Starglow Basin asco

he draws from the trench dug by he and @Fiamma; it is enough a small spring gurgles between the wolf-made channels, thin and paltry but water nonetheless.

in the spring he will reroute these channels into grids; it will not match the natural aquifers at luneshale, but it is enough.

he wipes dribble from his lips and sets back on his haunches, listening to the low whine of the desert around him.

For her eighth birthday, Towhee’s son surprised her by saying, -I wanna go see my dad.-

She choked on her spit, jerkily signing back, -Excuse me, your what now?-

His eyes sparkled with mirth as he informed her, -You’re not as quiet as you think when you ‘whisper,’ you know.-

She recovered and stared at him, mind whirling for a few seconds before she blurted, You’ve known it all this time? And then, Why didn’t you say anything?

-I’m saying something now, mom,- he reminded her, still wearing that easy grin of his. -It’s not that big a deal, is it? But I’d like to go see him again.-

But, Towhee spluttered, then fell silent for a solid ten seconds. He doesn’t speak our language—either one of them, she reminded Bushtit weakly.

-We should teach him Ptero. C’mon. Please?-

How could she possibly resist that face? Still feeling more than a little thrown by this revelation, Towhee nodded her agreement, wiped some spittle from her chin, and fell into step beside her son as he frolicked in the direction of the basin.

the young boy comes first, prancing with coltish energy only the youth have mastered. his mother strides behind, smooth and alert. 

soto wipes the water from his chin and glances at them both. he’s pleased to see them take advantage of verapaz’s hospitality, though he wished sangre was not still missing. 

he hopes castel returns with news. if the savages at muat riya have sangre, he will at least be joined by one other warrior as he approaches their temple. 

he motions to the water, stepping back so they may sup their fill if they’d like.

It was hard to keep pace with him, so Towhee didn’t bother. She fell behind, still making every effort to disguise her limp even as her hind leg ached with every step. Getting old is a bitch, she thought, eyes staring ahead at Bushtit’s bouncing figure. If only she could siphon some of his youthful energy… Nah, I wouldn’t even if I could.

Soon enough, they came upon the basin. It wasn’t hard to spot Soto standing by the water’s edge. He beckoned them closer. Towhee wanted to tell Bushtit to slow his roll, though she pinched her lips together and let him go. He knew—on whatever level someone his age could—that Soto had fathered him. It wouldn’t be right to interfere, unless of course Soto did something to merit it.

As she slowly caught up to them, Towhee abruptly wondered if Bushtit knew all about her bum leg too.

Bushtit liked to pretend he was some kind of mastermind, though the truth was that he was simply a very attentive and observant child. He didn’t live in a world as silent as his mother’s, though he still listened much more than he talked, with either limb or tongue. Especially given their nomadic lifestyle, he had absorbed so much in his four months of life.

Yes, he knew about the pain his mother hid from him, just like he knew this Soto guy was his dad. He didn’t fully understand what that title meant, though Bushtit knew the distinction was somehow important. A father was something like a mother, only less involved, from what the boy had gathered. Why that was, he couldn’t say. But he’d begun questioning things lately, his early bashfulness giving way a bit as he came into his inquisitive era.

He might’ve asked Soto outright, had they spoken the same language. Presently, he loped up to the man with a shy smile and wagging tail. His eyes darted around for any sign of Fiamma, the translator, but he didn’t see her. His darkly bright gaze returned to Soto’s face as Bushtit took a seat at his father’s feet.

-“Hi.”-

perhaps a bit bouncier than soto (or towhee with her disguised limp) could manage, the boy sat at his feet. 

soto glances to his mother, then back to the boy’s bright expression. 

and though he refuses to learn the vagaries of that ugly common tongue, he knows what hi means. 

he does not, however, understand the signaling. but he’s come to realize that this was how many spoke to the amazon, including sangre. 

hola, he returns, the crook of his lips turned in an amused grin.

I swear I gave myself permission to skip.

-“That means ‘hello,’ right?”- Bushtit replied, encouraged by the grin on Soto’s face. ¡Hola! he parroted experimentally. I’m Bushtit, in case you don’t remember. And that’s my mom, Towhee, he said, shooting her a grin and a point. And you’re Soto, the boy concluded, turning back to face the man.

Dad, he marveled silently. He wondered how to say that in Soto’s language. He desperately wanted to learn it, as well as teach him the common tongue and Ptero, in turn. Bushtit had so many questions. He wanted to get to know this mythical figure.

Is Fiamma around? he wondered.

more gestures, more speaking. soto's ears clip forward as the boy says hello back to him, this time accompanied by a wild signal of one paw.

a string of words follow. he recognizes only the names - towhee, the amazon -- bushtit, the boy -- and himself, soto.

si, he nods, moving around the animated boy. his attention lingers on towhee yet is pulled when he speaks of fiamma.

does he have news of sangre? soto's lips twitch. fiamma? la llamo?

Soto said a word that sounded just like “see,” though the context didn’t quite fit. Bushtit cocked his head, trying to puzzle out possible meanings. His dad’s reaction to the woman’s name distracted him. It was followed by more words, none of which made a lick of sense to him—nor to Towhee, judging by her helpless shrug when he glanced at her.

Yeah, Fiamma. Maybe she can translate again? he said, gesturing between themselves before thinking to point at his mouth. Fiamma can help us? To talk? he tried.

soto's picked up some of the unpleasant language they all insist on speaking, but most times he refuses to utter it. he knew you and yes and some other frequently uttered words, but speaking it himself somehow repulses him.

the boy speaks again, motioning to his mouth as he repeats fiamma's name. with a great sigh, soto's shoulders sag.

fiamma. he confirms one more time before he rises, motioning the boy -- and by proxy his mother -- to follow him to the heart of the stone quarter.

