[i]What has been done is done…[/i]

Cold truth that he could not argue. Over time, yes, even the past was mutable. It could shift like the sands, but it took more than a day for memories to change. Curdle accepted the rebuke. Taking it as a reminder to be mindful of headlong impulse. She was right. He had not forgotten. Still, the loss of the driving force directing him was sorely felt. 

The jinni merely bowed his head beneath the reprimand, willing to take responsibility, believing it that simple. Yet, he promptly lost his humble aspect the moment she continued. Haunting her- “No, messi! I do not-” He had one knee raised, the other touching earth, one hand reaching for… what he did not know, forgiveness or understanding or mercy or the balance he’d lost, as he lifted his head, expression desperate, terrified that in blaming him she might decide to do away with anything he held dear. In interrupting, however, he made yet another mistake, and closed his teeth over the rest of his protest. His outstretched hand visibly shaking before the rest of her words registered. The man wobbled on his one knee before pulling back in slow wonder as his fear became hope. He could not believe it. 

North Wind must be sighing his name.  

Kindness and practicality were not so rare in his world that Curdle could not understand when they were offered. Yet in this instance, he felt he had made so many mistakes he hardly deserved the second chance, strange a second chance though it was. After laying the urn at her feet, witnessing her secrets, invading her inner world… Even the Lady Gerun, whom he held in high esteem, would surely have threatened him with her cane. But in setting aside her earlier ire, this stranger set aside what he had done. Whether in word alone, he did not know. Perhaps she would come to regret it, but he would remember that she had tried. 

He could not speak. 

The silence gave her plenty of time to look through her cloth wares, arranged in the dream as she might have done in the waking world. But the moment she held [i]it[/i] up, spread wide, the silence became a tight shield around which too many emotions curled like snakes, squeezing them apart as the market emptied around them. Even dreaming, Curdle pushed away anyone who might see him undone, though the action was not usually achieved so decisively. He felt the tears now, their warmth cooling on his cheeks, lines long untraced itching in a way he had forgotten. He did not move to wipe them away, not wanting to acknowledge their existence as he looked between her determined expression and the gift she was inexplicably offering. 

He knew what that square of careful detail was for. Even through the distortion of watering eyes and flickering, unkempt distance he could see the gesture she was making. Ruining an old man’s composure, so that, for a long moment, his expression seemed on the verge of crumbling. His beard quivered beneath tight lips, eyelids blinking too rapidly, cheeks ticking as he forced control over his features. Even swallowing was difficult. He heard her words as if from far away when she expressed uncertainty as to its suitability, and Curdle could only laugh, shaking his head. It was a low huff of sound, more incredulous breath than anything, but it broke that strained stillness. Forced him into motion to press fingers into uncooperative cheek muscles, and tweak his beard to pull his thoughts together and check that he wasn’t dreaming. A fool’s paradise, that paradox.

“I-” He had to clear his throat to make himself heard. “Yes, messi, I am sorry, it was.” For all he had been prepared to forego the traditional cloth altogether, the sight of her tapestries had given him pause. He had not thought anyone would want what was meant as a memento, a memory. Now, he knew otherwise. Her husband and family were gone. Her son was no jinni to hold with the tradition, but he-[i]he[/i] was. And he missed her more than he’d expected to. She was gone. 

“She would-… She would say it is her honour that you give this gift, Miria messi.” He tried to remember the way the lady had often worded her appreciation of kind gestures, unable to express his own gratitude, nor the full depth of it. He was not certain what Fiira would have thought of this though. She had given no clear instructions beyond keeping her out of the dark. And he knew that many others would be against his actions. Distant son included. In good conscience, having involved her without consent, he could not ask for more without knowing she understood what she was doing. While the blame would remain squarely on his shoulders, if she was discovered to be helping him, there would be consequences. He had to explain before he accepted the offer, but… how?

“I think… Messi, I think it is her honour I have taken. She was to be interred alone, a full room beneath Renna’s sands. High honour, messi. One wall alone… it is enough for a full family. And the tile patterns…” The words came in a disjointed rush of sudden guilt, as he struggled to explain himself. “They were almost finished.” It was the wasted time and effort he mourned there, but knowing what she had chosen, he could not help but wonder if she’d forgotten the promise she’d asked of him. “So many birds I did not know lived in this world, messi. A fortune in colours no one will see. But that is how it is done, in Renna.” 

Interment in Sherahd was done along the cliff, in natural caves, open to the elements and hungry scavengers. Being thrown into the waves was the least effort. Being carried to the cliff’s top was reserved for the wealthiest, and the greatest. Without her marriage to the Gerun family, Fiira might have made it above the ocean spray, but how much higher, Curdle could not say. He was not sure she’d cared, simply clung to that desire for the open air, the memory of how things would have been. He meant no disrespect with his observations, and the low notes in his voice evinced no immediate dislike of Renna’s choices. Humans did not deal with dead jinn. The intended honour was enough for him, but… there was always a but. “She had a falcon once, messi. A gift from Lord Gerun. She loved it, I think.”

Whether it had been for its beauty, its fierce flight, or because it was hers alone, and a gift from her husband, he did not know. But he’d seen her care for it, and dote on it, and brighten whenever she had it on her wrist. “A prized bird is kept in darkness, for keeping it calm, just so. Calm and quiet and still. She could not stand to see it in its little room, messi. Within the week, she let it fly unjessed.”

His gaze drifted towards the clouds above them as though he could see it flying there, remembering that final flight. Now and again, they thought to see it in the distance, though chances were just as good the bird had died or flown far away before settling. “She remembered it to me before she died. The Lady Gerun… she did not wish to insult Renna custom, messi. She could not say no. And the cliffs of Sherahd, they are too far for me to carry her.” Most especially when no one would have let him take her from the city. The tears were back as he finally came to his point; suddenly afraid he might have made the wrong choice. Uncertain of her understanding.

“She wanted no dark room for herself. I-… I meant to set her free on the wind, as jinni, Miria messi. It is all I could give her.”

Earlier, when he had prepared her body, begun the rituals and lit her from within with a final breath of life and fire, he had done it as an honour. To use their rituals and that magic on a human was not taboo, it simply wasn’t done. He had always thought that no human would ever want it, and now he could no longer ignore that thinking. Had his attempt to fulfill his promise honoured or disgraced her? He did not know. There was little he could do about it now. And if he somehow won free of his bindings, he would see it through, to do otherwise would leave the lady in an even smaller container than the room that had started this all. But Miria did not need to help him any more than she already had, if she did not agree. Though he could not help but hope.