It had rained throughout the night with the grounds soaked, water pooling on flagstone and the round patios surrounding the tower’s spiraling columns, the metallic roofs of the pavilions shining, rock and concrete a shade darker, all gleaming in the early morning under a cast of deep blues from both the sky and Gmoie. The puddles looked as though they were deeper than… well… puddles, frigid to the touch, near-silvery mirrors in a barely lit sky.
The pool, under the tower’s cathedral-like rise and underside, with the twisting columns rising high on either side, appeared more than that. Cyan with a hint of cobalt blue made its water pure, but as I swam through it, there was the faint taste of chlorine with something else, something which countered the stinging effects of the disinfectant, a kind of substance which I hadn’t noticed swimming with Finnea and Amrynn.
Maybe it was that which gave the water its almost-transparent appearance, so clear that one could see beautiful tile and concrete work–the tile of black, grayish, green, and blue layered hues, the concrete its usual white– and how deep the deepest end went. Perhaps it was that which cleansed my skin, purging the grim and sweat as soaps and shampoos would, leaving behind a smoothness not unlike what moisturizer would give. Who knew that the Fountain of Youth was beneath me, on a distant world far from Earth.
I had woken up earlier than usual, and rather than exercise in the gym I thought to make use of the pool, the water cool but not cold, especially not in the somewhat frigid air.
Finding swimwear had been… challenging, and I relented for a two-piece that did little to hide my assets: some form-fitting swim boxers and a bra, both dyed pitch black, made of some polyester-spandex material (which is a first for all of the clothing I’ve found). Removing myself away from the full-body mirror had been just as difficult, almost as much as banishing my arousal.
Of all the exercise I had done over the last week, there was a mild improvement. Muscle definition changed, but it felt as though I had lost no weight, and the mirror showed Thelamein was no closer to a better physique.
Just gotta try harder?
Yeah, that's it.
For an hour, I had been swimming laps, eventually diving down to the deepest end, fully submerging myself for as long as lungs would allow me, meditating. Beneath the surface of fresh and salt waters there was always this peace, that the noise of the outside world and all of your worries were drowned away with nothing but silence or tidal vibrations, and you could bask until a clear conscience remained, and often I would find myself there when neither friends or surf had my attention.
Taylor could, once, hold his breath for over a minute, yet for Thelamein 3 minutes was easy enough…
Then 4…
Then 5…
By the time I resurfaced, I had been gasping for air, nearly pulling myself out by the stone edge at the pool’s farthest end, out from under the tower. The air greeted me with the scent of earth and vanilla, the “mildew” no longer apparent from that second day.
Rather than bring myself out, I took a series of deep breaths, and submerged myself again.
There were two guards at one of the side gates, and I recognized at least one from my third day: a girl with hair as white as mine but of red eyes. The other stood as tall as me, her hair hued crimson red, long but tied in a long ponytail-knob.
Both wore the same kevlar, short-sleeved and blue clothes beneath a navy blue vest of various pockets and pouches, and a palm-sized device above their left breasts, the very same worn by most of the other guards. We had noticed each other, and since the break of dawn neither said or did anything to warrant my attention.
Like most of the women, they were very easy on the eyes, the red head sending my stomach into a flutter (and I hadn’t seen her face!). But for some reason, seeing the other did something else.
I don’t know why, but something with her white hair shifted the feeling inside me, morphing as a kind of cognizance. The way she observed me, how we sometimes locked eyes, and by remembering that we shared the same hair color, I realized why… again.
It had been several minutes since exiting the pool, and after drying myself with a towel I decided to wrap it around my waist for more decency. For several minutes, I sat beneath a pavilion’s overhang on a bench, content to observe the verdant gardens, the organic architecture, and the two women. For several minutes, I stalled.
Pyria had given me an assignment to practice simple speech which didn’t involve flirting or pillow talk. She had even suggested using the guards, yet for whatever reason, my mind kept going blank.
Just go up. Just go up.
How hard can it be?
You’d think that, after having fun with very attractive women, you’d have the confidence to cold approach. It was easier to just go up and say hello to other dudes–since (a long time ago) I was one of them–, not so much with the fairer sex. Was this a confidence issue, or did I simply lack energy?
Just go up and say hello. The worst they can do is tell you to fuck off.
It was so silly a thing, so stupid, and I knew the solution.
I closed my eyes…
Several deep breaths…
There…
Standing, I stride toward them, towel swaying, the soles of my slippers meeting flagstone and concrete.
It was about 20 feet away before the white haired one took notice of me, slowly pivoting so that her body was angled toward me, facing me, her expression of some subdued joy. “[Good morning, mother!]”
I was taken aback but kept my pace.
The other, too, turned, and I got a good look of her emerald eyes, hued so strongly they seemed to glow. It took her voice–something warm and strong–to break the momentary spell, “[Miss] Thelamein?”
Leaning against the bars of the gate, I let my arms rest on a ledge that spanned the center of it. “[Good morning. How… cold is it?]”
Officers redhead and marble-head both blinked, the former wearing a neutral expression. “[It is… pretty cold,]” my ‘daughter’ answered awkwardly, “[You are not… cold?]”
For whatever reason, I again felt self-conscious about wearing a semi-provocative two-piece with a not-wide-enough towel around my waist. “[I… am cold. It is… not bad, not… too bad.]”
“‘[Not bad?]’” The redhead asked, “[Why are you] amayen?”
“Amayen…?”
She gave me a puzzled look.
Rubbing the back of my head, I added, “[Sor-ry, my Vinlis is… poor.]”
