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Act I: Epipelagic
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
– Langston Hughes
Winter holidays were over, the students returned, and Night Raven College sprung back to life like an early spring. Though a break from crowds and chatter had been far from unwelcome, it filled Azul Ashengrotto’s heart with joy to see his dear schoolmates fill the halls… and the tables at the Mostro Lounge, of course. Classes were immediately back in full swing the week after break, and more significantly, final examinations were just around the corner. Every professor had upped the ante, cramming the last pieces of curriculum necessary to cover before the semester’s end. Disappointment of being barred from entering contracts aside, it was a marvelous time for business! Additionally…
“You didn’t put in enough hydrogen peroxide. Add another drop.” Jamil Viper, his lab partner, scrutinized his work without a hint of cordiality, his lab manual open on the table in front of them. A subdued boy (well, not recently) with waist-length black hair in an intricately braided low ponytail, sharp but perpetually tired eyes, and a mean streak; Jamil seemed to have recovered shockingly quickly from his overblot. Seemed to, anyway. Azul did as he was told.
He had always been curious about Jamil’s ability to bleed into the masses of mediocrity. He’d long suspected its intentionality, but it became obvious how carefully honed of a skill it was when their freshman year final class rankings were posted: Jamil was the exact center (to be sure, Azul counted twice). It was clear he was no wallflower upon the slightest consideration: Who would braid gold ornaments and bells into their hair if they didn’t wish to be seen? Not to mention he was Scarabia’s Vice Housewarden. And yet most in their year hadn’t known of him.
Despite that, it never once occurred to him that he was being forced to fall into the background against his will. From the first time he bore witness to Jamil’s scheming grin, he thought he must have had some conspiracy planned to explain his behaviors, some motivation for his invisibility. Really, Azul felt a bit stupid for not piecing together his angle himself. It wasn’t as though Jamil hadn’t been forthcoming about being in forced servitude, he’d just not thought hard about it. That seemed to be a skill of his, evading the thoughts of other people, but no longer did he evade Azul’s.
Ever since the unfortunate events that transpired in Scarabia concluded, Jamil had made himself scarce. He was not spotted in the library, the school’s kitchen, or on courtyard walks after dark (which he had discovered he was fond of back in freshman year, a prized piece of intel Azul kept closely guarded), and hadn’t answered any of his texts. “How are you feeling?” and “I’d be more than willing to listen if you wanted to talk” and “Happy New Year!” were all promptly seen and left on read (though he hadn’t blocked him—small victories!). Now, however, with the return of their regular schedule, he had plenty of time to observe the metamorphosis of his beloved classmate. Jamil had been, true to his word, not pulling any more punches.
He’d also been delightfully unguarded with him. Azul decided that was a thought worth sharing: “My, you’ve been delightfully unguarded with me.”
He earned a glare for that, but to his surprise, Jamil deigned to respond in words. “I wouldn’t put it like that.”
“No? I think it’s an accurate appraisal. Why, a mere three weeks ago, if you thought I was proceeding incorrectly you’d only look at me with thinly veiled frustration until I managed to draw ‘idle thoughts’ from your head. But now I can trust to hear your honest opinion!”
Jamil sighed and held out his hand for their piece of copper, which Azul handed over without theatrics. Their task was to convert copper to zinc to copper again, a classic redox reaction, but quite the challenging activity. Riddle had been kind enough to have a brief chat as they were changing classes, and he explained that the aqueous copper tended to bind to the solid zinc put in the solution for extraction, leading to a significantly higher ending weight than the beginning one (of course, Riddle himself had a perfectly successful run, but none of his classmates had been so lucky). It made him grateful for his lab partner, who was working with deft hands and an air of quiet competence. Ah, he really was a sight: the long piece of hair that hung over his face was tucked behind his ear (in the name of lab safety), giving Azul a clear view of his face, gray eyes narrowed in focus, brow furrowed…
He thought about Jamil, just a little over a week ago now, collapsed on Scarabia’s marble-gold tiled floor. So small under the soft glow of hanging mosaic lamps, hair splayed out like a dark halo, eyes closed, a long-suffering frown on his face; no one seemed to feel particularly sorry for him, besides Kalim. No one seemed moved in the moment that this boy (really, a boy in that instant) had been driven to madness under a lifetime of forced servitude, generations of forced servitude. Why would he be anything but angry? Azul had been taking his pulse when his eyes fluttered open, and there was a moment where his expression wasn’t reticent, where he looked confused and scared and utterly exhausted. There was a moment where it was clear that no amount of competence or shrewdness would change the fact that he was only seventeen. He wondered how ego crushing it must be to possess such talent and spend a lifetime unacknowledged. He wondered how miserable it would be to go unseen and unheard by every adult and told to simply handle it. He wondered when the last time someone had taken care of Jamil was. He wondered, even when Jamil regained his senses and shoved him away.
“A pretty brilliant blue, huh?”
Azul blinked at him in confusion, before lowering his gaze to their solution. “Indeed it is! Well done, you.”
“Don’t patronize me. And can you stop smiling at me like that? You make it hard to focus.”
Azul put his PPE-gloved hand over his heart. “Forgive me, Jamil. I’m just happy about the new leaf we’ve turned over as acquaintances.”
True to Riddle’s word, it was a harrowing, arduous lab, and they were the only pair who ended up with an error under 100%. Remarkably, only 20%.
