Wolf's-own: Koan (16 page)

You can be so much more than this, if you would only believe in your beishin. How it must pain you, knowing they all look to you, and knowing you can never make the measure.

What measure? He was a minion, nothing more. Worse—the minion of a minion.

He should be in charge. He should
want
to be in charge. Instead, he allowed Malick to lead him—as much as Malick would—gave up all control to him, because Jacin couldn't really control anything, he'd learned that far too well to think differently, and Malick had become somehow imperative. Safety. And not just for Jacin.

And now, with this Incendiary...
thing
.... He
needed
Malick, damn it, and it didn't matter how much he hated himself for the needing, because the needing wouldn't go away.

Does it hurt you, little Ghost?
Almost sympathetic.
Does the disappointment in their glances cut you like the sweet-hot bite of your own blade?

"No. Not really.” Jacin snorted a little and resheathed the knives. “They all know I'm a fuck-up. You showed them that, Beishin. Perhaps I should thank you."

He smiled a little, still half-expecting Caidi to appear, but she didn't. It would be difficult to fail anyone worse than Jacin had failed Caidi. All the fear and rage and just bloody
trying
—it hadn't been enough, nothing more than tragic futility. It didn't matter how Malick tried to twist the truth and soothe the agony of knowledge.

Ah, my sad little Ghost. When will you understand? I only ever tried to help you, guide you. I would guide you still, even after your betrayal. Can you say the same about your
Temshiel
? Can you not see all of this as the lie it truly is? Do you really believe any but I could love you?

Jacin shut his eyes, set his teeth. “Fuck you, Beishin,” he whispered then yanked his hair into a tight tail at his nape and quit the room.

He wasn't surprised to find Samin standing with Malick out in the hallway when he emerged from the room. He
was
surprised at the disapproving frown on Samin's face, edged lightly with... worry?

"Fen,” said Samin, jumping right in, like he'd been waiting to say it, “you don't have to do this. Mal and I can—"

"He knows he doesn't have to do it, Samin,” Malick cut in, his tone mild, unaffected, but Jacin was pretty sure that was anger burning behind that tawny gaze.

Jacin stared between them, eyes narrowed. Completely at a loss. Had he annoyed Samin somehow? He had to admit it wasn't out of the question—he rather thought he annoyed them all, in different ways. Then again, there was that touch of anxiety in Samin's blue eyes. Perhaps this wasn't annoyance; perhaps it was the fact that it had been months since Jacin had so much as touched anything more threatening than a comb. It had been so long since he'd shaved—because a razor was just asking for it—that the thin, wispy fuzz on chin and upper-lip had grown into an actual bristle. Joori hated it, always offering to shave it for him—shave it
for
him, like Jacin couldn't notice the distinction—but Malick liked it and Jacin didn't much care, so he left it.

He had a limp now too. Weakness. Very obvious weakness, because he couldn't control the heaviness of it all the time, couldn't absorb or ignore or even savor the pain like he used to, and make his gait even and normal. He limped because it hurt, all the time, and the longer he walked on it, the worse it hurt and the heavier he limped. Maybe Samin was concerned that Jacin wouldn't be able to perform, hold up his end.

Or maybe Samin could see the panic on Jacin's face, the ghosts of Malick's words echoing behind his eyes, the stains of Asai's mockery on his skin. Because Jacin could almost feel them.

Failure

Unlovable.

"I can do the job,” Jacin said, his tone even and quiet. And Malick was here now, so Asai couldn't come and whisper sibilant negation in Jacin's ear, couldn't take the words that were still crawling over Jacin's skin and speak them out loud, make everyone else
see
.

Samin rolled his eyes. “I
know
you can do the bloody
job
,” he snapped.

Jacin frowned. Then what the hell?

"I'm saying you don't have to.” Samin ignored the clench of Malick's jaw and angled himself into the middle of the hallway so that he was between Malick and Jacin, and Jacin had nowhere to look but at Samin. “Fen,” Samin said slowly, weirdly gentle for all it came from a face set like graduated granite blocks, “maybe it's too soon, yeah?"

Ah. Yeah. That. It shouldn't surprise or dismay Jacin that maybe he wasn't the one Samin would choose to have at his back.

