitched and he glanced to Foxen at the mention of food, another smile. Another nod, “Okay, would love to see.”
By the time Ganzorig led F² back to the main Khunnu camp, the sun had started to sink below the horizon, and the air temperature had dropped several degrees. It was easy to see how this kind of environment encouraged people to huddle around a warm stove inside a tent.
Ganzorig guided the visitors into one of those tents, a large ger. Inside, four women and two men worked around a series of rectangular tables. Each looked up and waved cheerfully to the newcomers when the herdsman greeted them, but promptly returned to work. Some rolled dough out into large, flat sheets. Others broke down small-to-medium-sized animals into various cuts of meat, draining the animals’ blood into a large bucket and separating the meat and organs into different piles. Yet others minced some of the broken-down meat by hand, not unlike the aunties F² had seen at the Shanjiaoxia market, or sliced up long cabbages and root vegetables.
Ganzorig led F² to the vented side of the ger, where crates and barrels of foodstuffs and simple metal pots sat beside several fires. One of the fires already had a pot bubbling away, releasing a wonderful, surprisingly strong scent of meat. “Come, have suutei tsai.” Ganzorig beckoned for the pair to sit at a table near the fire. A couple of bowls of snacks sat atop the table. One contained deep-fried dough dusted with sugar, and the other held pebble-sized chunks of something dry and crumbly. As F² situated themselves, Ganzorig broke clumps of tea leaves off of a compressed block into a series of cups. Then came hot water, milk, and a small spoonful of white powder.
“Welcome to our home,” Ganzorig said, lifting his teacup in salutation before taking a sip. Upon tasting the offerings, F² would realise two things: the crumbly white chunks were dried cheese curds, and the powder in the tea was salt, not sugar.
If the tea preparation seemed odd to Foxen, he didn’t show as much; his typically granite-slab face was intent on everything, red eyes cataloguing with open interest. The time spent walking back to the camp in hand with Flyndt allowed some equilibrium restoration, such that the disorder measured only around 43%. He did not wave back to the villagers, but nodded to them, and watched their work, observing lamination or lack thereof in their dough and the techniques with which they cut and sorted meat. Nostrils flared, scenting the pots, and fingers twitched. He seemed, if anything, reluctant to merely sit and have refreshments when there was cooking ongoing.
Nonetheless however, as a guest, the hybrid inclined his horns and sat after his Home did, taking the tea once finished and tasting it. The savory flavor was not entirely expected but not a poor surprise either. It fit well enough with the profiles of the previous Khunnu-inspired foodstuffs they’d had. He tore himself from counting the crumbles of cheese over and over to attentively anticipate Flyndt’s reaction instead.
Flyndt lowered his cup of tea after gesturing to Ganzorig’s welcome in kind with a small smile on his lips. He sipped the tea, his brow shooting upwards in sudden surprise at the salty, almost brothy taste of it. So used to the sweeter drinks of the galaxy, it caught him off guard, and not unpleasantly so.
The powdered fried dough would have balanced the tea’s flavor, yet his attention zeroed in onto the basket of dried cheese curds. The Omwati helped himself without missing a beat, a faint trill of his tongue in excitement. He took a bite into the hard, brittle curd that crumbled in his mouth with a somewhat sour and salty taste.
“Mm, that is good. Missed this,” Flyndt muttered to himself with a content sign, sinking into the folded chair he sat on. After recovering from the initial blast of nostalgia of one of the only acceptable cheese forms in his books, he let his thumb brush over the patterned pressed into the floral-shaped disk with appreciation. He took another bite and shot Ganzorig a question, “This is made from the aduu‘s milk?”
“Depends what we have. This batch is mor milk—mor for one, aduu for group. Next is probably yamaa milk. Little yamaa were jumping on you,” he said to Foxen. “Their mothers are making more milk right now, so we use that.”
After another round of tea and treats, Ganzorig stood. “I hope you like soup. Khunnu can’t live without soup,” he said, sauntering over to one of the large pots atop a fire. He lifted the lid, and a swell of nerf scent came out, filling the entire ger. The broth quickly boiled down to reveal two halves of a nerf shank bone, with what Foxen would consider a shameful amount of meat left on them. On the other hand, the broth smelled more flavourful than many he’d had, so maybe it was done that way on purpose.