“It’s nothing to write home about,” Jamil said after Azul sung his praises. “And don’t think you’ll turn me into a line cook with empty flattery.” He stuffed his books in his bag.
“A station chef? Please, just because others were blind to your talents doesn’t mean I ever was. You’d be nothing short of a head chef, if you even wanted to work in the kitchen… Ideally, I’d start with you as a consultant—”
“Stop right there. I haven’t agreed to anything.” Jamil began walking away, and Azul was quick to follow.
The world felt like a brighter place as soon as they stepped out of the windowless, sterile potions lab. Lab practicals had a way of running everyone ragged, and Jamil was no exception: his hair had lost some of its luster, and he had goggle indents all around his eyes. It was rather endearing.
“Just consider it, you’d cut the most gallant figure in Octavinelle’s uniform!”
He didn’t seem to mind that Azul was walking with him to their history class.
The towers of main campus gleamed in the distance under cheerful January sun, as though someone had drawn sharp lines down the turrets with white-out. It hurt to look at them, yet it was such a brilliant sight, one so distinct to life on land, it was difficult for Azul to avert his gaze. The novelty still hadn’t worn off, a scene almost beautiful enough to ignore the fact that he was standing on the sports field’s carefully manicured turf with janitorial equipment in hand, a ludicrous branch of magic which somehow fell under the category of physical education. Still, Azul observed the way branches sagged under the weight of snow, dripping and turning to slush as the sun bore down without water molecules to scatter its power.
It was always an unnerving experience, being on the pitch. A wide, open space with nowhere to hide, no place to go to avoid the tyranny of Coach Vargas, who had just issued another verbal beating. Azul was convinced it was a detriment to his performance in flight magic.
A voice beside him grumbled, “Why does he always make your capacity my problem?”
“Is this not a lovely day? What a pity we’re being forced to spend it with cleaning supplies.”
“It would be lovelier if I weren’t being forced to spend it with you.” Ah, Jamil, caustic as a lye. Azul closed his eyes. He could hear a songbird in the distance.
“Then how about you take to the skies? You’re a sight to see when flying.”
“Ugh, you’re grossing me out.” He said that, but his tone always became less cutting when receiving praise. To be in possession of such an obvious weakness, how unfortunate for him. “I’m not here because I want to be.”
He could tell without looking that Jamil had given his hair a bit of a toss from the telltale bells. What a sweet sound they made, the faint chiming, though it had always perplexed him that Jamil would put himself through the hassle of dealing with them; it didn’t seem to suit his character. Azul took a breath, appreciating the last of his relative peace. Then, onto business:
“Yes, yes, you’ve had teaching responsibilities pushed onto you once more. I suppose we’ll have to strike up another deal, then.”
“Really? You’re really going on about this again?” Jamil rolled his eyes.
“There’s no such thing as a free lunch. What would you like in return?”
“To get out of class on time. Hop to it.” He crossed his arms. Usually for PE Jamil ditched the tracksuit jacket and opted for a sleeveless, crimson hoodie, which did much to display his athletic build, but the chill was such that he had his jacket zipped up completely. Pity. Red was a good color on him, which would be perhaps the one drawback, if he ever transferred to Octavinelle.
“You won’t fool me into incurring a debt to you, especially now that I’ve learned your affinity for ordering people around.” Goodness, did he remember: You really are my Genie of the Lamp, Azul. He’d been aware that, objectively, he was not being mind controlled, yet the commands he issued still felt difficult to resist, like treading molasses. “What you’d want to do with me, I can’t imagine.” (As a matter of fact, he could imagine: Obviously he’d want to be let in on the Headmage’s secrets, and perhaps others who could help him improve his standing in school).
Jamil stared at him in disbelief, jaw agape. He really was not a difficult individual to read half the time, always quick to show annoyance and frustration, not to mention his habit of snickering to himself when he was scheming and under the impression no one could hear (admittedly, a habit Azul shared). It beckoned the question of how he managed to fool the dorm that emphasized thoughtfulness in its entirety. “You… you realize you have, like, insane blackmail material on me, right? What I don’t get is why you’re keeping up the charade and not already extorting me for all I’ve got.”
A gust of wind sent ripples through the grass and a cloud over the sun. Bright patches of light disappeared, as did the intense shadows.
“…Excuse me?”
“I thought if my plan failed I’d face a fate worse than death. You killed the plan, thanks, but you’re also the reason it didn’t get out to the school, my parents, or worse, the House Asim. You could literally ruin my whole life,” Jamil said in the most indifferent tone. “This is what you’ve always wanted, so I don’t know why you’re not rubbing it in.”
“Me, the heart and soul of benevolence? I would never stoop that low!” Actually, that was a sickening thought. It made Azul’s stomach turn as it did whenever he took off on a broom. Even in the storm’s wake, he’d felt that his livestream bluff was a bit uncalled for, claiming to commit such a cruelty. It was a strange thought to have, that he’d gone too far. As a rule Azul believed all the consequences he inflicted were deserved, a type of tough love emulative of the Sea Witch, and really, his schoolmates had it coming. But Jamil…
“You absolutely would.”
“I genuinely would not! That goes far beyond the purview of our school life. It would be deeply…” Upsetting, atrocious, downright horrifying. What if he actually had aired out Jamil’s break? The Ramshackle residents mentioned him saying, when confronted with the prospect of challenging Kalim for dorm leadership, he wasn’t willing to put his family on the streets for his selfishness1 (which, from what Azul had read of the Scalding Sands, wasn’t exaggeration). Consequences for an entire bloodline, resting on his shoulders. That was more than he desired to bear. “Someone who did that would be completely irredeemable.”
