Every time he tries to get up the ground bucks and Makoto clicks his tongue and makes motions like he's going to push him back down, so Haru just lies there, hands going slowly bloodless from the angle they're tied at. People keep hurrying past him, moving sideways from his vantage point, carrying barrels of water. There's a great deal of splashing noises coming from somewhere outside.
"…don't get it," he mutters.
"Don't get what?"
"The water. Why… bother stealing it?"
Makoto gives him an odd look. "It's what's in the water. Although, honestly, I don't believe any of that stuff."
"What…stuff?"
"…you don't know what it is, do you. It's a siren."
"…What?"
"That's what's in the tank."
Haru just stares. "A fishperson."
"Yeah."
"Okay. Really, though, what is it?"
"I'm not joking."
Haru scoffs. "I might be concussed, but I'm not that injured."
Makoto considers him for a minute.
"Do you feel well enough to get up?"
He manages to get to his feet with Makoto's help. Keeping a firm grip on his arm, Makoto leads Haru inside the big canvas tent covering the chassis. "Careful. It's a little dark—"
Sunspots dance in front of his eyes like dust motes. The air inside smells like water. He blinks rapidly in the cool shade. Blinks again when he sees it.
Its torso melds seamlessly into a long, slender tail, fanning out at the ends into a massive fan spoke of thin tissue, fine as silk and nearly translucent. The scales are small, packed neat and close as chain mail, nearing the pale rose tint of the boy's skin as they reach his waist and descending to a deep silver-blue at the base of the flukes. They're so reflective that they seem to glow, drinking in every speck of sunlight available. Nothing Haru's ever seen resembles them. Yet the siren's upper body is eerily human-looking, the knobbly elbows and vein-laced wrists and mop of longish hair, an ordinary-enough shade of blonde, as familiar to Haru as his own.
It catches sight of them and swims towards them. When it presses its hand against the glass, Haru notices the thin webs extending between its fingers. He can see it breathing, the faint flutter of gills marring its neck like four razor-precise cuts. Its eyes, although an alien shade of coral-red, are not at all cold.
It moves its lips, but no sound emerges. Rather, the glass of the tank ripples alarmingly. A series of characters lights up for a second before fading rapidly back into invisibility.
"Silence spell," explains Makoto. "To keep him from harming us."
The siren rolls its eyes, and Haru swears it looks exasperated. It taps the glass with both hands, saying something, watching light streak across its surface. Haru's heard the stories, like all children, of the intoxicating voices of Ocean's inhabitants, of sailors hurling themselves into outstretched arms, only to find themselves in death's embrace instead. Once you're aware it's speaking to you, they say, it's too late.
Although he hardly feels in any danger here—what's he going to drown himself in, the tank?
"Looks just like us, doesn't he?" says Makoto. "I kind of thought they'd be more, I dunno, mythica—" He cuts off as a spray of water lands on his head. "Hey!"
The siren smiles mischievously, hands still upraised.
"I get the feeling this one's a kid," says Haru. The siren makes a face at him, says something that Haru has no doubt is rude.
"Makoto? Are you in there?" Gou climbs in through the flap. "There you are, I've been looking for you. And you, too. I've some business to discuss with you."
()
Rei has half a heart attack when they kick in his door.
Soldiers, he thinks, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. Never a knock when a boot could do.
He gets up, closing his notes in what he hopes is the most irritated manner possible. "What is it?"
"You're a mage, aren't you?"
Rei sighs. "As my sign says, I'm a doctor. I work in science—"
"King needs you."
"Me?" He can't imagine why. "For what?"
The soldier leers; his room's going to stink after this, he can tell. "He seems to have lost a little fishy."
()
"The way I see it, there's two options. One, we keep you tied up and dump you somewhere in the middle of the desert where you won't make any trouble. I don't know how you feel about that one, your survival chances don't look so great. Or, two."
"…yes?"
"You join Iwatobi!" Gou leans back, arms spread, as if expecting a drumroll and a round of applause. The miniature red-tailed hawk sitting on her shoulder screeches and beats its wings excitedly. "Oh, not you, Iwatobi-chan—Iwatobi the group!"
"That's what you guys are called. Iwatobi," says Haru flatly.
