"Oh, hello, messire. I hope I'm not interrupting..."

When Mirk walked into the quarters he shared with Genesis that night, well past sundown, he was greeted by the sight of the common room floor full of even, precise rows of gleaming and deadly cunning devices. He'd hoped that passing the evening with Danu and Yule at the tavern, discussing the way Percival had escaped his restraints that morning and throwing around ideas about how to deal with it, would have meant that Genesis would be settled for the night by the time he returned to the dormitory. But evidentially, Genesis had other plans.

The commander was seated cross-legged on the floor in the midst of all his weaponry, intently focused on polishing a knife with a blade as long as Mirk's forearm. For some reason, Mirk found the sight of him down on the floor more arresting than all the knives. It seemed improper, too casual, despite the fact that he knew full well Genesis had no qualms about it if he was working at a project too big for his work table. If he was honest with himself, it was mostly because it was disconcerting seeing him unfold his tall frame and regain his feet whenever Genesis was finished with his business. It reminded Mirk a little of a spider scrambling out of its hole, though he found the action more endearing than eerie.

"You are not. At present. However...if you would mind your step, I would be...appreciative," Genesis said, without looking away from the blade.

Mirk considered his options as he toed off his shoes. It'd be hard to make it to either the bedroom or the bath without stepping on anything, even if he hadn't been tipsy. There were dozens and dozens of things arrayed all across the floor — knives both long and short, odd clusters of blades held together with bits of pitch black metal meant for hurling at things, other nameless gadgets without a visible edge that would doubtlessly cause him or the finish on the floor grievous harm if he stepped on them. And there was the sword too, always close to Genesis's side. Though Mirk wasn't certain that blade even needed polishing. Much like the commander's overcoat and boots, his two-handed greatsword was overflowing with personality and more than capable of taking care of itself.

Usually Genesis did this pre-contract ritual of his in the dead of night while Mirk was sleeping. He'd only seen it in passing on his way to the bathroom, and it was easy enough to skirt around the edge of the common room to the bath from the bedroom, provided the magelight he now always wore around his wrist was in a cooperative mood. Genesis preferred to take care of his weapons in the dark. He claimed it was more difficult to make them cooperate when the lights were on, that even the dim blue-green one above the door made them too restless, not to mention the yellowy overheads Mirk had waved on as he’d entered. But Mirk knew better by then. Genesis did everything in near-blackness whenever he could get away with it.

"Euh...do you maybe have a suggestion about the best way to get past?" Mirk asked, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot on the doormat.

Genesis didn't respond for a time. Not until he was satisfied with the sheen on the dagger's edge. When he did look up at Mirk, it was only to frown at him. "I see you have been...out."

"Just with Yule and Danu. It's been a long day. Problems with Percival..."

For once, Genesis didn't jump on the chance to learn more gossip about his long-standing enemy. Instead, he went back to work. "A moment, then. I am...nearly done."

Mirk busied himself with hanging up his work bag and cloak, then settled into wait, folding his arms against the chill in the room generated by the magical potential radiating off Genesis's arsenal. It really was nonsense, all those knives. He never went out on contract with the others, but he'd sparred with Genesis often enough to know full well that Genesis could dispatch almost any imaginable enemy with only his sword and his legion of shadows. Mirk wondered if Genesis had a fondness for blades, or if they were simply another manifestation of his compulsive need to have five backups for everything.

"You're doing this a little earlier than usual, non?" Mirk asked, unable to keep himself from babbling, as usual. Though he knew things would go faster if he didn't bother the commander.

"Our turn at the transporter is at four in the morning," Genesis said. "And I have been scolded enough times about...acquiring adequate sleep before contracts to reconsider my schedule."

Mirk chuckled and shrugged. "Either it'll be me or Niv scolding you. Methinks it might be easier if you listened to me first." K'aekniv's usual solution to Genesis not having gotten enough sleep to keep from being short with the rest of the men was to hit him over the head and force him to rest, whether Genesis wanted to or not.

"I presume that our...impending contract is the reason why you are not...even more intoxicated."

"Hmm?"

"It’s your birthday in three hours, I believe. I am...aware of how the Easterners prefer to celebrate them."

Mirk was surprised Genesis remembered. The commander wasn't one for that kind of sentimentality. A birthday, to Genesis, was a purely practical bit of knowledge, something that it was only useful to keep in mind when timing particularly complex spells. "Oh. Yes, it is. But Niv said it's bad luck to celebrate your birthday early. Or your name day, depending."

