Deal with the Devil | Jemin & Sesil

He felt sick.

That was his first thought upon waking up. It coiled in his gut and clouded his head, extending to the outward filth that slicked his hair and the sweat that collected on his hide. It was a feeling, a sense of profound wrongness, that could only be linked to the events of the previous days.

One couldn’t tussle with thunderbirds and come out unscathed - just as one couldn’t holler at a god (an actual god) and expect things to ever return to normal.

Dragging himself out of bed and pushing through the flaps of his tattered tent - the edges frayed from years of abuse - Jemin was immediately greeted by the violent brightness of a blue, cloudless noon-sky. By his sire’s ears, had he really slept that long? He moaned, just once, and rubbed his eyes with a smudge of crimson teke. Today would not be a good day. That much, he knew.

“Morning, Alya,” he spoke aloud, squinting at the sky with a certain degree of satire. No response. No sudden shift in the winds, no voice like thunder. If his simpering herdmates were to be believed (and they weren’t, he told himself firmly), then the Sky Mother must always be watching; tending to Her flocks with subtle guidance and an attentive eye. Is that so? He proceeded to shamelessly peel back his upper lip, teeth bared at the heavens like one of those godsdamn Talorian pirates. It was a show of insolence, short-lived but petty.

Retrieving an old rag and a canteen from his saddlebags, he flipped off the leather top and lifted it high, splashing a day’s worth of lukewarm water onto his face. The mule shook himself like a dog, scattering droplets, and then wiped his head dry. He’d nearly forgotten what clean meant. Pulling back the dark coils of his mane, he regarded the desert with an idle gaze. He was alone. It was quiet. He allowed his senses to dull.

Jemin was hardly aware of his approaching shadower.

The perfect, placid silence stood in stark contrast to the faithful bustling of Osulas. It was a welcome change from his peers’ endless praise, and perhaps that was why it had to end. It was too good to last, seated on too delicate of a balance, and it was only a matter of time before said balance was disrupted.

Mildly startled but thoroughly exasperated, he inhaled deeply and craned his neck, glancing over his withers to regard the nuisance through a lidded gaze. They came lumbering forth, a solemn grullo shade on a broad, steady frame, with eyes like shards of ice - familiar ice shard eyes -

“Sesil.” The name dropped; a dead weight, falling off his tongue for the first time in five years. With it came a surge of memories, crawling to the surface with a not-too-pleasant connotation. He could recall how those eyes, sober and meticulous, had examined his bruised and bloodied flank; how the draft’s touch could mend any wound with practiced ease. Most of all, though, he recalled how those eyes had slivered, accommodating but not eager, when the same greeting had been given, time and time again; hey doc, can’t talk - I messed up bad, and I need you to clean this up.

Memories. They were simply memories. He gave them a cursory thought before hastily moving along, allowing a smile to crack the edge of his mouth. “Wasn’t expecting to see your ugly mug again.”

Yes, this was Sesil alright. Though his features were hardened and the creases of an intelligent face were deepened by age, he would recognize the dark medic anywhere.

But what ungodly business was the Savior attending to, then? What had brought him here? He’d never taken Sesil to be much of a hugger, or a chatterer by any means, really. He wasn’t here to catch up, nor was it in his nature to come by accident. If Jemin was discomforted, he attempted to wrestle it away - to keep it far, far from his expression. Theirs was a relation born of necessity; a connection Jemin had had little qualms cutting off when those services became unnecessary.

“Did you, ah - “ he paused, mid-sentence, and stooped sideways to look past his larger counterpart. Confirming he’d come alone, he promptly tilted back his chin to meet the draft mule’s stare, jaw set wryly. “ - did you miss me?”

The Savior came closer, movements accompanied by a gentle rattle. Jemin’s ear flicked. It sounded like a maraca, like the ones which his mother crafted, coated in rich yellow, cactus-green and red paint, the hollow inside filled with ironwood beans.

His gaze lingered on Sesil’s brimming saddlebags, suspicious, before returning his focus to the conversation at hand.

If it could be called a conversation. Words were spoken less with their mouths and more so through subtle implication; through quick glances and the simple act of sharing unspoken knowledge. While the doctor posed an innocent question, Jemin detected the forthright message beneath; you haven’t gotten the shit beat out of you lately. What’s up with that?

None of your damn business, was Jemin’s instinctive reply, stated by the sharp glint of his eye. Yet it never did reach his tongue. No harm could come from the truth, so he merely shrugged and turned to his scattered tent set-up, gathering an assortment of items as he spoke. “If farming an acre with a broken plow just to harvest three corn stalks sounds like an ‘improvement’ to you, then sure - it did change for better.” A canteen, extra fabric, rope, a sheathed dagger - he tucked them into his saddlebag, seemingly unaware of how it tore at the seams, stitches coming undone.

