One More Confessional
Part Twelve
197S9.9.19
When will I learn that I have absolutely no tolerance for alcohol? I had the equivalent of maybe three drinks, and the next thing I know I'm waking up on the cave floor, snuggled up against the back of a softly snoring Gippal (who drank most of a bottle by himself, so he at least had a reason to pass out). I hate being such a lightweight. I might have slept all afternoon if Nooj hadn't woken me up with an invitation. This time I accepted without hesitation or internal debate.
It's blissful to have the chance to enjoy Nooj again. Even before-- before, when we camped in the desert, there was no time or privacy for more than an occasional stolen caress. Here, in a somewhat secluded nook in the back of the cave, we can rediscover one another, relearn the exact ways in which our bodies fit together. It's just like it used to be. Better, even.
One balm has been lost to me, though, maybe forever: that of forgetfulness. When he buries his hands in my hair and sighs with contentment, when he enters me and his eyes light up at my gasp of pleasure, when he finds his release and shudders in my arms, he seems so alive, so vital, that I can distance myself from his desire for death. But I can never put it out of my mind completely, the nagging feeling that he would desert me for oblivion without a second thought. It's always there, always between us, a dark shadow that I can't banish.
We haven't talked about it, by silent mutual consent. It's better that way; I doubt we'll ever be able to discuss the subject rationally. How could we?
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I was curious whether the Squad Three recorder had ever been questioned, or if the Maesters were just as disinterested in him as they had been in me, so I went wandering through the camp to find him. It turns out that the Maesters asked for his sphere, seemed displeased that there wasn't one, and then proceeded to grill him, not just about the duel, but about everything that happened afterwards. From what he said, and from the bits I picked up eavesdropping on my way from the cave and back, it seems that the Maesters are very interested in what happened to the pistols. So interested, in fact, that they've questioned everyone who was at the duel at least once and have one team surreptitiously searching for them. Naturally, everyone else is looking, too.
I hope Gippal hid them well.
When I returned to the cave, everyone was exactly as I had left them: Nooj resting on his rock -- there's an outcropping from the cave wall that makes a perfect perch for him -- Baralai working with his plants, and Gippal sleeping off the brandy. I reported my gleanings to Nooj and then sat with Baralai, watching him work. He wouldn't tell me what he was making; a surprise for Nooj, he said. I hope it's a seasickness remedy. I don't know if any of us could take a repeat of the last boat ride. As usual, we got to chatting. I think he's still upset about the way the duel went down and grumpy about being continually questioned by the Maesters, so I tried to tease him out of his mood by gentle prodding about Gippal. Then I caught him in a blatant exaggeration -- he's not the only one here who's slept with an Al Bhed, after all -- and playfully tackled him. After a thoroughly satisfying wrestle, we found ourselves swapping more tall tales. Gippal woke up somewhere in there and joined in. Somehow, it evolved into a game, where we would attack anyone we caught telling the truth.
It's funny, how much more I can reveal about myself when I can pretend it's all stories. They noticed a few of the truths I slipped in there -- the fact that my father was a warrior monk in Kilika, for one, and the story of the time I sneaked into the Cloister of Trials. But I got away with telling them that I first killed a man at the age of eleven. I probably wouldn't believe that one either, if it weren't my life.
And then something weird happened. Gippal, possibly still feeling the effects of the brandy, launched into a long, emotional, and poetic description of Home. He made it sound like a machina paradise, an oasis of steel in the desert. Baralai was completely enthralled. Such longing in his voice, the same sadness I remember from when Berrick told a similar story -- I could almost believe that he was describing an ancestral legend, a fairy tale.
Except that I knew he wasn't. It's all true; it has to be. But I'm not supposed to know that. And I got more and more uncomfortable with my knowledge. I think maybe he noticed, because he started looking at me funny.
I forced a smile, called him a liar, and jumped him. He was way too drunk to fight back effectively, but he laughed, and the mood lightened again.
Then I noticed Nooj, looking thoughtful on his perch -- he'd left some time before, and I'd been so engrossed in the game that I hadn't seen his return. His expression was odd, a little bit wistful with a touch of fondness. Then his features tightened, and he turned away. I wonder what that was about.
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The final two teams are here, and they're in bad shape. Out of eight people, only three remain. I know one of them. He's one of the other recorders who came from Luca, now the only surviving member of Squad Four. I never much liked Dani ; he hung out with the Goers and was every bit as arrogant and obnoxious as the worst of the players. But I feel for him now, sitting on the sand, hugging himself, rocking and crying, apparently oblivious to everyone and everything around him. No one deserves whatever must have happened to him out there. I tried to talk with him, soothe him, but he's so far gone, I don't think he even recognized me. I hope Baralai can do something for him, get him to sleep at the very least.
Who takes human life and treats it this callously? The Maesters of Yevon. I don't know why I expected anything different.
I appear to be the only woman still alive. Not that I thought much of the other women on the boat with us, but it's still a sobering thought. Really, everyone else is so much worse off than we are, even the teams that are intact. I thought we had trouble out there, but looking around, I can see that we came through the ordeal the most easily by far. Nooj gets a lot of the credit, of course, for pushing us so relentlessly, but I don't know if we would have made it without Gippal finding water for us. And when I look at anyone with even vaguely fair skin and see how badly burned they are, I am inspired for the first time in five years to thank Yevon for something, in the guise of Baralai and his sunscreen. I owe them all my life. And what did I do in return? Fight in a few battles and lug around a camera? What good was I?
Well, I guess I saved the life of the captain. That must count for something.
Speaking of whom, he's heading off to the Maesters to let them know that we plan to leave tonight and finish the last leg of this ill-fated journey. I'm watching him go right now, and he's moving so slowly and carefully. Not everyone would notice a difference, but it's obvious to me. It can't be the leg mechanism, Gippal cleaned it out from our last day in the sands already, so it must be something else. It reminds me of nothing so much as the old arthritic priest at Kilika, who walked just like that on rainy days when his joints pained-- Pain. Of course, it must be. That explains the tightness around his eyes and mouth that I've been noticing lately, and perhaps also that wince I wondered at earlier. And if he's showing even that much on his face and in his gait, he must be in sheer agony.
I wonder if Baralai could make a painkiller. And I wonder if we could get Nooj to take it. There must be a way. I'll go talk to Baralai right now, before Nooj gets back.