Ganzorig washed his hands in a nearby basin, then plucked the meaty bones out of the still-boiling pot and put it on a large tray. Holding the tray in one hand, he pulled a bowie knife from a sheath on his belt and cut chunks of the meat straight from the bone—the knife was apparently sharp enough that he didn’t need to hold the bone while cutting—and offered them to F² in turn. “Sorry to point a knife at you. This is ükher.”
The meat was entirely unseasoned, but still full of flavour. To Flyndt, it was as though he were eating from the essential idea of “nerf meat” which all other nerf meat tried to imitate. To Foxen’s palate, it would rank among the best free-range nerf he’d sampled, rich in flavour without being overly marbled with fat—almost like a cross between nerf and venison. There was also a tinge of something herbaceous, probably having to do with how the nerfs fed.
“Our animals graze naturally. Grass and medicinal plants,” Ganzorig said, confirming Foxen’s speculation. “One time, visitors came from across the mountains to try to sell their meat in Shanjaosha. I tried it. Very bland.” He laughed, cutting his own piece of meat off a bone and popping it into his mouth, then offered the tray with the bones to F². “Here, eat more. Do you have knives?”
Missed this, Flyndt said, with contentment and relaxation and wistfulness of depths Foxen had never seen before. Critical error. Critical intel.
Despite many experiments with cheeses (avoiding all of the melted, stringy variety), including hard and crumbling ones, this level of satisfaction has not been shown. Is it the cheese itself? The mor milk? The pasteurizing process? The emotional afterglow of the orbek ride? The tent they sit in, the plains air, the play of flavors of cheese combined with the tea?
Is the cheese a metaphor for the inevitable inadequacy of both himself and the temporary life he has tried to give Flyndt?
Too many variables.
Eat your fraking cheese, you ||redacted.||
He forces himself, even in his mind, to censor the vitriol. It is unproductive. There is good food. Good company: Flyndt. He is so sick of himself, of his having to fight to stay in these moments, of the constant back and forth of appreciation and angst, of the sheer effort it is taking to pretend to be healthy or O.K., even to the level of honesty that is O.K. with Flyndt, which is significantly less O.K. and still okay than with any other thing or person in existence.
It’s–
He ate his ükher. It was undeniably incredible, umami and clean, sweet ancient grasses, begging for more to melt on the tongue gone too soon. It also tasted like ash.
The smallest huff from Flyndt drew his attention. The Omwati’s lips didn’t curl up, but his right eye crinkled the way it always did with his trademark quiet amusement, causing the follow-up double blink of eyelids. Flyndt was almost always muted expressions; his quietest mirth looked like a micro-sneeze being held in. His beak made the tiniest click, as if lips trembling.
To be so known known known Known Known
It went round and round on repeat, white noise klaxons, relegated to the background. An adequate replacement for how his heartbeat raced in his ears.
He inclined his head to Ganzorig, drawing one of the many he’d brought today and passing Flyndt another. He took the plate and cut pieces, looking to his partner for permission or indication if the Omwati wanted to serve himself or be served.
Flyndt accepted the knife, welcoming the familiar shape of it in the curl of his palm. He sipped his feathered head and welcomed a shared sliver of the meat offered to him. The Omwati savored the nerf meat, the juices running down his bare fingers with his gloves now removed and tucked into his belt. His own knife sunk into the ükher after, slivering off another piece for Foxen and himself in turn, reciprocating.
Ganzorig’s eyes went wide for a moment—apparently he’d seen more of the ✨ knives ✨ that Foxen didn’t actually draw. “Ha! You’re like a man I met once, from a different tribe. Loved knives so much he collected them. He carried them around with him. Said it was too much work to unpack them all every time his tribe moved.”
“This will be guriltai shol,” Ganzorig said, replacing the lid of the pot. “Meat, some vegetables, and… uh, goimon. Forgot what offworlders call it.” He drew his index fingers away from each other in a horizontal line, then pointed to where one of the cooks was slicing dough into thin strips.
“Also make tavan tsuliin shol from insides. Over here.” With F² presumably carrying the tray of meat, Ganzorig led them to a table with one of the cooks who was mincing meat with aromatic vegetables. Beside her, there was an empty pot, a bucket of blood, a ladle, a ball of butcher’s twine, and a cutting board with chunks of fat and intestines that had been scalded and cleaned.
Ganzorig held up five fingers, ticking them off as he spoke. “Tavan means ‘five’, for liver, kidney, lungs, heart, blood. Tsuliin is this.” He held up the intestines. “We put tavan in here. The fat is too big for the tsuliin, so we put it inside the khodood with blood,” he said, pointing to the cleaned stomach. “Want to try?”