His expression was unimpressed. “Well, we’re talking about you, so…”
“Jamil, seriously! I don’t know who you think I am, but I have no interest in ruining the life of someone born into enslavement! Did you not make it clear that your family would suffer for your actions? I’m not even eighteen yet, I wouldn’t do that.” If word got out, being withdrawn from NRC would likely be the least of Jamil’s concerns, but the idea of it was almost vexingly distressing.
Jamil had a hand on his temple in exasperation. “I mean, isn’t that basically what your little contract game was, indentured servitude? I don’t know, Azul, you’re not exactly teeming with virtue.”
“That—that is so wholly not the same!” Azul wasn’t evil. Selfish, certainly; even greedy, but he’d never… Ah, his eyes burned as they welled up with tears; mortifying. Surely nothing would sink his image with Jamil further than such a pathetic display. He blinked assiduously, praying it would go unnoticed. A clear of his throat: “A contract is a written agreement signed by two individuals, they both make the decision to enter it and consent to the terms. You were born into this! You said, for generations your family has—”
Azul hadn’t noticed Coach Vargas approach them until his shrill whistle interrupted his thought. “Less talking, more flying! I want to see you two off the ground!”
Jamil kicked off a couple meters into the air as Azul took deep breaths to compose himself. When he opened his mouth to speak again, he was cut off.
“Don’t ‘poor thing’ me. I don’t want your pity.” The sun had returned from hiding, and Jamil was floating directly in its path, his face warm and glowing in the light, hair ornaments glistening. Azul still felt a bit faint; his head must have truly been protesting the prospect of flying.
“That’s not what this is.” As Azul spoke, Jamil sank back to his level, making him straighten up on instinct. “I can be genuine, and as a matter of fact,” the lilt returned to his voice, “I’m always genuine with you.”
“I’d genuinely like you to stop wasting my time.”
“How is Kalim faring these days?”
“None of your business. Get on your broom, Azul.”
The more he considered it, the clearer their clashing personalities became. It was all so easy for Kalim, easy to forget social status, easy to forgive, easy to say a kind word without ulterior motives. To have his moment of catharsis met with oblivious good intentions that missed the point of his anger; to completely ignore his role in Jamil’s life; to quickly brush his resentment aside… Well, of course it was infuriating. Even Azul, as a bystander, found it rather grating to witness.
“Still attempting to mend your relationship?”
Jamil gripped the handle of his broomstick so tightly, Azul noticed his knuckles lighten. “He can’t take no for an answer. Much like you, only you’re cunning. I don’t know if that makes you better or worse.”
That could not be a fair comparison. Azul presumed he was merely saying it to get a barb in.
“Better, I’d say, as it means I can understand you.”
“For the love of—you are so annoying.” He let out a sigh and muttered to himself: “Get over nearly dying and everyone just wants to test your patience…”
He said the saddest things without realizing it. Perhaps most would find his quips simply stinging, but they came to Azul like solemn admittances of discontent. The winter sun felt bleak, all of a sudden, washing out the color in the world, highlighting the barren trees, the austerity of their surroundings. And, well, he didn’t wish to make his classmate needlessly suffer.
“How about I do your portion of the lab report in return for your assistance?” Azul was nothing if not philanthropic.
Jamil looked like he wanted to say something more, but he merely sighed again. “Fine. It’s a deal.”
Something about his utterance of Azul’s signature phrase was enough to return his appreciation of their surroundings.
Act II: Mesopelagic
‘A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.’
I am tired with my own life and the lives of those after me,
I am dying in my own death and the deaths of those after me.
Let thy servant depart,
Having seen thy salvation.
— T.S. Eliot*
Azul Ashengrotto at 3:32 p.m.
I’d like to express my sincerest hopes that you’ll join me in the Mostro Lounge’s VIP room this evening. Catering will be provided on the house, and you have my assurances that the environment is befitting of someone as significant as the Vice Housewarden of the esteemed Scarabia. From the bottom of my magnanimous heart, I implore you to accept this invitation.
Jamil Viper at 5:02 p.m.
Reacted 👎 to “I’d like to express my sincerest hopes that you’ll join me in the Mostro Lounge’s…”
Dusk had long since settled over the courtyard, painting the sky a murky navy in contrast with the cheerful yellow glow of the college’s many windows. Evenings always reminded him of the Coral Sea, a constant night illuminated by floating lanterns. Getting used to seeing the sun took quite some time, and though he’d come to appreciate the unique way it bent shadow and light, Azul still felt most at home after dark. He’d observed closing at the Mostro Lounge and even had time to review paperwork before his excursion. Tax season was to start in a mere few weeks, and the complications of a student operated business hadn’t been ironed out. Headmage had been of no help the previous year, citing it as a valuable lesson in the world of economics for a young upstart like Azul, so he was forced to phone his step father for a consultation. Nevertheless, it was not an unpalatable task: There was something infinitely satisfying about tax write-offs. It was a pleasant evening, quite cold by human standards, though perfectly temperate in his overcoat. The paths were clear, but snow was banked on the sides of them and bare branches drooped under its weight. Unfortunately, the beauty of the moment was lost on him as he turned to walk in the oak tree shadows, the gravity of his situation sinking in.
