Not only is Eden the oldest city in Šehhinah, it has the longest history of multiculturalism. Even five and a half thousand years ago, angels and even God would mention to people from all corners of the world the existence of this ‘city,’ and some would ask to be brought there on angel-wing. Some of those inevitably settled even before their people had the ability to cross the sea to their new home. So Eden has always had more variety, more cultural knowledge, and more senses of style than any other location in the world…
—Elra Nelhim, A Brief History of the World
“So, do you care?”
Maybe that’s the wrong thing to ask, Elīya considers. Maybe just walking right up to her old, former friend and asking that isn’t quite the right thing to do—
But Tamar turns her head to Elīya, eyes on fire as always, an almost-smile crossing her face. “About?”
This is irritating. This is frustrating. Elīya is so done with this, she’d rather be working out her own soul than trying to convince Tamar to give a fuck—
“If you’re talking about the promise,” Tamar continues, because of course she does.
“I’m not. At least not just the promise.”
“Oh?” Tamar takes a step closer, her smirk so flaming well-illuminated by, well, some flames. “I didn’t know you were capable of talking about anything else.”
Elīya seethes. “You seem to have a problem with me.”
Ah, anger, real anger. All Tamar sees is brightness and the chiming of bells, but she feels Elīya’s anger, frustration, all of it clearly.
It makes sense, she has to admit.
But the problem is, Tamar can’t offer sense in return. “If you’re asking me to justify my actions,” she attempts to explain, hand almost clenching, “I can’t.”
Even more frustration. But Elīya doesn’t say what Tamar expects. “I’d love some kind of explanation for you just disappearing, yes. But that’s not what I’m asking now. What I would like to know, right now, is what, if anything, you’re getting out of being here. If you do care about me or Yenatru at all, now, regardless of if you ever did.”
Tamar is taken aback. Now that’s an interesting question.
And frankly, she doesn’t know the answer.
So they stare each other down, one with eyes, and one with impressions of the other’s emotions, here in the dark of night.
“If you’re not gonna give me an answer,” Elīya starts, “just tell me that, so I can stop wasting my time.”
And she has been wasting her time, hasn’t she? All that time that she’s thought about Tamar, and thought, and thought, caring about the idea of her, and maybe only the idea, not the actual person.
And maybe she can solve it, maybe she can make it better—
—because solving is her, solving is the wind rushing through the desert—
“What, do you care about me?” Tamar asks, feeling something like want and disdain and uncertainty from Elīya, and honestly curious what it all means.
Elīya’s eyes narrow, though of course Tamar can’t see the expression. And she misses Tamar, damnit, she misses the concept of her, she misses the way she had this group of friends, the three of them. So yeah, maybe this is just nostalgia, but what if it could also be something more?
“Probably,” she says.
“Hmmm.” Tamar stretches it out. She’s aware her tone and her actions are serving as a tool for her, a way to cover up all that she doesn’t know, can’t sort out. It almost bothers her.
The problem is, when you suddenly change your life, cut yourself right out of the old and dive completely into something new—no matter why you do it, whether it’s a good reason or not—it really leaves no way to deal with that old life suddenly coming back, fallen angel in tow.
Especially when your current life is, frankly, great.
And yet, climbing that mountain with Yenatru…
“Tamar,” Elīya says. And though Tamar knows exactly what she means, she, Elīya, unimpeded, keeps right at it. “You didn’t answer my question.”
And they both know: Tamar can’t say Elīya didn’t answer hers. Because she did.
Which leaves Tamar with no options left but to say, simply, “I don’t flaming know.”
“Well,” Elīya says, still sharp, still staring right at the eyes Tamar doesn’t really have.
“Well,” Tamar echoes.
There’s silence for a moment, and so very little to do about it.
Elīya’s hand clenches; if they just stand here, nothing will get solved, and something, something, needs to be.
Which works out, because there’s one more thing yet left unsaid, and Elīya can just say it. Directly. The way she does.
“You hurt me on the way here.”
Tamar doesn’t wince, even though she knows Elīya’s right. She’d felt it then, head pointed in the direction of Elīya’s back. But it’s hard to regret when God is right here in her eyes, turning like a thousand flaming wheels, a thousand wings twisting and chiming—
So she says, “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“What else am I supposed to say?” Tamar shrugs again, theatrically, using her arms. “It happened. And now you’re here.”