The meat offered back to him in symbolic reciprocity helped with Staying In the Moment. So did the beginning of food instruction. He briefly wondered at this other tribesman’s knife collection, and how it had to be inferior in number, given the limitations of carrying capacity even for an extremely fit standard Near-Human as compared to his own collection – though, he was fairly confident that, if pressed and without the constraints of physics and placement, that he could lift and carry all his collection’s worth of weapons weight on himself – but could be equal if not superior in quality in some pieces. He wondered at their forging, and if whatever tribespeople had forged this man’s collection of pieces would also be people that would instead Flyndt.
Perhaps a better match…
He didn’t censor that particular thought; he held a knife to its throat, warring with the possessive, monstrous urge to stab it to death, before bowing to it. The blade clattered in his mind. The blade in his hand for cutting the meat offered them and the tray he carried stayed steady.
Everything Ganzorig said was recorded. The smell of blood was both nauseating and consuming, making his stomach growl audibly for sustenance and his teeth ache with the urge to bite. Saliva pooled at the back of his mouth. He picked up one of the bones on their tray and bit into it with a crunch.
An ever-silent nod of affirmation agreed with Flyndt. He was intrigued by the dish (even as his author also gags).
It was perhaps not the first time F² had been up to their elbows in entrails, but it may have been one of the most relaxing. Flyndt’s smaller hands fit more easily through the esophageal opening and made stuffing the fat cubes into the stomach considerably quicker. Foxen’s practiced eye and steady hands ensured that not a drop of blood poured from the ladle was wasted. Together, they stitched up the ends of the stuffed stomach and set it aside, ready to be cooked.
Next up was the organ meat sausage. The cook working alongside F² had minced the offal finely, and seasoned it with onions, garlic, and salt—none of the fancy spices that the Nuosu used. With the cook’s and Ganzorig’s permission, Flyndt held the intestinal sausage casing open and Foxen piped the stuffing inside. Then, in a move that a certain kitchen twink would’ve said “feels familiar”, they stretched and twisted the sausage into portion-sized links.
Then came another mincemeat ✨ dish ✨, one familiar to both men: dumplings. The cook who had been rolling dough earlier joined another cook in stuffing and pleating the dumplings from a bowl, then lining them up on several large trays. The contents of the bowl looked like enough for ten or fifteen dozen dumplings—similar to the sausage filling, but with nerf and a meat that Ganzorig called khurga and Foxen parsed as lamb-like, instead of internal organs—and there was more than enough room for F² to try crafting them.
As they all folded dumplings, Ganzorig explained that since the weather dropped below freezing overnight, the nomads would put the huge trays of dumplings on top of their yurts before bed and let winter preserve the food for them. They’d also eat them tonight, of course, in a deep-fried form Ganzorig called khuushuur. As a treat, he invited F² to nab a couple of dumplings to try from further down the production line. Fresh out of the oil, the skins were crisp, and the meat was tender and juicy.
The next ✨ dish ✨ was perhaps the most unusual of all, even by Foxen’s standards. It was called khorkhog, and began with two different types of onions, red and green, and a bit of water in a pot the size of a washbasin. Next came the carcass that one of the cooks had broken down, with the ribs laid atop the aromatics. Then, Ganzorig began adding the secret ingredient:
Rocks.
The nomad pulled flat, smooth rocks from a nearby brazier and dropped them on top of the layer of meat. After so long in the fire, the stones were hot enough that a sizzle and the scent of seared flesh filled the air the instant they touched the meat. A second cook helped Ganzorig, draping more slabs of meat over the hot stones, then added whole root vegetables around the outside of the massive pot and covered it with an equally large lid.
“The stones cook the meat through,” Ganzorig explained to his guests as he and the cook laid down another layer of meat, vegetables, and stones. They moved with all the speed of a professional kitchen, keeping the lid tightly over the pot except when they were inserting another ingredient. “It takes practice to keep the heat inside.” The two nomads repeated the process for a third layer, this time topped with quartered long cabbages. Then they ladled boiling water into the pot and closed the lid, sealing the edges with rolled-up towels.
“There. We let this cook until we can hear and smell the meat, then we do the khorkhog ritual.” Ganzorig mopped his brow. “If you want to keep busy while we wait, you can help fold more dumplings, but feel free to relax. Guests shouldn’t have to spend their visit working.”