Azul was taking a calculated risk. If he recalled correctly, Jamil was apt to walk through the West Courtyard within the next fifteen minutes, assuming he hadn’t changed his route on him. It wasn’t something Azul had discovered intentionally; on a mid-April evening, after collecting a payment with Floyd (pizzo, he was fond of calling it), he’d decided to take a leisurely stroll on the way home. To his surprise, Jamil was sitting on the bench under the blossoming apple tree, donning headphones and gazing distantly into the white flowers above him. Azul had ducked away on reflex, and he didn’t seem to have noticed him, but in the months following he managed to witness more of his routine during his nighttime excursions.
Of course, all that information would go to waste if he didn’t appear to have run into him coincidentally, considering Jamil would react by changing his walk. Then there was the issue of the cold, someone from Silk City wouldn’t be as well-acquainted with the chill. The odds were equally in favor of Jamil choosing to walk within Scarabia during the winter months.
The point of intelligence collection was to utilize such tools when necessary, so when Jamil began approaching his vantage point, Azul sauntered out like he’d been walking the whole time.
“Why, if it isn’t Jamil. Good evening.”
He froze at that and remained silent.
“I know you’re there. I suppose you’ve forgotten mermen are well-accustomed to seeing in the dark?”
“Not at all. I was just wondering what to hex you with.” He had on a short puffer jacket over his hoodie, hands jammed in the pockets, ire on his face.
“Dear me, is it such a crime to accidentally bump into a classmate while out on an evening jaunt? I’m glad to see you, you know, especially after you so harshly turned down my invitation.”
“That makes one of us.”
Azul held out his arm. “Shall we walk together?”
Jamil sighed and pushed his arm away. “You’re not actually giving me a choice. I prefer to be alone at night, you know.”
“Ah, so you come to escape the chaos of the waking hours.” Azul imagined what Jamil’s afternoons must look like: doing Kalim’s homework, cooking for Kalim, completing Kalim’s Housewarden duties… “It makes sense that you’d prefer to have some time away from your dorm.”
“I hope you don’t think you’re being particularly observant. I literally just told you that.” Jamil continued walking, and Azul matched his stride.
“Must you always address me with such resentment? I was worried sick about you after your overblot.”
“You’d sound less fake if you didn’t constantly talk in hyperbole.”
“I’m—”
“Let’s get on with it. What do you want?”
What a question, a dangerous question to ask someone like himself, but none of the immediate answers felt worth saying. He observed how his and Jamil’s shadow lengthened and shortened as they passed by streetlamps. Azul had been generous enough to play PR to the school with Kalim, though Jamil wasn’t present for that conversation. They’d cited stress from work on top of extracurriculars, and concerns were quickly dismissed by Kalim’s convincing show of “He’s my best friend” and “Our families will make sure he’s okay” (with more credit certainly given on account of his father’s donations to the school). From what Azul gathered, Jamil had been treated to a stay in the infirmary, and became a minor topic of gossip, considering the convenient holiday timing of his overblot. Still, his reputation as the polite and helpful second-in-command of Scarabia was put to shambles.
“Well… How are things going at your dorm now?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, I’d like to be clued in.”
“Ugh. It’s been fine, obviously they weren’t happy about the stunt I pulled, but Kalim smoothed it over, more or less. Our students have been lying in wait to see who’s more beneficial to side with. I guess we’ve just been treading water since2.”
“Classic Scarabia; shameless, really.” They were now ambling down Main Street, past the statues of the Great Seven. “Is your reason for overblotting not of concern to them?”
Jamil gave him a look. “What I did affected them personally, and I certainly didn’t word anything as a plea for help.” A fair assessment, he’d sounded quite machiavellian, all his talk of carefully laid plans and not getting his hands dirty. He would be such a desirable ally, to think of all they could do together... “Not to mention Kalim and I aren’t the only ones from Silk City. It’s a major metropolitan area. My situation is normal, fortunate by some standards, even.”
“But surely you’re not okay with it now?”
“Are you kidding me?” Jamil took a moment to let out a mirthless laugh, before making an expression practically deranged. “OBVIOUSLY NOT. The only thing that’s changed is that I’m no longer throwing an NRC education, and only because it’s what Kalim wants. That’s all that matters. Do you know how long I’ve spent tutoring that boy just for the chance to do more than subpar? And it never worked! I spent more time deciding which questions to get wrong on exams than I did thinking about the answers. It’s not like he gives me any time alone or that I work any less. And where do you get off, Azul? I don’t want your rehearsed sympathies. If you’d just stayed out of it, I could be free by now.”
It occurred to Azul how drastic the consequences of performing mediocrity could be for Jamil’s future; grades were the frontlines in how universities and employers judged recent graduates. Then he realized he hadn’t the slightest idea what Jamil wanted to do with his life, which perhaps meant he’d resigned himself to endlessly serving the Asim family, and oh, there was bile in his throat again.
“Jamil, I really…” Guilt was an unfamiliar feeling for him, a clawing sensation in his diaphragm. “I don’t know what to say. You have my apologies.”
“Wow, means a lot.”
For a while, the only sound was leather Oxfords and tennis shoes against a stone path. Azul had nothing to add. Being somewhat familiar with Kalim and curious about Jamil, he’d wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery himself. Kalim’s sunny disposition never struck him as unstable; quite the opposite, it seemed to be born of an upbringing rich in affections and wealth. It was a plan he’d never implement himself, too risky and too unbelievable; Azul had sensed there was something fishy as soon as the Ramshackle Prefect shared their story. If it were him, he’d form a series of alliances to persuade the Headmage (overtly or covertly) that Kalim had to go. He himself would’ve been the most beneficial connection to have!