At once, he worried that he’d said or done something wrong. Why else would Soto seem suddenly disappointed? Even the way he said his own pack mate’s name sounded so dejected. Bushtit was almost startled when the man turned and motioned for them to follow.

His eyes immediately sought his mother again. Towhee looked a little apprehensive, though she eventually nodded and began walking. He did the same, the pair of them falling into step with one another as they cruised silently in Soto’s wake.

they follow, but not before a shared glance.

soto ignores this as he climbs the stony carapace marking the spine of their operation. fiamma was here somewhere, but as he searches, all traces of the silvery woman seem gone.

on patrol, perhaps. soto's muzzle twitches as he turns back to them both. he notices the boy's expression is particularly expectant.

he shrugs his shoulders. no se donde esta ella.

It didn’t take a genius to see that Soto was searching for his pack mate. Bushtit knew her scent too, so he eagerly joined the effort. He dropped his head and scoured the dry earth with his nose, though he could only find stale traces. He sniffed after them until Soto’s voice snared his attention.

Raising his head, the boy processed this latest string of unfamiliar words: “No se donde esta ella.” He only recognized the first, though he repeated them in his head a few times and then muttered them under his breath.

You don’t know where she is right now, do you? Bushtit guessed. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to say, -“He doesn’t know where she is right now, pretty sure,”- to Towhee.

He knew his mother didn’t have much patience for the language barrier. But that was why Bushtit wanted to stick around and learn what he could. He wanted to be able to talk to his dad but he also wanted his parents to be able to speak to one another.

-“I want to learn your language. I want you to understand mine, both of them,”- Bushtit said earnestly.

He just wasn’t sure where to start.

the amazon and soto share this in common; neither have the patience necessary to ford the chasm that was their mutual language barrier. 

soto’s eye scans the plains for fiamma, turning to the young boy as he speaks. soto studies him as he speaks again, this time to his mother with a string of gestures unknowable to soto. 

it is then soto realizes the utility of such a language; by sight alone they could communicate in times where silence was necessary. he envisions a future race of verapaz; where signals could be communicated great distances, under cover as they move in enemy camps undetected. 

he raises his paw, seeking the boy’s face before signaling the only sign he knew; the very first thing bushtit taught him - hello.

Everything would be so much easier if Fiamma was here! But Bushtit decided not to shy away from the challenge, especially when Soto made an obvious effort to study his movements. The youngster could see the revelatory look on his face, right before he raised a paw and signed perhaps the most universal word of them all.

-Hello!- Bushtit signed back excitedly. He repeated the motion and said aloud once more, ¡Hola! He paused for a split second, pale face ponderous, and then signed while saying, -“My name is Bushtit,”- before patting his own chest.

Instead of repeating his earlier words, he instead waited with a look of anticipation. He hoped Soto would understand somehow. More than that, he hoped his dad would repeat his words—spoken and unspoken—to introduce himself this time around.

hello! bushtit signed, expression animated. hola! he signed again, pausing with a weighted expression soto cannot read.

he knows the two are synonyms, but to utter such a coarse language nearly curls his tongue. a part of him -- deeply intolerant of anything but his own culture -- rebelled at the idea.

hola. he repeats, voice accompanied by the clumsy signage of his paw. he searches bushtit's expectant face and sighs, guessing the boy had said his name back to him.

mi nombre es soto.

his patience for learning anything of the coarse tongue is limited - but for selfish reasons, soto hopes the boy will begin to pick up the small pieces of soto's language: it is then he might prove himself a true asset.

“Mi nombre es Soto,” Soto said, causing Bushtit’s heart to leap.

He wasn’t familiar with the word “cognate,” though the sentence was similar enough that he translated it almost without thinking. He grinned toothily, then of course decided he needed to give it a try.

Mi… nombre… es… Bushtit, he said slowly, then repeated it with the accompanying signs in Ptero.

His face scrunched with concentration as he spoke, though his expression shifted to one of anticipation as his dark eyes sought Soto’s face. Would there be understanding there? Approval? Perhaps even pride?

no sweeter sound than the timbre of his own tongue; soto’s ears flick, warmth radiating outward in that single insectile eye. 

si. he exhales with a flash of a grin. tu nombre es bushtit. he wonders what such a name means and mentally examines it over and over. 

venir. soto issues with a sweep of his paw. fiamma is not here, and if they cannot find her they will use their time on other errands. he brushes past bushtit, picking his way carefully down the rocky slope and out towards the flatlands.

Soto grinned at him. Bushtit’s heart danced in his chest, beating a steady tattoo against his rib cage. He smiled right back, tail waving as he drank in the next few words like the thirstiest boy in the whole world.

Si, he repeated, then paused thoughtfully before adding, Tu… tu nombre es… Soto. Your name is Soto, he translated inside his own mind, which prompted him to tack on, And… tu nombre es… dad?

He didn’t have the faintest clue what the next word meant, at least until Soto’s gesture added some context. Must mean “let’s go!” he thought to himself as he bounded onto all fours. But before he rushed after his sire, he of course looked to Towhee.

He saw something strange on her face, though as soon as their eyes caught, she schooled her expression. She paused ponderously before nodding, indicating that she would trail behind them as the men led the way toward the flats.