Jacin had no idea what to say, so he didn't say anything. Just held Samin's stare, until Samin's mouth pinched, and he shook his head. “Joori won't understand,” Samin said, soft, probably as close to gentle as Samin got.

Jacin hadn't even thought about what Joori might think or understand. And he hadn't the first clue how to tell Samin that it didn't matter what Joori understood or didn't, because Joori didn't actually see Jacin, even when he tried to look. Joori understood about a boy who no longer existed, who had always been going to be what Jacin was now, and Joori just couldn't understand what Jacin was now. Like the boy was real and Jacin was the ghost, instead of the other way ‘round. And wasn't that how it would always be, anyway? He was born a Ghost, and he would die a Ghost—because
it isn't that different, you know
—and whether he was called Untouchable or Incendiary apparently didn't matter, it was all the same whether or not he had the braid to brand him or the Ancestors to corrode and ruin him. The deed was done; Jacin was merely trying to find a way through the rubble now. Joori was just going to have to find his own way, because Jacin had neither the wit nor the strength to find a path to wend for anyone but himself.

Selfish, yeah, but he could live with that. Failure, of course, that went without saying.

"Fine,” Samin finally said into the uneasy hush. He shook his head, a defeated slump to his shoulders as he backed off. It seemed even Samin could only take weighted silence for so long.

Samin turned a glare on Malick, who lounged against the wall across from Jacin, calm and ostensibly unconcerned, but his eyes were cool and calculating as he looked between Samin and Jacin. A small smirk playing across his mouth, Malick toyed with the loop to the garrote coiled around his forearm under his sleeve, seemingly idle and patient. So, why was Jacin so sure he could see fury smoldering behind the tolerant gaze? And why did his guts go all warm and sloppy, his groin tighten just a little, to think he could see it and Samin couldn't?

Maybe Jacin's hatred for Malick wasn't quite as fiery as it should be. Maybe Jacin cared more than he thought he did, and maybe he believed Malick cared back. That would be... dangerous, in a way that only Malick could be. The last thing Jacin needed was another risk. And after what Malick had said only... yesterday?—whatever. The blatant threats, the heartless bastard-ness.

Lust. That was all. Lust would do. Hatred and lust were not mutually exclusive. Jacin should know.

"This is on your head, Mal,” Samin said, voice still quiet, eyes accusing in a way Jacin didn't bother to try to understand.

"Yup,” was all Malick said, gaze flicking to Jacin's, hanging there for a moment then sliding back to Samin's.

Yeah. Good.
That
, Jacin could live with. Because he was tired of it all being on
his
head. Fucking exhausted. Let someone else make the decisions. Let someone else aim him, tell him.
You will be what the gods made you, and you will live, because I wouldn't take it well
. Fine. A mindless, heartless soldier, nothing more. Samin should understand how much of a relief it was. He'd been a doujoun back in Ada; he'd been working for Malick for years. He had to know what a comfort it was for someone else to point, and say, “Kill it.” Samin had let the Doujou point him, and when he'd thought to question it, he'd ended up with Malick, just like Jacin had. Jacin had let Beishin point him for nearly all his life; it was only when he'd been forced to question the direction that everything had fallen apart. Why couldn't Samin understand this?

"I can do the job,” was all Jacin could think to say, because something seemed necessary, but he didn't know what, and there was no way he could let all of what was ramming around in his head spill out. He'd learned his lesson on that.

"I
know
you can do the job, Fen,” Samin said, resignation touched by exasperation. “I'm worried about the job doing
you
."

Jacin had no idea what that meant. He could probably figure it out, if he wanted to. It was kind of just hanging there, hovering just outside of understanding, scattered at the edges with bright, terrifying possibility, and he'd get it, if he cared to reach for it. Did he care? He couldn't decide.

He looked at Malick. “Are we going or not?"

Malick was inspecting his fingernails now, apparently with all his concentration, but his smirk curled a little wider. His glance slid once again to Samin, shuttered, just long enough to make Samin's mouth tighten down again. Malick chuffed a little snort and shook his head. Slow and lazy, all lanky
fuck you
grace, Malick pulled out of his slouch against the wall and swept his arm down the hallway.