Perhaps he would’ve acted differently if he’d known Jamil’s long-held feelings. The man would never enter a consultation with him, no matter how beneficial it might’ve been, but if Azul was aware of his strife, his tender-hearted nature would’ve driven him to at least think harder about damage control.
Jamil broke the silence. “Now tell me something embarrassing about yourself.”
“I—I beg your pardon?” His cheeks grew hot.
“Tit for tat. You’ve seen me at my worst, more than I’d ever willingly show you, so tell me about what happened when you lost it.”
“That’s quite personal.”
“Which is why I want to know.” Jamil’s eyes narrowed as his face contorted into a sly smile. “Out with it.”
What was it like? The endless depths, the abyss of despair, the ringing…
Church bells. It must’ve been. The inky depths and—
Anger, fury, spotted vision, blotchy with tears, sticky and wet and there were screams, so many screams but—
Bells. Constant ringing. Nothing could be heard over them. They would pay. They would pay. All he could think of was the mermaid who stole a church bell and dragged it to the bottom of the river. When the people of the parish were fishing it out, one called:
In spite of all the devils in hell,
Now we’ll land Marden’s great bell.
It woke the mermaid. Those fools. Those fools! They, who made fun of her, who gloated to her face. They’d rue the day. She took it back. If you lose something, just take it back.
Take it back.
Take it back.
“Azul?”
“Well,” he began in a clipped voice, “I was rather upset. Kingscholar toyed with me in a way most unbecoming, he… he offered to make a deal, for the contracts. It’s quite cruel to offer a deal as a joke! Then he destroyed them… years of hard work, and had the gall to discuss it with Ruggie, like I wasn’t even there.”
“You poor, unfortunate soul.”
Azul pointedly avoided looking at him. “Oh, come off it.”
“See? Not fun to be on the receiving end of it. I guess you went on a rampage after that?”
“I suppose there’s no better way of putting it. Yes, I began seizing the powers of everyone around me, unregulated. That quickly exceeded my blot tolerance.” Merfolk never worried about drowning, but that feeling, the feeling of being engulfed on all sides with no way out… Azul imagined it must be akin to drowning. “I will say that you got your wits about you after coming around much easier than I did, so hats off to you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I was kind enough to respect your dignity in the aftermath of all that transpired.” How quickly Jamil recovered indeed, snapping into an angry tirade minutes after waking up bleary and disoriented. “Others were not so considerate with me…”
“Stop beating around the bush.”
Under normal circumstances, Azul would have very much continued beating around the bush. One of his strong suits was fielding difficult questions, a skill he’d always admired about lawyers, slipping through the cracks of rhetorical traps. Yet the night weakened his resolve, making the effort of evading the topic feel futile. Perhaps part of it was Jamil himself; perhaps there was something that accumulated through a lifetime of subordination, something that made commands hold more weight. When I ask you a question, you will answer. When I give you a command, you will assent.
Azul cleared his throat. “They all gawked at a photo dragged from the depths of my past. I’ve never been more humiliated. I could have died.”
“So that’s your weakness? Thanks for sharing.”
“I haven’t forgotten how dastardly you can be. Discard any mistaken assumption that material on my past self will be possible to find: I disposed of every bit of evidence through a network of deals.” Except the one. Damned freshmen. “As far as reality is concerned, I appeared in this world at fourteen.”
“You’re more anxious than I expected. How bad can it be? I guess I’ll ask Floyd at practice tomorrow.”
“DO NOT ASK HIM ANYTHING.” The thought was enough to make his blood run cold. Goodness, if Floyd was in the mood to embarrass him, no non-disclosure agreement could shut his mouth; not to mention that contracts signed by minors weren’t legally binding, a fact Azul just had to hope people would remain unaware of.
Jamil laughed at him; a rather mean, somewhat maniacal laugh. Oh, Sevens, Azul was too weak to his true nature. “Maybe he can put me in touch with your mother.”
“She would never bend to the whims of a teenager. She’s not easy to cross. That being said, acquaintance with her would be beneficial for you. La Grotta is a contender for the best restaurant of the Coral Sea, and you’ll find that the experience of food is completely different underwater. It may be a source of inspiration.”
“No thanks.”
“If you’re ever interested, I’d be happy to take you! I could even have the generous 15% family discount applied.”
“Just 15%? Where I’m from it would be a farce to charge anything for family.”
“We value business.”
Their walk to the Hall of Mirrors was done in silence. It was quite eerie after dark, the only light came from the ceiling’s narrow lancet windows and dancing green torchlight. As Jamil approached the Scarabia mirror’s carved ebonite frame, Azul made a split-second decision and grabbed his arm. He tensed rather profoundly at his touch.
“What say you to another round of Mancala?”
Jamil looked at him like he had choice words to say, but responded civilly enough: “I would’ve thought you’d have to be up for work tomorrow. Shady backroom deals, unethical business practices, waiting tables?”
“I’ve nothing pressing, no,” only homework, putting the final touches on his study guides, a housewarden meeting, and a kitchen shift, “but I realize you may need sleep to complete your duties.” All his tasks paled in importance to an opportunity to pick Jamil’s brain.