He glanced back to regard his companion, brow cocked slyly. “You’re...you’re not worried about me, are you Sesil? Making certain your hard work hasn’t gone to waste?”

Again, a double edged conversation.

Why are you really here?

I did my part.

I’d like to give you the opportunity to do yours.

Jemin swallowed, and - for the slightest second - looked away, to the dusted ground at his hooves. His honor was one of transparency, weathered thin and flexible; easily molded into whatever might suit his needs, dependent on the situation. Obligation simply wasn’t something he took seriously. He could shed liability as easily as a snake does it's skin.

Yet not even he could deny the sum owed to this man. The Savior, true to his title, had saved his life on several occasions. He had whisked him from the brink of collapse, kept quiet and locked behind a closed door, without receiving any remittance in return - hardly a single word of gratitude, in fact.

Still, his debts were rarely settled in a civilized manner, so Jemin was inclined to at least hear this proposition. Where he had expected a demand of repentance paid in shards, Sesil’s request caught him by surprise.

“Grow something?” He echoed quizzically, skeptically. “Like...like plants? Hell, Sesil, are you planning to start a garden, or spike someone’s drink?” A pause. Then, with a deep sigh; “I swear to the gods, it’d better not be corn.”

He was not wary so much as doubtful. Watching while the doctor gently set his saddlebags down among the sand and rock, Jemin abandoned his own items and drew closer. Dark eyes attentive, he leaned forward to examine the bag’s contents.

Indeed, it wasn’t corn - it was seeds.

Lots of seeds. A whole bag full. He inhaled sharply, gaze narrowing. Triangular, slitted and rich brown, he couldn’t identify the pods as anything of desert indigeny - foreign to Sedo’s soil altogether. They were Sirith plants. The manner by which Sesil had gotten his curious mitts on them, whether by travelling to the moors or purchasing second-hand, Jemin didn’t quite care. The how didn’t affect him. But the why did.

“That - that's a lot of birdfeed.”

His companion settled a handful by his hooves, and he sifted them absently, observing the way they rattled. “You’ve got me interested, I’ll give you that.” Red teke grasped a single specimen, turning it over before bouncing it back. “What, exactly, do you need these for?” The question was serious; a rare thing to hear from the mule’s mouth. With what scattered knowledge he’d already collected, he could guess at Sesil’s motive; a new medicine or perhaps a poison, developed to expand ‘scientific knowledge’ or ‘medical practice’ or whatever camel-crap intellectuals enjoyed gushing about. But this one...this one remained as unpredictable as any.

Jemin, too, was unpredictable; and perhaps that was why he surprised himself with his next words.

“I can’t promise anything, but… maybe. Maybe, I’ll consider.” He did not look up, did not turn his eyes from the innocent seeds at his feet. “...if it’ll get you off my back.” With a snort in his nostrils and dryness on his tongue, Jemin’s brand of snideness returned. The smaller mule clearly believed himself to be in a position of power; he was the one who could offer aid, he was the one being sought after, he had nothing to lose and he could refuse.

Yes, he enjoyed this assumed role reversal very much, and toyed with his options accordingly.

The draft was growing terse, edged on by Jemin’s obstinance. Good. He didn’t dull his tongue, refusing to roll over so easily.

Medical purposes. Sesil spoke as if he couldn’t be bothered to explain further, as if any context would be lost on the simple farmer (which was partly true, as Jemin hadn’t the slightest care of medicine). He hardly appreciated this perceived condensation. While he didn’t doubt the medical benefit, surely Sesil’s mission was more layered than that - a common herbal remedy would hardly require this level of secrecy.

Watching the muscles of Sesil’s face tighten with the slight lowering of his brow, he shifted his hooves - quite literally standing firm. For a moment it looked like the doctor might lose his cool, might let something slip, but he reined himself in with practiced efficiency. It was more restrain than Jemin would typically experience with any other.

“Courteous,” he paused, slipping a sharp-toothed smile of his own, “of course.”

What did he want? He wanted several things, most of which couldn’t be helped by Sesil, or anyone for that matter. Luck, fortune, fulfillment, change… change. In a subtle eureka moment, the rusted gears of his head whirled awake, manifested by his perked ears.

“Actually, I do have a favor to ask…”

Wind-red tendrils reached forward, once again, and grasped the seeds. In one movement, one nearly careless action, the pact was sealed. He tucked them into the worn pouch of his saddlebag, quietly.

“You’re a Savior, and a pretty damn good one,” Jemin eventually drawled. It was not a compliment so much as a fact. “ - the type that’s respected, yeah? I’ll plant these, and you - you’ll put in a good word about me. Pull some strings. Spread some mentions. Make sure a, well, an Advocate hears it.”