“What is this ritual? Important to your people?” Foxen asked, thinking Flyndt would be interested in the culture, and smiling to him as ever for being his voice. He also shrugged to the question and stared at the Omwati even as he waited for an answer, a clear indication of, whatever he wants.
Flyndt also perked in interest of this ritual, happily relaying the inquiry. He wiped his hands clean with a rag he had had tucked neatly into his belt with a content sigh. His gaze wandered over the busy kitchen, a soft hum on his lips before he responded. “I do not mind helping more. I may be slower though, cooking not a skill I am good in.”
“That’s okay. You’ll get better with practice.” Ganzorig waved the two men over to the dumpling-making table, where the assembly line was well underway. F² had the options of rolling dough, cutting the dumpling wrappers out with a round cookie cutter, or filling and pleating the dumplings and placing them on the trays.
Over the cooking period, Ganzorig made polite conversation, focused mostly on the food with brief tangents into the usual “where are you from” kinds of questions offworlders usually got. Thankfully, he seemed just as happy to answer questions or not talk at all than probe into the guests’ background.
At one point, there was a diversion into making flatbread. The recipe was to add “enough” flour, salt, and water to make a dough, then roll it out flat and fry it in butter on a griddle. The result was soft, chewy, and buttery, as one would expect thick but unleavened bread to be. There was plenty of it, though—enough that F² had the chance to snack to tide them over until dinner was done.
Then, it came time for the khorkhog ritual.
“Ritual might be too serious,” Ganzorig said. “Kind of a ritual, kind of a game. When the khorkhog is finished cooking, you take the hot stones out and toss them between your hands. The heat helps to energise your body and keeps you healthy.” The other cooks gathered around for the activity. When Ganzorig lifted the lid from the khorkhog pot, everyone was assailed by the wonderful smell of grilled meat and steamed vegetables.
One by one, Ganzorig used tongs to take the rocks out of the dish, handing one to each of the cooks. They clearly weren’t hot enough to burn instantly, but seemed to be too warm to hold on to; the other cooks were careful to keep them moving from one hand to the other.
Then, Ganzorig offered a stone each to F². “Here. Throw back and forth until it’s cool enough to hold.” He didn’t specify whether it had to be back and forth with oneself, or if it could be back and forth with each other.
Flyndt took his rock in hand and started passing it back and forth between his palms. When he noted Ganzorig pivoting and outstretching his hand with another rock towards Foxen, the avian’s crimson crest rose. His hand darted out and closed upon the fresh stone just before his partner could take it. The heat radiating from it quickly seeped into his palm, chasing the barely fading fire left by the first stone.
His mind seemed to buffer once he had both rocks, the cobbles burning his olive skin. Chasing a quick solution and instead of tapping into the Force and regulating the temperature exposure, Flyndt juggled the pair between his own hands for a moment to dissipate heat. He held out one of the rocks to Foxen before he paused and blinked, feathers falling as he blew out an exhale once he realized what he did.
“Sorry, should not have taken. Thought…”
Foxen merely stared back at the buff(ered) bird with creased brows and a soft smile. He shook his head for the apology, taking not just the rock to set aside for a moment but the hand and wrist holding it. Bowing his head – and mindful of his horns – he bent to kiss the now-hot skin exposed from removal of gloves during food preparation, lips warmed over an olive pulse point.
When he rose, he said, “I see you,” indicating the ardor and Knowing of that action, of how he knew that first defensive, instinctive lift of crest and then the lowering one as realization caught up, “Please. I like when you protect me. That you did now. And earlier, with the animals. Do not care about knowing whether or not would’ve been fine. You did it, and it feels good. Safe, loved, Known.”
The last was one of the first Flyndt had ever shown him of the Han'duwil gestures, though it was much later that he’d been honored to use it, pressing fore and middle finger to his chest and then to Flyndt’s.
Once that was conveyed, he released his partner, so they could both assume and resume the rock tossing, the Omwati having started jugglinng one-handed.
When the stone-handling ritual-game-thing was complete, the khorkog was ready. Ganzorig enlisted F²’s help in retrieving the meat and vegetables from the massive pot, piling them on to massive platters. The smokiness from the hot stones charring the meat was intact even after the steam-cooking, and Ganzorig—clearly not used to having someone as perceptive as Foxen around—snuck a loose piece of lamb when he thought nobody was looking.