“I’m used to going without much. It’s the price of free time.”
“So how about it? I’d like to see what you can do when you’re not holding back.”
“Fine, but only because I want to see you resoundingly defeated.”
“Oh, I don’t plan on losing.” Now they were talking! “I wiped the floor with my previous opponent, and I’ve plenty of experience in my post at Board Games Club.”
“‘Board Games Club’, you’re so much lamer than you think you are, Azul. We’ll see how you’re talking when I’m through.” Jamil gestured for him to walk through Scarabia’s mirror. “In you go.”
“A gentleman yet!”
Act III: Bathypelagic
O ye who believe! You have charge over your own souls.
— Qur’an 5.105
Unchanged since Azul had last entered, Scarabia dorm was a marvel to behold. Polished marble columns with scarlet accents, gold leaf detail and hand-cut tiles, silk upholstery and embroidered textiles—it hardly felt like a dorm. Jamil had removed his jacket, folding it over his arm, for the temperature was that of an idyllic summer evening. No one was in the lounge at that hour. There was an odd sense of déjà vu, being in that common room with Jamil once more. In the days after his overblot, Azul had found his mind constantly returning to the image of him collapsed on the ground, just a few feet from where he was stood now. It elicited a tightness in his throat. He took a moment to study a mother-of-pearl inlay he previously hadn’t noticed as Jamil fetched the Mancala board.
“Tea?” Jamil asked, placing a tea set on one of the carpets as he settled against a cushion.
“Why, thank you.” Azul busied himself with the board, setting four polished stones in each divot. It was a simple strategy game, much like checkers, and there were dozens of potential strategies one could employ. After only playing five rounds against a subpar opponent, he was quite curious about what his opponent’s approach would be.
Jamil handed him a gold-plated cup of black tea and cardamom. “Your move,” he smiled unreadably. “Welcome to Scarabia.”
Courteous, courteous… was what a fool would think! So that was his game. Of course, Azul would never be coaxed into a false sense of security, and Jamil was certain to be aware of it, having made that mistake to his detriment. The person who went first won 89% of the time!** He could feel Jamil’s keen eyes on him as he took the stones from the fourth rightmost hole on his side, depositing the final in his Mancala and taking another turn. It was the most predictable move, bearing nothing of Azul’s method except that he knew the bare minimum of strategy.
“I’ve been wondering, Jamil,” Azul watched as he calmly took his turn, “what do you intend to do now?”
“Well, fall in line with Kalim, as I’ve already been doing.” There was nothing to note on his first play. He was quite delicate in his actions, gently scooping up the stones and placing them with care.
“That sounds difficult to bear.”
“You sure love your presumptions.” Jamil locked eyes with him, and for a moment Azul braced himself. As if he would try to use mind control to win a board game! “Look, I’ll tell you a story:
“A long time ago, there was a king of a vast empire, said to encompass the Scalding Sands and all its surrounding territories. He was quite the paranoid man. After being betrayed by his first wife, he decided all women were the same, and in his bitterness he began marrying a succession of virgins, executing each the next morning, before they had the chance to dishonor him.
“Eventually the vizier who found these wives for him ran out of them, and his own daughter offered herself.” Azul was careful to pay attention to his words while making his next play. “On the night of their wedding, she began to tell him a story, but did not end it. The king was too curious to hear its conclusion, so he postponed the execution. After she finished regaling him, she immediately began telling another story, and so on they went.” Jamil took his turn. “One thousand and one tales for one thousand and one nights.”
“How resilient. Was she spared, in the end?”
“Mhm. There are countless variations of the ending, but she never dies. I’ve always thought about that vizier’s daughter, constantly on the cusp of death, persevering to live just another day. She must have spent all her waking hours thinking of those tales, relying only on wit and creativity to keep herself alive.” He’d never slated Jamil as the type to speak in metaphor, or as someone particularly literary (though history was one thing he’d never shied away from expressing proficiency in). “Speaking of wit, it seems I’ve won our first round. Best two of three?”
“Goodness!” Outplayed, completely outplayed! To think, Azul, distracted by a mere folktale, lax in his maneuvers as Jamil snatched victory from right under his nose. He’d never known him to be a riveting speaker, capable of stringing him along like an utter buffoon… But then, at least he was discovering his hidden depths. “Certainly, but we’ve not even counted the stones yet.”
“Count away, then.” Jamil flashed him a smug grin. It ignited the strangest sensation, just the curve of his mouth. Like when Azul touched a metal doorknob his first dry day on land: the spark between his finger and steel, the burning of nerve endings, the jolt in his heart. He was correct in his claim of victory. Damn, damn, damn it all.
Azul cleared his throat. “So you’re saying you’ll endure it.” He received a curt nod in response. “Does that not seem unfair to you, you who were so determined?”
“Are you entitled to my thoughts?”
“No one said anything about entitlement, I’m merely curious.”
“You know what, I’ll bite.” Jamil redistributed the pieces in the board, taking the first turn of their next round. “It doesn’t matter how I feel. Hierarchy is an unavoidable part of life. Masters are masters, servants are servants3; it’s woven into the fabric of society. My actions wouldn’t change this, if that’s what you’re implying. It’s actually rather selfish of me.”
“Really, selfish?”
“Consider it. My place in the Asim family is likely the highest someone of my station4 could hope to be, personal attendant of a benevolent wealthy heir, and this was a privilege I was born into. I can imagine what my parents would say, on aspiring for more: ‘Is this not enough? Can’t you be grateful?’ It was an argument we had a lot when I was in middle school.”