"After you."

He held Samin's gaze as Samin growled a little and stalked past him, then Malick turned his glance on Jacin. It softened, warmed. His eyes swept down to the knives sheathed low on Jacin's hips and strapped to his thighs. He smiled. “Coming?"

Jacin hesitated then nodded at the door behind which everyone he had left was ensconced. “Safe?"

"I've got the whole place warded,” Malick answered easily, no apparent offence taken at Jacin's caution. “And Shig's staying. They're fine.” He set a hand to Jacin's shoulder and gave him a little nudge. “C'mon, let's go."

Jacin merely checked the tethers on his sheaths again and let Malick point him.

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"Jacin?” Morin tapped lightly on the door, not really sure he wanted an answer, but he had to try. Something had happened, something more than the usual angsty-withdrawal nonsense that was the sometimes annoying norm for Jacin these days. Something that had made Malick withdraw, too, and on those occasions when he emerged from the room—for food or more smokes for Jacin or... whatever—Malick himself had been weirdly distant. There wasn't that constant snarky laughter bubbling beneath every shift of his glance, and the smartass remarks were, if not completely absent, not half as smartass-y as usual.

Morin knew there was some kind of job going on. Neither Malick nor Samin talked about it in front of them, but Morin had found that if he just sat quietly sometimes, people either forgot he was there altogether, or at least didn't seem to notice he had two working ears and a brain. And Samin couldn't whisper to save his life.

They had a job, and since Samin had more or less disappeared, and Morin and Joori weren't supposed to notice they were being babysat by Shig, Morin rather suspected they were doing that job now. Which made it a good time to try to talk to Jacin without Joori there to shut Morin up every time he opened his mouth to say something Joori didn't think he should say, or tell Jacin what he
really
meant by the monosyllabic responses that Joori didn't want to hear.

Morin tried the knob, found it locked, and so knocked again. “Jacin? Are you in there?"

Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he'd gone out on the job, too, and just chosen not to tell Morin or Joori. Morin couldn't blame him. If he were Jacin, he wouldn't want to tell Joori anything, either. Joori thought Jacin had killed all those people back in Ada because he'd had no choice. Morin thought maybe it was just that Jacin was just good at it and hadn't known what else to do.

"Jacin?” Morin pressed his face right up against the door, just in case Jacin was in there and simply chose not to answer. Jacin did that a lot. “I only wanted to tell you....” Morin paused. Because he really didn't have much to say.

He didn't know Jacin very well. He got the feeling no one knew Jacin very well, except maybe for Malick, but Morin would never even dream of saying that in front of Joori. Joori might be a sincere pain in the ass sometimes—Jacin too—but they were Morin's brothers, and he didn't have to like them to love them. Strangely, it seemed he didn't have to know them very well to love them, either. He knew Joori a little better than he thought Joori knew himself, but he was only recently getting to know Jacin, and he was a far stretch from the Jacin who had lived in their father's house in a camp in Ada all those years ago. Morin never would have thought he could love someone he didn't know, not before he'd “met” Jacin again, but he almost halfway understood now why Joori had let this whole thing make such a mess of him—almost as much of a mess as Jacin was, but that might be stretching things.

Jacin was smart, Jacin was brave, though perhaps too reckless about it. He could be wickedly funny when he actually said the things he normally just thought in his head, though Morin thought the humor was almost always accidental, and Jacin hardly ever got his own jokes, or even the fact that he'd made one. He'd smile sometimes, though, because he seemed to understand it was expected. He was terrible and beautiful with a knife in his hand, and Morin hadn't been quite sure, when he'd watched Jacin cut down guard after guard after guard, whether he wanted to run away from his brother or learn how to be just like him. Jacin was too loyal for his own good, and too focused on keeping everyone alive but himself, except when others depended on him living. And once he set himself to a purpose, he seemed to have no idea how to quit.

Morin thought that right there was a great deal of Jacin's problem—his only purpose right now was to get well, and he had no idea how to do it. Maybe Malick pulling Jacin into whatever he and Samin were up to would turn out to be the best thing, give Jacin that focus he needed. Morin was pretty sure that was how Jacin had managed not to die before, when he really should have.