Meanwhile, the other cooks rearranged the work tables to make them more suitable for sitting at, then plated the other ✨ dishes ✨ : the tavan tsuliin shul organ sausage soup, the guriltai shul noodle soup, the khuushuur fried dumplings, the flatbread whose name the narrator can’t find. Another platter of quartered tomatoes and cucumbers—the cucumbers were even still in rounds—appeared alongside the rest of the food.
Ganzorig handed F² a pile of bowls and plates, and asked them to set the table while he brought cups and smaller bowls out for beverages. There was more salt tea, and another drink: lightly fermented mare’s milk called airag. The airag was slightly sour thanks to the fermentation, almost like very thin yogurt.
Once everyone was seated, it was time to eat.
It quickly became apparent why Ganzorig had asked F² whether they had knives before: when it came to solid food, the Khunnu ate primarily with their hands. Someone might take a chunk of meat off a platter to put on their own plate, then cut smaller pieces off with their knife and eat them by hand. The fried dumplings? Pick them up by hand. The chunks of tomato and cucumber? Hands.
As for the soup, spoons were thankfully provided. Drinking the broth and slurping the noodles from the bowl seemed perfectly acceptable. At the very least, nobody was picking stuff out of their soup with their fingers.
There were many cuisines around the galaxy that claim to “emphasise the flavour of the ingredients”. Relatively few of them did so to the extent that the Khunnu allowed—no, forced—the components of their meals to stand on their own.
Compared to most other planets, the meat was like someone had turned the flavour settings up to max after a lifetime of leaving them on power saver mode. It was tender. It was rich, though not overpoweringly so. It was slightly sweet. It was smokey from where the hot stones had charred the flesh before it went into the steam bath. It was a little bit grassy, though less so than you’d expect from a grass-fed product, and noticeably herbaceous; not from seasonings the cooks had added, because the only “seasoning” they’d included in the meat dishes was salt. No, it was from herbs the animal had eaten, that translated into its meat.
The vegetables were no slouches, either. Being grown in the wild, they were smaller, but tasted more like themselves. The cabbages, carrots, and potatoes were noticeable sweeter. The onions were more onion-y and the garlic was more garlicky. Even the cucumber, not normally known for having flavour, tasted mildly like… kelp? Foxen would recognise it as chlorophyll, for better or worse.
The dumpling skins were crispy. The noodles were tender. Neither was quite as flavourful as the meat or the vegetables, but they were also the only components of the meal made from commercial ingredients; the back of Ganzorig’s speeder had been full of sacks of flour when he picked F² up in Shanjiaoxia. Even then, the doughs soaked up enough flavour from the other foods to hold their own while providing some structure to the meal.
More than anything else, the food tasted homey. Welcoming. Made with love. It was the same sense of comfort and togetherness that had surrounded the Jin family table when F² visited their house. There was no pretentiousness, no expectation, just politeness and hospitality. Come, sit down, eat!
Belatedly, due to the narrator blocking it out, the tavan tsuliin shul was… well, it was one of the soups in the galaxy. Compared to other sausages, the organ meat sausage was very metallic on account of the blood and liver, though the onion and garlic helped to mitigate that. Texturally, the addition of heart made the sausage chewier, as one would expect from a well-used cardiac muscle. There were also crunchy bits, like the cartilaginous ends of a roasted orp drumstick. That was probably the lung.
Meanwhile, the blood-and-fat mixture cooked inside the animal stomach had the texture of paté or wet cat food inside a rubber glove, and tasted like blood. I don’t know what else to tell you.
As hands helped themselves to the various dishes, Flyndt joined in as if second nature, like he hadn’t grown accustomed to using utensils over the years. He carved his own slivers of meat and set the small bone left over aside to suck the marrow out later. A few bites of lamb were chased by carrots and potatoes still hot from the steaming khorkhog pot. Slurpping up noodles and broth from his bowl of gurultai shul, he watched the brief and small exchanges between the Khunnu, seeming banter between relatives or friends by their body language.
It was homey, yes.
Much like the Jin family or the family gatherings, cookouts with the Erinos. Splitting a fried dumbling, the Omwati glanced to his right and met Foxen’s gaze again with a small appreciative smile, as he had several times through the meal. He deftly slipped half of a blood-organ sausage into his bowl, the heart in it a bit too chewy for his taste. A gesture of a bottle filled with airag prompted Flyndt to present his cup, nodding in thanks before taking a drink.