The foreignness of that statement was so jarring, Azul had to receive a nudge from his opponent to recall that it was his turn. He couldn’t imagine anyone in his family telling him anything remotely similar.
“I’m inclined to disagree. I don’t think it’s inherently selfish to rise above one’s station, quite the opposite: it’s to the detriment of society if those with merit, like you, are stuck lower in the pecking order than they belong.”
“Of course you would think that.” His play again; Azul watched as he moved seemingly without a second thought. Jamil appeared unconcerned with Azul’s habit of capturing his pieces, instead he seemed far more focused on keeping a sequence of pits holding one stone each. Such a strategy created far more opportunity for the other player to fumble. A war of attrition, how fitting for Jamil.
“Now what’s that supposed to mean? Hierarchy may be unavoidable, yes, but in a healthy society it’s determined by talent.”
It was unnerving to have Jamil’s eyes on him. Each time Azul finished his turn, he sported a self-satisfied look, as though he’d done exactly as predicted. Whether that was true or just a clever bit of psychological warfare hardly mattered, considering the effect was unchanged. Mancala was quite befitting of Scarabia’s spirit, requiring the foresight to see at least two turns in advance and multiple calculations for each potential move. Azul took another sip of his tea, long since gone lukewarm.
Jamil had no trouble keeping the tempo of conversation without stalling the game. “In that case we don’t have any healthy societies, unless you’re naive enough to think otherwise. Luck of the draw wins everywhere you go. Take the Shaftlands: They’re all about striking individual fortune, but merit plays a lesser role to luck. How many great inventors and sorcerers have gone unnoticed for their lack of eminence or funding? The world’s unfair. You’ve said that money is an omnipotent power, and that starts at birth. I’d wager Ruggie is significantly more talented than Kalim, but the wealth of their families makes that distinction moot. If it’s not overtly built into a lineage, then the hierarchy is topped by whoever’s family has the most money.”
What a rush it was, being privy to his candid opinions! Azul had to bite his tongue to avoid beaming like a lunatic. “I wouldn’t claim it as a perfect system, but the value of money is that it can be earned, and, inversely, a fool can spend away a fortune. You can never earn your way out of lineage.”
“And yet I’d still like to.” Jamil paused to survey their positions. “It’s an appealing thought, though not the world I live in.”
How he managed to speak with such unconcern, Azul would never understand. He attempted to guess what Jamil’s next move would be. He was wrong.
“So what do you want to do, come graduation?” There were certainly no shortage of professions that could use someone of Jamil’s caliber. Chemistry or potionology came to mind. He was well-suited for the groundbreaking, flashy side of research, possessing scrupulous attention to detail, quick problem solving skills, and a cutthroat, competitive nature that was necessary for survival in academia. Additionally, he could handle being overlooked with much more grace than Azul could, although with that in mind, perhaps the crushing hierarchy of academia would prove too similar to the rest of his life for him to be happy (why his happiness was of any particular importance to Azul remained unclear).
Jamil answered without trepidation: “Travel.”
Always the unexpected with him. Azul gave up on tempering his delight. “Is that so? To where?”
“Oh, everywhere.” A small smile played on Jamil’s lips. “I guess you’d assume I have no hope for us people, huh? I think we’ll raze the world to the ground one of these days, so I want to see it before we do.”
“Morbid, not unlike you at all. Though I would’ve thought you’d answer with a prestigious career.”
“Maybe. Who knows what I’ll be able to do in the end?” It would be a terrible waste if he were to continue trailing after Kalim in the end. If that became a reality, perhaps Azul would have to get involved... “I’ve always thought that, if nothing else, I could request time off to travel. Then perhaps I’d disappear and never return.”
“Like a cabin in the woods? Or a secluded island?”
“No way. Too many bugs.” That begged for further inquiry. Azul made a mental note. “I grew up in the city; I belong in civilization.” The clatter of stone against wood punctuated his words: “And anyway, the interesting part of travel is to see what people are like:” clack—“what they built,” clack—“what foods they eat,” clack—“their speech patterns and idiosyncrasies…”
“I see…” Azul moved his remaining pieces into his Mancala; Jamil had emptied his side of the board.
“That gleeful look on your face tells me I’ve said too much.”
“You could never say too much to me. I was just thinking about how you aren’t truly sick of this world.”
“Never claimed to be.” Jamil began counting his stones, slowly, meticulously, making a show when Azul knew he was capable of tallying them at a glance. He was far, far from the tired, resigned individual he seemed. How those gray eyes shone with determination, glinted like fire and brimstone on that fateful December day; how they never dulled, even when worked to the bone, even when driven half neurotic. And how, much like the shaft of sunshine to break dreary, overcast skies, there was always a glimmer of hope cutting through his contemptuous words; like the saying of sailors: Weather is a great bluffer. The hawk who hid his talons, the viper who lurked in shadows: Jamil, Jamil, his mystery, his enigma, his puzzle to piece together. Was that what happened to a dream deferred? Relegated to petulant hope in a cynical heart?
Then Azul’s reverie was broken: “My win again.”
“Only to be expected.” He sighed. He truly was not fond of losing.
