Luneshale Pass salgado

he slinks back to camp under the copper burn of a sinking sun.

whatever deed he's done, whatever he's found to sink his teeth into up in the highlands, he does not speak of it.

and his soul feels a little less heavy.

all that dissipates as he comes across fiamma's cairn. a blade of silver hair wedged between crumbled rocks.

turning immediately for the nursery rows of green, soto begins to complete her work.

he weeds.

he mulches.

his back bent and sore by the time he's done.

clean as a knife, these rows of tiny saplings.

if only fiamma was here to see it, comes the unwelcome purl of a voice soto has learned to loathe.

The lion has made himself a rare sight in recent months. He slinks through the the shadows as though they are one in the same, travels in the cover of night or while patrols are switching out. His lingering scent is all the leaves him seen most days.

But even he has learned to understand the weight of a tragedy. One of their own died, Soto left for a time. There was an unrest in the pass that pulled him out of the deep grave he had began to dig months ago. He had seen it in Leto's insitence that her children stay closer than before, deep in Kemal's eyes where the brute kept his semblance of feeling. Now he seeked to know it in another, too.

He watches for a time as the man works, only coming down to the fields he was once made to patrol when everything stills. ¿Aún estás de luto? He asks in a strangely hushed tone. In recent months he found that Leto was quite the good teacher; his understanding was still limited, but most of it was putting meaning to words he already knew through listening. The constant speak of death had made it an easy topic for him to communicate.

is he grieving still?

soto whirls upon the lion, single eye glinting with madness. an urge to strike him snakes out from soto's mind, but he stops mid advancement, picking up on the almost gentle way arslan had asked.

to acknowledge his grief was to allow something to shake the crumbling house of his composure. he is a man. men do not cry.

not even for women like fiamma.

soto knows this is not true, but his culture forbids any grand display of emotion besides gregariousness or violence. 

the tension in his shoulders drops. he turns from arslan and moves down the rows, straightening green shoots where they needed it, mulching where the dirt was exposed and dry.

si. he answers at last. estás listo para tu próximo trabajo?

He has learned to stop flinching. There is no excitement in the aggression this time, not for him. He struggles to find his pleasure in Soto's pain.

No, He responds, a soft laugh in his tone. Pero no es mi elección. He will never enjoy work, but there is a growing understanding that his mind is no longer his own. He is not the noble prince sitting high above anymore, if he is provided an order he will not disobey despite his complaints.

He stares down at the plants as the pass by. He will never fully understand the little things.

he's right. it's not his choice.

for a long beat soto studies him. his mind is elsewhere, reliving a memory made many years ago.

juarez the jaguar stands over the hunched figure of their newest halcyon. a boy. he went by pinqullu in the camps. soto never confirmed it, but he suspected the boy came from the same province as tomillo. it was something in their eyes; an andean spirit that bid poorly for honest work.

the boy had be given a task to run green to a nearby province. he took the green, and later returned promising delivery.

three weeks later gunrunners from the south came looking for their cut. they took three of juarez' halcyons and beat them within an inch of their life. nino's skull had nearly been driven in. marciela worked day and night to save them.

juarez knew right away what to do. he always did. he found pinqullu and he knocked him around until the boy spit teeth into the clay. then he knocked him around some more.

the pool of blood grew.

people began to gather.

and soto watched the boy who had failed their brothers be drawn and quartered layer by layer.

he's pretty sure his skull sits exactly where juarez had left it, all these years later.

quiero que tomes este verde. he pointed to a patch of more mature greens ready for collections. y llevárselos a las manadas en el continente. un regalo.

A task similar to his first. It will be good for him to cease his seditary life for a time, keep himself toned. ¿Qué harán con ello? He asks the question, for he is sure the packs will ask him the same.

Considering the journey, he realizes that it's been some time since he's been on his own. Solitary. He's grown used to sleeping in the company of other's. Kemal. ¿Cuidarás de él? Upon asking this, he suddenly searches for Soto's eyes.

The fact is that Kemal is grown, he can care for himself. He knows that. But as outward as the lion is with his emotions, Kemal holds them in. He knows that his brother is far more sensitive than he ever was. Kemal has yet to be in Verapaz without his company, and the idea leaves Arslan worried.

what will they do with it?

soto almost laughs. this is the difference between juarez' cartel and his own. back at guanajuato, the green flowed freely. good boys were given green. boys who did not perform were killed.

here, not a single soul touched it.

soto prefers it that way. if they never taste a sliver of eden, they'll never pull a pinqullu.

he ponders the merit of telling the lion. es un droga. he levels arslan a long look that forbids him consider trying it himself.

as the conversation segues to kemal, soto nearly smiles. he's touched by the brotherly care he perceives. it makes him burn with grief for his own lost brother.

si. nadie se meterá con él mientras safiya esté cerca. a wide grin followed.

Drugs. Well, he won't put it in those exact words when he delivers. He only smiles at the look Soto gives him; he has no need for green, his own drug of choice is just as accessible. Me iré por la mañana.

He snickered at the words that followed. So long as his brother would be safe, he was happy. Espérame, ¿quieres? He repeats words he has spoken to Soto once before, now in a tongue they both understand. The lion grins, nipping at the back of the segundo's legs with the tips of his teeth.

He knows to behave, but a part of him still can't help but tease Soto - the excitement of the language barrier has faded with time, but his hunger has not. Then again, he had come to be sympathetic; why did that part have to be so hard?

the grin briefly brightening his face fades quickly. safiya is strong, but she is young. he knows she is ready to prove herself -- against a world that would eat her as indifferently as a large bass gulps down a mayfly.

she -- and the kemals of the world -- must be protected. he knows this. and on some level, he thinks arslan knows this too.

wait for me, will you?  soto's single eye flicks back to the lion in bemusement as he reaches for a limb.

soto has not been touched willingly in a long time, and the brief contact inspires an appetite in him that he obliterates as quickly as one smothers out a smoky camp fire. vaya con dios. he quips after the lion, driving a forceful nip towards auburn haunch with his tail arcing jauntily above him.

two can play that game, but he's not certain arslan would like the stakes.