The mare’s milk’ sour tang settled on his tongue and the next moment he wasn’t staring at the Khunnu ger’s walls but a sunset. The huffing bellow of not-Orbaks sounding nearby as a green-blue hand nudges and offers a cup of pale pink fermented milk. A fleeting memory of his brother’s calm voice while their elders socialized closer to the gers. That feeling of home lingered, both knotting in his gut as much as he welcomed the connection. His eyes feeling wet as he downed the rest of the airag.
Of course the food is good. Of course it is. And it matters. It does. It is In the Moment.
And then at another one of hundreds of glances over, to trade the Omwati’s unfinished heart sausage for the more prized, he suspects, crunchy drumstick ends he has saved all of for his bird, he catches sight of Flyndt’s expression.
The wet eyes.
The.
Is.
Crying.
Flyndt is crying.
And he knows it isn’t Bad. None of the signs are there. The warble rumbling in the Omwati’s throat unconsciously is a happy and content one, one Foxen is more intimately familiar with.
And the clawed back and tripping and climbing and wobbling 23-40% O.K. of the day becomes–
Becomes.
He.
He knows, he knows it’s a false equivalency. A fallacy. There’s too many confounding factors. It doesn’t really mean anything. Flyndt is as he is, reserved, which is to say, possessed of difficulty in both feeling and expressing his emotions both physically and verbally and slow and complex in the processing of them. There are different environments, different circumstances, different times. It is not as easy as comparing one-to-one.
And yet.
And yet.
The one thought is louder and louder and louder:
I have never made you that happy in our home.
And following swiftly is the doubt:
Could I ever?
And he knows, he knows, he knows, the answer is no. Because Flyndt is not just Flyndt. He is Flyndt of the Han'duwil, brother to Gaile, plague to the wrongdoers and hyōbao, Ghost of Omwat. He is a magnificent person of his beautiful people. And removed from them, with Foxen, he could never be as whole as he could be, even if he was happy, even if he was content to settle for less.
-
He knows it’s not fair stop he’s knows he’s staring stop it he knows it’s illogical and not to be upset and broken stop it and he knows he needs to be O.K. for this and to stop it and that this is special and he’s ruining it he’s ruining the happiest Flyndt has ever been in years stop it stop it stop feeling this
Stop it stop it stop it stop itstop it stopitstopit stop itstopit stopitstopitstopitstopitSTOPITSTOPIT–
DENY.
TERMINATE FUNCTION: EMOTIONALITY.
COMMENCE SHUTDOWN.
…
…
Rerouting:
Mission: Make Flyndt Happy: Sub-mission: Find Gaile: Sub-routine: Break: [category: vacation].
Set task: enjoyment of meal
Set task: release manual grip on blade of dinner knife under table
Set task: bind with napkin. Parameters: stealth required. Sleight of hand/angle of body using table as cover.
Set task: take next bite
Set task: next bite
Set task: next bite
Set task: vocalize noise of enjoyment, nod the head to indicate attention
He eats. His answers to small talk are minimal, his gestures mechanical, face a slab lacking in expression to provide context/definition to the signing. His eyes are unfocused, processing and recording all movement/events in the yurt while seeing none of it.
Flyndt will know. But the Foxen he can continue to behave nominally at baseline for their hosts who are better for Flyndt. And then perhaps enjoyment can be salvaged.
If the Khunnu noticed Foxen’s rigid emotional turmoil, they didn’t mention it. Instead, the conversation centred mostly on Flyndt, comparing ways that the Khunnun and Han'duwil were similar, or at least ran in parallel to each other. As usual for the Omwati, the discussion wandered across topics, as though his brain had its own version of a nomadic lifestyle.
After the meal ended, Ganzorig showed F² to their ger. Night had truly fallen now, and it seemed the Khunnu’s custom was to not bother with lamps. The result was a brilliant tapestry of stars covering every inch of the sky. A short walk from ger to ger stretched out as Ganzorig lauched into a discourse about the Khunnu views of the heavens, pointing out a few major constellations and reciting the stories that Khunnu culture attached to them. Perhaps the most curious aspect was a specificity of myth that Foxen could appreciate. The nomads, in their stories, hadn’t just “come from across the stars"—they had come from that star, Ganzorig said, even if the original name had been lost to history.
Eventually, they reached both the end of the conversation and F²’s accommodations. Ganzorig gave them a brief tour. There were the table and chairs where F² had set their things, and the bed of course, separated from the main area by a thick curtain meant to retain heat. The lights hanging from the ceiling were basic models of glow lamp, which Ganzorig called “offworlder lamp”. Two space heaters, one in the sleeping area and one in the sitting area, were connected to a portable power unit. The power unit also fed an electric kettle—not very traditional, Ganzorig admitted, but much less likely to set things on fire—that sat atop one of two cabinets. One cabinet had tea things and dried curd snacks, including salt and butter, with the milk kept in a small cooler inside. The other had a washbasin, towels, extra blankets, and a flashlight. The jugs, unsurprisingly, were fresh water.