And Elīya can’t help but wonder: what does Tamar know? Is she somehow aware of all the thoughts Elīya’s managed to have, following from that statement, nothing’s stopping you? Was this intentional on Tamar’s part? Did she—
“No,” Tamar says.
Elīya twitches, lets out a sharp breath.
“Still can’t read specific thoughts, but you’re feeling played, and I’ll have you know, I didn’t play you. Don’t give me that much credit.”
“Humble, for you,” Elīya notes.
Tamar smiles. “Don’t think for a second that I don’t love everything I am anyway.”
Oh, Elīya wasn’t going to. Even if she still can’t figure out how that fits in with Tamar being Holy, how that fits in with her apparently loving God more than her own eyesight.
Elīya almost thinks about this for a moment until other thoughts make her eyes narrow. “You don’t ever consider the impact of your actions, do you?”
“Not usually, no.”
“I’d recommend it.”
“Believe me, it’s not for lack of you trying to make me.”
“Make you?” Elīya asks.
“Oh, yes. That is certainly what you were trying, and that is certainly how it felt.”
Elīya’s eyes narrow. Tamar might not be wrong.
Tamar smiles in response, just about able to swear there’s more self-awareness in Elīya’s emotions than there was just a few days prior.
“Then again,” Tamar says, shrugging. “Back then, I didn’t have myself, not really. There wasn’t much opportunity as a secondary school student to carve out something for myself, experience something, do something. But now I do. And maybe that’s different.”
Elīya doesn’t know how to interpret that: some kind of acquiescence? An implication that maybe she will consider her actions now, due to now somehow having the resources, in some way, to be able to afford to? Or is that just wishful thinking?
Tamar laughs, Elīya’s confusion almost as bright as God. “I don’t know what I mean either.”
Elīya looks at Tamar, her posture, for any clues, but all she can see is that laugh, that casualness. Happy? Secure? What does that even mean on Tamar, what does that imply?
“No flaming clue.”
They face each other, the stars above, the horizon behind. So much that Tamar will never see again.
“You did flaming hurt me, though,” Elīya states again. And if it wasn’t Tamar’s intent to make her get this far, to make her sort out so flaming much of her soul—then how’s she supposed to interpret what Tamar said? How’s she supposed to forgive her?
Tamar inclines her head. “That anger’s personal. Not just about theoretical ethics. About you.”
“Yeah. It is.”
And Tamar takes a deep breath, remembering challenge after challenge spoken on that motorcycle, remembering it alongside years of Elīya suggesting to her what she should do, what she should think, how she should arrange her own morality.
“I’m not like you,” she says. “And I don’t see this as as much of a problem to be solved as you do.”
“Because you’d rather just run away and move to a new city and ignore it all. You’d rather just fucking leave, on a whim.”
And Tamar’s heart is beating hard and fast, she’s biting the inside of her lip and Elīya is in pain.
“I am more than just one thing,” Elīya says to Tamar, harsh and clear. “And you…”
“Are sorry. Am sorry,” Tamar says, cursing herself at not even being sure how to get the wording right. “I mean, I think. At least for what I said to you yesterday. That was harsh.”
“Unrelenting, in fact.”
“I relented eventually. And you’re unrelenting too.”
“I know that,” Elīya says, even though she’s only understood just how much these past few nights. “But I still pay attention to the ethics of my own actions, and I apologize.”
“Sounds like you want me to say sorry again, but I already said it. Speaking of unrelenting.”
“Tamar,” Elīya says, not quite sure what she’s trying to communicate, not sure what the tone of her own voice means.
“Elīya,” Tamar says, and almost bows, almost curtsies. “I’m sorry. And I’d rather move forward and maybe run into an understanding of what I actually mean, in terms of all that stuff you were saying and feeling just a couple of minutes ago, than keep talking about exactly what for and why.”
“You’re awful at apologizing,” Elīya notes.
“Yeah,” Tamar says, something akin to regret in her voice. “I know.”
Elīya can’t read emotions like Tamar can, but this feels real to her all the same. Real enough to let out a sigh of relief. And yawn.
“You know, maybe we actually should get to sleep,” she says.
“Sounds boring,” Tamar comments with a shrug. “But I guess it’s worth a try.”
“It’s a good thing I’m here, then. Could you even find your way back to the tarp on your own?”
“Eh, probably…”
Elīya raises an eyebrow Tamar can’t see, but Tamar gets to see a thousand flaming wings of infinite light instead, so she’s good.
Even if Elīya does seem to want Tamar to follow her.