“‘[… ‘Poor?]’” the other asked.
“[I am… try-ing to learn…]”
There was a sudden shift in the white-haired girl’s expression, from narrowed eyes to something else. “[Do you… remember me?]”
“[No… I am sor-ry.]”
The red head turned away, taking several steps off to the side, not so far that she couldn’t be seen behind the wall.
“[What is your name?]” I asked her.
Silence reigned for an awkward moment, and she turned more downcast, her red eyes darting away to her friend as though looking for support. “... Talanashta… [it is] Talanashta.”
“Ta-lan-ash-ta…” Playing with its syllables made it seem natural, as though it would have been a name I… Thelamein would have given.
“[Is it true?]” she asked.
“[... What?]”
“[You… that you…]”
“[I can-not re-mem-ber, not… be-fore.]”
“Ah…” It was pursed lips that I saw before she covered her mouth, slowly nodding to herself, looking away.
“[You are… my… daugh-ter?]”
Suddenly, Talashta pivots and walks away, rounding around the high white wall and out of sight, the solid footfalls of heavy boots heard for several seconds before fading. I was left there to awkwardly lean against the gate, the red head still standing aside with her back to me.
A minute passed in muted thoughts and in the increasingly, uncomfortable, frigid air. “[I do not…]” I began, loud enough that she must have heard, failing to find the right words.
She looks over her shoulder. “Hmmm?”
“[What is your… name?]”
Her fingerless gloves brushes the bangs of her red hair aside, a faint smile leaving her. “Detrala, [madam.]”
My eyes trail to the weapon holstered at the thigh of her leg. “[Is… that a… gun?]”
With a shift, she turns to angle herself toward me, a hand instinctively covering its grip. “[Yes… it is.]”
“[Can I see it?]”
Her amused expression shifts, raising a brow. “[No.]”
“[No… peak-ing?]”
“[No peak-ing, I will lose my] vuam [if I do.]”
“Vuam?”
“[My… job… madam.]”
I gave an exaggerated, disgusted look. “‘[Madam’ sound… old].”
Her smirk returned. “[I] laarags [calling you a child would be] cinas.”
Har har, smart ass. “[Just how big is the stick up your buttocks?]”
She brings a fist up to her mouth to stifle a laugh. Leave it to Pyria to teach that one.
“Vpugsagme [not that big.]”
As I kept eyeing her, she seemed more familiar, and then a memory clicked in the back of my mind. “[You… catch me…]”
“...?”
“[Before]…?”
“... Ah, [yes, that was me.]”
Detrala had been one of the red heads that had ‘caught’ me when I made my escape attempt, not the one one I had ran into (she had grey eyes, if I remembered right),
“[That was me and the chief servant,]” she added. “[You gave everyone a] gays uf [a scare.]”
I decided not to address that. “[You not handle… run away too much]?”
She leans against the gate, her posture relaxing with her smirk growing, those emerald eyes gazing deep into mine. Something about her frame (much like the other red heads now that I think of it) bespoke power, her forearms with the definition reserved by the athletic, and by the vague shape of her legs an endurance. Her fair skin seemed blemished, a scar on her cheek and another on her pointed, sharp jaw, so subtle one could miss it, but it would never be enough to disenchant me.
Hell, she is Pyrrha… But good god she is tall… Even if we were the same height, it felt as though she still towered over me, more in a reserved way than intimidating.
“[They are not] ocosaffe gmieausa [bleeding by a hand and foot.]”
“[You do not… are not afraid of… blood, are you?]”
“[A little.]” She shrugs.
I look back in the direction of Talashta, seeing if she would round the corner (which she hadn’t).
“[Your… fri-end?]” I ask, looking back at her.
“[A Servant Minor.]”
“[And…?]”
There was some hesitation. “[That is… not my story to tell.]”
“[She is… my…?]”
Detrala answered before I finished, almost with a hushed tone. [She is your daughter, yes.]
I pursed my lips. The admission surprisingly hurt as though I should know her, even if we were (technically) strangers. No amount of shared blood would fix that.
“[You really do not remember her?]” she asked.
“[No, the… treat-ment… it… change me. I… do not know who I…was.]”
“[What kind of treatment?]”
A questioning look left me.
“[I am curious. There] reli podryoc, [more now than before… your] tsavsdel.
“Reli podryoc?”
“[We like to talk.]” She shrugs her shoulders again.
The internal debate on just how much to reveal was short lived. “[It is… mind?]” I pointed to my head. “[I do not want… to say more.]”
No reason to go full disclosure, not yet at least.
There was a slow nod from her. “[That sounds…] naanaayfesa.”
“Na-an-ai-fesa…”
A low snort left her, but she kept the pity look. “[And… is it also true you…] mliarau [a second language?]”
“It’s a bit complicated, but yes.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “[Is that Old] Erda Msaaer?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“[... English?]”
With an exaggerated nod, I answered, “Yes, and I bet you can’t understand this sentence.”
She seemed to lean in closer. “[It] caararlc [nice.]”
And now, I feel like a dickhead… a bitch…
It must have been an hour that we chatted, and for an hour the frigid air had been forgotten, a certain warmth allowing me to endure. In that time, Talanashta had returned, albeit at our peripheral, far enough to remove herself from conversation, and it was apparent that she did not want to involve herself even as she kept eyeing me.
Had Detrala not left–called away by a voice over the comms device–, we would have kept sharing witty remarks and personal questions. Had she not left, I probably would have invited her and Talanashta into the pool.
There were even my own obligations I had to return to.