"Wh-what? Got a problem with it?"
"…not really."
He considers it. To be honest, he doesn't particularly care one way or another who's paying him. Mercenaries usually can't afford to be picky. There's also the matter of the pay itself—a substantial fee. A job that's a bit of an adventure for a change, good pay, measured against being ditched in a desert on his own—it's not much of a comparison.
Also, he doesn't really get the feeling this girl and her cohorts are bad people, despite the disconcerting ogling earlier. It's this, above all, that pushes him to tell her yes.
()
"Your Highness."
Goddamnit.
Rin turns around.
"Nitori."
"Good afternoon. If I might ask—"
"Would telling you 'no' make you stop?"
Nitori smiles ruefully, which is his way of saying not a shot in hell. "Is the Prince planning on going for a ride?"
As if he can even lie about it, dressed like this. "Yeah, I, uh, figured I'd go take a look at the wall repairs."
"I see. I wasn't aware the walls were so far away." He gestures at Rin's pack. "That you need to take so many supplies with you."
"Are you calling me a liar?"
"I'd never presume, Your Highness." Nitori's face is perfectly serious as he folds his arms.
Rin briefly considers making a run for it. He'd definitely be able to outrun him, the puny little guy—but that, that's not really the issue, is it? Goddamn Nitori would probably have the stable shut down before he'd even set foot out the palace door. Goddamn Nitori would stand there with his stupid fucking serious face as Rin was turned away from his own goddamn beasts and he'd fucking stand there while the King chewed him out—
Well, if he's being honest with himself, Nitori probably wouldn't tell the King, and he definitely wouldn't stand there, shifting from foot to foot, a smile threatening his small serious mouth, if Rin was getting chewed out by his father. Despite the many, many times Rin hasn't felt like it, he's always known that Nitori's on his side.
Rin sighs. "Nothing gets past you."
"Only you don't, your Highness."
"I have a name, you know."
"I'm aware of that."
Rin makes a vague frustrated gesture and Nitori almost smiles. Like always.
He glances up and down the hallway. Not a soul in sight. "You heard about the siren, right?"
"Yes. I believe the guard is set to send a company in pursuit this very evening." When Rin doesn't say anything, Nitori prods, "Did your Highness—"
"Do you believe it?"
"Believe what?"
"That eating the thing's tail makes you immortal."
"Do you?"
Rin sighs. "No. That's—no, I don't. That's impossible. But I don't know. And if there's a chance—even the slightest chance. Do you see?"
Nitori blinks at him. "I'm afraid you're—"
"I'm going to ride there," he hisses, "and I'm going to cut the damn thing's throat before the guard gets its hands on it."
Nitori is silent for a moment. Then he says slowly, "I must remind my Prince he's planning to steal his Royal Majesty's immortality. Imagined or otherwise, you are aware that many would consider this kind of conversation treasonous."
"I'm the goddamn Prince. What's he going to do, throw me in prison?"
The boy just gazes at him. It takes a few seconds for Rin to realize what kind of position he's put Nitori in by confiding in him like this. Suddenly, he feels like a fool.
Still, he can't bring himself to apologize. Out of practice, maybe—it's not something a prince does a lot. "Just—let me go," he demands.
"I can't do that, your Highness."
"So, what, are you going to tell him?"
"Do you know the route to Damesthebeba?"
Rin stares. What? "Obviously I—"
"Of course, you wouldn't have been thinking of the route the guard will be taking tonight, so you have an alternate prepared?"
"Well—I was—"
"And which gate, exactly, were you planning to leave by? Surely not the main gate, where his Highness' presence would surely be noted?"
"What's your goddamn point, Nitori?"
"Eighteen years ago—"
"Oh, God, not this—"
"—I was sworn to protect—"
"—fucking shit again—"
"—and serve your Highness—"
"—and for the last time, would you stop fucking calling me that, my name is Rin—"
"—with my life. Do you understand what that means?"
"No, I fucking do not."
Nitori says solemnly, "It means there's a servant's gate in the Northeast quarters where no one'll be going through right now, that I know four routes to Damesthebeba, and that if your Highness pleases, you'll be giving me fifteen minutes to gather my supplies for the ride."