Ganzorig gave a couple of miscellaneous tips about things like where the common toilets were located, then checked his wrist chrono and said he’d stop by in “about” ten hours to rouse the two men for breakfast before bidding them goodnight. Foxen would hear the nomad stop ten paces or so after leaving the tent, presumably to let his eyes adjust to the darkness without inadvertently eavesdropping on F², before heading off into the night.
Footsteps retreated: 1 m, 1.5 m, 2 m…
No other noises save nighttime soundscape of the plains, categories: wind through the grasses like the wind through his feathers, hand gliding over the top of the tall grass, arms outstretched–, insectoid and fauna chatter, the distant sleepy bleat of sunset eyes wide, beak wide, smile wide, a happy caw as the beast galloped– ruminates like the kids and mor so sacred to the Khunuu, muted by the thick of night and its unique stillness.
Flyndt’s breathing, the rustle of his robes as he inhales.
He the body listens until sufficient. They are alone.
Confirm.
Proceed.
Foxen he the self Mission moved to the heaters and turned each on, then to the bags, going through the process of unpacking at maximum speed/efficiency while maintaining vacation: enjoyment protocol standards for “relaxed” movement. There are multiple tasks to accomplish. Perimeter check, ensuring comfortable temperature and arrangement in room, folding and setting out clothes for the morning, undressing, washing up, checking if Flyndt desires any more foodstuffs, brushing teeth, perimeter check, bed–
Bed.
The hands jerk and tremble. The shoulders are. Tight.
T-00:09:58:43 until Ganzorig returns and activities resume. Approximately.
A hand pressed into the small of Foxen’s back.
“Bapti?”
A questioning and beckoning chirp.
Flyndt smiled lightly and warmly up at the Nautolan-Chagrian. He was in just his tunic and loose lilac-hued pants, his vest coat resting folded neatly with their packs. His palms void of the leather that usually clad them when near outsiders that weren’t known. His cheeks were flushed faintly peach – unlikely due to the heaters as they were only started 6.5 minutes ago – yet a slight concern pursed his inked lips. The Omwati paused, worried the inside of his cheek before exhaling a sigh.
“Dinner was good, and the ride. Reminded me much of home,” Flyndt shifted closer and craned his head back to gaze up at Foxen, “Thank you, for bringing us.”
That warm, familiar hand, bare and inked and intimate, touched his back and he–
-# flinched
It was a little thing that he caught in his teeth, like his namesake, refusing to let it happen, stiffening his spine, resulting in a muscle spasm more than a jerk. His the eyes clocked to Flyndt to Home to everything and couldn’t find sunset couldn’t right now needed it but–
But.
He is so beautiful. So clever and strong. So.
“Thank you…”
“Wel-come,” Bapti rasps, because it is the appropriate call and response. Because Flyndt has called him. This is Mission success. Flyndt liked it, it was good. A good surprise. That reminded of Home’s home.
He is glad for it. Parts of him are crowing in success, wish to howl it to the moon outside, proud and feral. Wish to bite and burrow and bury them both in their own nest alone and close. Wish to take those hands and pull them along to– dancing or sparring or running, anything, since swimming is not present. Wish to take those hands and fold into them, collapsing cut-string and sob and beg him to let him follow.
But parts of him are also completely fraked up over it, and ruined over being so, and it is. Too much.
Flyndt is craning to stare at him, and he.
The eyes turn away, the face too, fixing on a safer spot on the wall of the gur where straw and mud brick meet at seams and poke out 0.3 mm. Then down. The mind starts counting each thread of a woven rug.
The hands lift. “Glad was good. You are happy?”
The verbal response caused crimson feathers to flutter with a pleased reverberating hum, forever grateful and honored for those brief moments he was graced with his love’s voice – among the large collection of noises that he treasured as Foxen’s. Flyndt allowed himself to open up his senses, or more leaned into it without a thought, wanting to bask in what the other felt. The familiar and winding pale green tendrils wafted around them within the Force like the smoke of incense burning or mist above the pond in the early dawn hours.