The half-angel had reassured Mirk of this several times, so that he didn't get the impression that the Easterners disliked him so much that they weren't willing to capitalize on the occasion as an excuse to get fall-down drunk. The first thing they'd do when they all got back, K'aekniv told him, was treat Mirk to the customary rounds. A drink for every year you'd lived was crucial to securing luck in the coming one. Mirk wondered how K'aekniv was going to afford to keep up that tradition further on down the line. Full-blood angels could live upwards of three thousand years if they were mindful. Presumably K'aekniv would make it to at least the halfway mark, provided his luck held. Which put him in the same position, Mirk supposed, but his human side always seemed to win out over his angelic half. That and he had a good deal more gold to spare than K'aekniv.

Genesis snorted, making the cloth he was using to polish his dagger vanish with a flick of his wrist. "Everything with them is...luck. I have told them several times that it is advisable to invest in adequate planning instead."

"But a little extra luck can't hurt, non?"

"Irrelevant," Genesis said, making an arcane gesture over his rows of weapons. One by one they vanished as well, either back into the Abyss or into the pockets of his overcoat, judging by the muted clanks coming from where it was hung by the door next to Mirk's cloak. Then he got to his feet in one fluid motion, without any fumbling or support from his hands, rising from the floor in a smooth rush of darkness, just like the shadows he could call to himself with a single twitch of his fingers. Something about the uncanny speed of it, the silence, made Mirk's mouth go dry. But not in an unappealing way. He did his best to ignore it. "However, there is...one thing."

"Hmm?"

Genesis didn't reply directly, instead retreating back into the bedroom. That was strange, Mirk thought to himself, as he edged further into the common room off the mat, now that the floor was clear. What could Genesis have to offer him that he couldn't call to himself with a wave of his hand, without having to resort to the humdrum, human tedium of walking from room to room? The question was answered soon enough. When Genesis returned, he had a slim green cloth-bound book in hand and a forcibly blank expression on his face. He crossed the room and held the book out to Mirk without comment.

"What's this?" Mirk asked, taking the book from him. He misjudged his grab in his tipsiness and he grasped Genesis's cold, slender fingers for a moment along with it. Genesis had nothing to say about that either.

It didn't look like the kind of book the commander usually favored. It was stamped down its spine and front cover with gold foil adornments in a repeating pattern of blossoming flowers and creeping vines. And though Mirk could sense traces of Genesis's magic on it, the book didn't have the same ominous heft to it that most of his grimoires did. Most of Genesis’s personal books gave Mirk the unnerving feeling that they’d snap shut on his nose if he perused their pages too closely. Delicately, Mirk opened the cover and leafed through the first few pages. All of them were blank, made of a thick, fine, cream-colored paper. That wasn't like Genesis either. He preferred his paper to be as bone white as possible.

"Your present age is when you are considered an adult by your county's mages. Correct?"

Mirk nodded. It only mattered to the ladies, truly — the debutante balls would be starting in France in the spring, the same as they would be in England. A man was judged more marriageable the closer he got to inheritance, or to gaining the rank of master in his element's guild, and that happened well after the age at which he could manage his own affairs. He was an aberration, a man who had inherited before he reached the age at which he could formally contract with the other mages. And in that sense, he was just as much of an appealing option as a young lady who'd just come of age. Though Mirk tried to avoid thinking of that fact as much as he could. "Yes, that's true. Why?"

All he got in response was more silence. Mirk looked up from the book. Genesis's expression was still blank, though Mirk could tell the commander was thinking hard about his response. His eyes were flicking back and forth, searching his mental guidebook on managing friendships for guidance. Judging by the slight frown that came onto his face and the sigh that preceded his words, Genesis came up empty. "Among the...old K'amenda, one was given their...personal grimoire upon reaching adulthood."

The book felt too thin to be a grimoire proper, unless it had some kind of magic on it like there was on Jean-Luc's journal. And the pages were too fine, meant for making a quill glide across the page rather than for preservation or absorbing magical potential. Perhaps Genesis had taken his slapdash approach to spellcraft into consideration when he'd chosen the book, knowing that he wouldn't have much in the way of formal spells to copy into it. Despite this, Mirk felt the heat creep up the sides of his neck as he thumbed through the book's pages. "You didn't have to, messire. You know I don't have a head for formal magic..."

"Grimoire is....perhaps not the best translation," Genesis said with another sigh. "It is a ta'kakk. A record of...important things. They are kept so that other K'maneda can learn from your life's experiences after your passing. And not repeat unnecessary mistakes. What is…considered important enough to record is left to the judgment of its writer."

Mirk laughed as he closed the book, feeling himself go even redder. "Oh. Well, I do make plenty of mistakes."