Rin can't help the shit-eating grin that spreads across his face. They haven't had half enough goddamn adventures this past year. "If I please, my ass."
"Your Highness, if you don't wish me to accompany you—"
"Go get your fucking shit. I'll be waiting right here."
"As you command."
Rin snorts. "More like as you command!" he calls after Nitori as he hurries down the hallway.
()
The soldiers keep demanding that he hurry up. As if it's so easy for him, Rei thinks. He can't just grab a stupid spear and skip out the door.
The problem is, even he doesn't really know what he should be bringing. If this was a medical call for a human, it'd be easy enough. But a siren? Those aren't even supposed to exist. What the hell does he know about how to fix a siren?
Well, probably more than anyone in the guard. Standing close and tall in his quarters, the head of the company yawns loudly. Nervously, Rei snatches up his worn leather case of surgical tools—anyhow, he tells himself, a scalpel will work as well on skin as scales, won't it?
"Don't look so worried, mage," says the captain. "Ain't all your hands magic anyway?"
"If only it were that simple," snaps Rei, then softens. Even the lords don't understand the difference between magecraft and science; he can't expect commoners or barrack men to know either. Most people think he can chant some mumbo jumbo and make trees grow out of the sky. They don't know about conservation of mass or alchemical exchange or the circulatory system. As far as they're concerned, those kinds of things are magic. "Another minute, please, and I'll be ready."
In the end he just takes what he'd take to any emergency, unknown medical situation. The surgical tools, disinfectant, bandages, his little logbook of notes, scales and common medicines—the kind he knows works, not the stuff grey-market quacks peddle in the streets of Mushara. God knows it won't be any help, but it's better than the anxiety of bringing nothing, like walking into a swordfight bare-fisted. Throwing everything into his worn pack, he straps the thing onto his shoulders and gives it an experimental shake.
The captain laughs. "He'll jangle like bells at Solstice, boys, but it'll have to do. Come on, doc, let's get you mounted up."
Rei recoils, and the captain raises a brow. "Something wrong?"
"Nothing, it's just—I have to ride?"
"How else did you think we were going to get there?"
()
The dromad they give him doesn't take very well to him. It keeps straining its long neck around to glare at him accusatorily. Haru has to give it a dozen kicks before it moves, and then it does, only to take off sprinting at break-neck speed into the desert, bellowing in what can only be described as ornery-assed joy as Haru curses and clings to its heaving neck.
It ends up being Makoto who spends ten minutes chasing the thing down. Infuriatingly, the moment Makoto tells it to stop, it does, despite the fact that Haru's been shouting the exact same command at it this entire time.
"Don't worry," calls the Captain, smirking as she watches Makoto calm the animal down, "they don't like anyone. Just Makoto."
Makoto apologizes about the whole situation about three times, but that doesn't change the fact that Haru subsequently spends his first day in company Iwatobi with his dromad leashed to Makoto's, being led through the desert like a child taking his first riding lesson. He'd feel more embarrassed if he wasn't too busy tensing in anticipation every time his dromad glared at him.
He gets the feeling that the Captain's second hand is more than amused. "You've never ridden one?" he asks after the dromad snorts aggressively and Haru nearly falls off its back in alarm.
"No. It's a Hoet thing, isn't it?"
"So you could tell."
"Your accent."
He smiles. "Gou-chan told me to lose it, but it's not that easy, is it?"
"You're a long way from home, then."
"I miss it."
"Why not go back, then?" No matter how he dices it, this Makoto guy just doesn't seem like someone who makes a living robbing people. He's way too… nice, or something. Gives off the wrong aura.
Makoto smiles vaguely. "They're why I'm here."
"Ankle."
"What?"
He gestures at his dromad's feet, the front left of which is covered in pure white hair. "It should be called 'Ankle.'"
"…You should explain those kinds of things before you say them. I thought you were saying your name was Ankle."
"…no." After a moment, he adds, "It's Nanase Haruka."
Makoto smiles at him. "Hi, Haruka. I'm Tachibana Makoto."
They ride in silence for a few minutes.
"I'm calling it Ankle," says Haru definitively.
"Okay, Haru," replies Makoto.