Why did it matter to him? Jamil couldn’t offer him anything tangible. He was a viable investment, certainly; he had invaluable soft skills and the makings of a master chef, but what good was that if he had no interest? What good was someone bogged down by problems beyond Azul’s control? He couldn’t help him in any way that mattered, couldn’t receive anything particularly useful in return, so really, it was dead weight; a waste of time of all parties involved.
Why did it matter so much?
“So what about you?”
“What?” Manners, Azul scolded himself. “I mean, pardon?”
“Plans, Azul. What are you going to do for the next forty to fifty years of your life?”
“Ah, I plan on entering the world of business, obviously. I’ve already made a start. With the connections and experiences I’m gaining in adolescence, I’m sure I’ll be able to make a splash.”
“So unrevealing.” Jamil yawned, covering his mouth with his hand. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a mouth for PR?”
He was feeling quite tired himself. “Why, you flatter me…”
Jamil rested his chin on his palm, eyes briefly fluttering shut. Oh, he was lovely, so lovely it made Azul feel slightly ill. He was aware of everything, the cool desert breeze, the buzz of electricity, the tiredness that made his vision blur. He thought about how Jamil’s life, made up of little separate incidents Azul had no way of knowing, constructed of memories and images and philosophies so alien to him, how it amassed into a whole in front of him. Right there on the carpet, sleepy and fighting to stay awake; every piece of Jamil’s life gathered to bring him to Azul for just a moment, just an evening to play a game of Mancala. Something so delicate and ephemeral as his company, the presence of Jamil across from him, filled Azul with an unplaceable yearning, desperation to capture and pin down something that couldn’t be held. Like a butterfly in a display case. Like a dream deferred.
What could it mean, what could it all mean? The tightening of the chest, the hitching of breath, the dire need to spend another hour together. Feelings devoid of logic, causing goals and rational thought to fall by the wayside. What was he doing? He had a meeting tomorrow, multiple (he had to prepare for the annual culture fair! For the weekend rush at the lounge! For the next week of classes! For finals!); he had plenty to do with his time. And what was the end goal? What could possibly be important enough about Jamil to beckon his attention a quarter past two? The floor was hard under the rug (hardly comfortable for one’s tailbone), the cushions had no back support, the tea was cold, and Azul hadn’t even come close to winning a game. What was it about Jamil that could put him under such a spell? And what did Azul even want?
To be born anew, to kill the pathetic past self.
(To be free from embarrassment, from pain.)
To be powerful, to be feared, to never be doubted again.
(To be wanted, to be adored.)
To discover Jamil’s secrets, to force him into a profitable deal…
(To stay a while longer.)
“We could play another round,” eyes of steel fixed on Azul, “ if you’re desperate to redeem yourself.”
He thought about Jamil, shoulders squared like a soldier, digging the trenches of a lifelong war, facing reality with the gallows humor of a suicide mission. Sympathy. A worthless endeavor, but was it only selfish, the pang in his chest? Was it so unreasonable for Azul to feel sad for him?
There was a unique sort of weariness somewhere between late night and early morning, the exhaustion that leadened the limbs and made eyelids grow heavy. There was a lowering of inhibition, the same as a strong drink, that made for good reasons to get to bed on time, lest one grew loose-lipped and lost sense of discretion. So it hardly registered as surprise in Azul’s consciousness when his hands pushed aside the polished mahogany Mancala board, when he reached out to pull Jamil into his arms, and when he pressed his face into his shoulder (ignoring the glasses that dug into his cheek). Even in his dazed fatigue, Azul recognized that he had about two heartbeats before being violently shoved away.
The shocking, bewildering, astonishing occurrence was that Jamil stayed.
And he stayed: he stayed. Azul might as well have learned to hold the sky.
“Next time,” Azul mumbled, “next time you should come and play chess at my place.” Jamil in his room, now wasn’t that a novel idea… “Perhaps it can shed light on the missing piece of strategy you needed.”
He hummed. “So you think my plan was stupid. I suppose I should’ve thought of something better.”
“I merely think it a ridiculous thing to attempt by oneself.”
“Hah, so where I went wrong was not asking for your assistance?”
“Precisely.” Azul tightened his grasp. He smelled of cumin and cinnamon and coconut oil and was so warm, so very warm…
“Over my dead body. It’s a slippery slope from trust to betrayal.”
“You only need to trust the other party to uphold his end of your agreement, thus is the art of the deal. Trust in his character is unnecessary, same with attachment.” He clutched a fistful of fabric in his hand. “Really, it’s a completely illogical and irrational thing to succumb to; better to remain unattached.”
“It’s hard to take pleas of friendship seriously from someone who doesn’t believe in attachment.”
“Did I ever say friendship? I just think we could rule the world together, Jamil. I’ve never seen anything quite like your unique magic. Controlling the mind of a human is one of the most challenging and meticulous types of spellcasting; it must’ve taken years to hone, and being able to cast it effortlessly at seventeen is nothing short of incredible.” He pulled away, hands on Jamil’s shoulders. “To think of what we could accomplish if we joined forces, as equals!” To think of Jamil, two-faced, multifaceted, to think of his glimpses of vulnerability, transient like wisps of smoke… to think of Azul being the one to truly see him, under his shifting, kaleidoscopic facade… “Never before have I met someone who could match my prowess for scheming. You really are something special, you know.”
Jamil made a strangled noise and yanked his hood over his head. “I—Of course I know. I already told you I’m not transferring to your dorm. You won’t make me drop my vigilance.”
Azul laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
His opponent tugged on the strings of his hoodie, obstructing his face.
Fin