Then, they constricted and knotted. The threads tightened and crushed his chest in this heavy, dreadful and longing yet mournful feeling. The pair suddenly pressed claustrophobicly against each other as the walls closed in around them and a weight hung above their heads.
Olive hands caught around the larger dark hands of Foxen, holding together and steady while Flyndt tried to quiet and tether his presence. He took several breaths. Reflecting back a few seconds, he registered the question and answered with a huff of breath, “Yes. I did.”
Squeezing their joined hands once, he released and exhaled. The Omwati bit his lip as he noted the way Foxen avoided his eyes, the fact this feeling from him had haunted them through the trip – rearing its head once or twice before fading faintly to the wayside. He should of asked before. He was asking now.
“Bapte…what…what is wrong?”
Another minute flinch, this time for the slight sting reminded of cut fingers where napkin is wrapped around them from the press of their hands. Still, it is an anchor, and as much as the skin wishes to rip away from that touch, he also wants to curl into those olive hands, those arms, and crawl into his ribcage, never coming back out.
But now he cannot hide. Flyndt is asking. He has to answer. He has to. Pick. The right words. The most correct ones. The least damaging, damning, demeaning. The least violating and unfair. Ones that convey the entire fraking hurricane of emotions and bullshit and screaming going on in his damaged fraking head.
How nothing is wrong because nothing could be wrong with Flyndt, with him or with him, ever, how he’s perfect how this has been perfect how there’s produce and new foods and ways to cook and a noodle school and a forge and blades and the air is clear and the landscape is beautiful and Flyndt is beautiful and his happiness is the most beautiful and it is all so so good so it’s terrible of him that it hurts this fraking much, that he could be back in that Pit, collared and writhing and starved and burnt on the floor in the dark and trussed up like meat to be paraded under the blinding suns before some fraking animals or humanoids or both got sicced on him in certain death except they wouldn’t let him fraking die, either, he could be back there and it would still hurt less because he stopped existing then but he’s alive now he’s so alive with Flyndt he’s alive because of Flyndt for Flyndt for this mission and he fraking told you, Min, he isn’t going to survive losing this tomorrow, you don’t understand, Flyndt cried happy tears today–
- He’s supposed to find the words for all that. Instead what happens is he opens his mouth and what comes out is:
“Three months eleven days six minutes…some seconds ago. I told you I wanted to meet Gaile. Not just to rescue him for you but to meet him as…me. I asked if you wanted me to meet him. And you never answered.”
“What?”
Flyndt stilled, his breath caught. A look of utter confusion and surprise wrestled on his face. He tried to recall the conversation and comprehend that all this emotion, tension was driven from an unanswered question.
“I…What? You remembered that, that is what wrong all trip? Foxen…” Flyndt broke off and bit his lip. This time being the one to glancing away for a moment. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, his feathered crest lifting before pressing low to his scalp. Shifting, the Omwati angled to meet his lover’s eyes. “Baptiste, it is not that I do not want you to meet Gaile. I would…I do not know what the future brings…”
The way those gorgeous feathers clamped and crimped tight to his scalp in lost regret made Bapti wish to take every word back or quickly meet a swift and obliterative end, but such was not so.
“N-o– I know tha-ttt. Not fair, I don’t–” his voice cracked, and he hissed shortly in frustration at himself. The look he returned to the Omwati’s shrouded sunset stare was miserable as he gently pulled his hands free, hating to retract them, but having to. “I’m not asking you to answer me about it, I never asked again for clarification then because I KNOW you can’t answer me. It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t ever be fraking fair and I won’t do that to you, I wasn’t going to do that to you, I was going to wait until we found Gaile–”
His hands stumbled, still tremulous with emotion, nevermind the hard kick of failure that admission brought. He inhaled and exhaled too, grassy dust and foreign wools and Home.
“And that’s not…that’s not what’s wrong with the trip. Not just that. THAT’S been a ‘wrong’ all the time since it happened. It’s just normally fine. This vacation just ripped the box open. Exposed holes I didn’t know it had. And there is more. But I’m. I DON’T want to take away from how HAPPY you are being here. It doesn’t matter. Null point. We cannot discuss the future. I’m sorry. This is beautiful. You’re so fraking beautiful. Just need to recalibrate.”
Flyndt followed along, trying to keep note of the different names and ingredients with a hundred and ten percent of his brain power. While the writer behind the screen would not be able to convince himself to try organs, unfortunately the birb most definitely would. Flyndt nodded his head, started rolling back his sleeves, and agreed with an affirmative “yes.”