"I have read...thirty-seven of them. They varied greatly in tone and style. Some were concerned with magic. Others were more...personal."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Mustering his courage, Mirk met Genesis's eyes. Or, at least, he tried to. The commander was staring off fixedly over his head. The book had to be a very important thing in the strange culture Genesis had been raised in, if offering it to him was making him so uncomfortable. Which only made Mirk's stomach tie itself in knots. "Thank you, Genesis. It really does mean a lot to me that you'd give me something so important."

"You have no nis'yk to give you one. And I have observed that you are...fond of recording your thoughts for others. This is a trait your people and mine share."

Genesis had to be thinking of the ledger he'd been given when he first came to the City, that he wrote the clunky English words that gave him the most trouble down in, along with names and places and ideas he didn't want to forget and be forced to look up again. Or maybe he was thinking of the letters he wrote to his uncle and Madame Beaumont and the few mages from home who'd thought to reach out to him, Seigneur Feulaine and his daughter Yvette and Mademoiselle Polignac, who wanted constant advice about how to make her indoor gardens more elaborate. Genesis was right about the French being fond of letters. Though doubtlessly Genesis would find the contents of his ledger and letters to be too frivolous to be worth the paper and ink they consumed. "Euh, that's right. We do. Though I never did ask you, messire, what's a ni...nisi..."

"Nis'yk."

"Yes, that. I have such a hard time with all the clicking noises..."

"A nis'yk is a teacher. Of sorts. Perhaps...mentor would be the more accurate term. When one wishes to begin training, one...comes to an agreement with an older K'amenda who is agreeable to it and becomes their syk'ca. Their...student. The giving of a ta'kakk symbolizes that one is capable of becoming another person's nis'yk. A full adult." Genesis paused, thinking. "I was given mine before I reached that state. However, my nis'yk knew he would not be...present at the appropriate time. And that I...would have no syk'ca of my own. Perhaps."

"What was he like? Your nis'yk?"

Genesis's expression somehow grew even more distant, his eyes flickering with his magic. He shifted his stance, folding his arms across his chest. Mirk couldn’t sort out whether the gesture was defensive or not. "K'anak...was also...what you call a Destroyer. A...k'amskec. He liberated the City from the Imperial angels. I believe he...hoped I would do the same. In a sense. In that way, he was a suitable nis'yk. For one of my magical abilities. Although I did not choose him in particular, as is…customary."

"He must have been terribly old," Mirk said, trying to remember what he could of the history of the ancient K'maneda that Genesis had rambled at him about over the past year. "The City fell from Heaven thousands of years ago."

"He was a demon from a...distant realm. In terms of lineage. He was born under bondage. In the City."

Mirk knew he shouldn't pry. But the look on Genesis's face, though his lips were pursed and his eyebrows lowered, held some trace of sentiment, of affection, that Mirk had hardly ever seen in him before. "Is he...?"

"Dead," Genesis said, flatly. Despite the grim finality of the word, the certainty with which it passed his lips, his expression didn't change. The bare hint of fondness didn’t leave it. "But he ensured that I would have...some degree of freedom. A debt that will never be repaid. Other than by doing the same for others who are kept from being free."

As was the case so often around Genesis, it felt like Mirk’s body decided what to do before he could even begin to think of the right response, something reassuring, yet respectful. Mirk closed the gap between them, wrapping his arms tight around Genesis's thin frame and burying his face in his shirtfront. The scent of his cleaning potions and soaps, of oranges and lilies, filled Mirk's senses. "I'm sorry, Genesis."

Genesis was frozen in his grasp. Puzzled, no doubt, by his sudden display of emotion. "There is no need. K'anak died...the best death possible. I wish to do the same."

Involuntarily, Mirk squeezed him harder. A good thing Genesis didn't need to breathe as often as a human. Or a half-blood as fragile as himself. "Still. I...methinks I understand what it's like to lose your family too soon. And I wouldn't wish it on anyone, no matter how they died."

It took Genesis time to respond, to move. But after a minute or two, Mirk felt him uncross his arms. And then he felt the weight of his hand atop his head. "The K'amenda...also believed that family was not a...set thing, determined by blood. It could be subtracted from. But it also could be added to. Without limit."

Something about the touch made Mirk able to finally get a hold of himself. He released the commander, though he didn't back out of reach. And though Genesis drew his hand back, he didn't fold his arms again. Mirk glanced back down at the book in his hands, which he'd almost dropped in his rush to embrace the commander. "Since you gave me this...ta..."

"Ta'kakk."

"Does that make you my nis'yk?"

Genesis shook his head, instantly. "No. You did not choose to join us. Not entirely of your...own free will, in any case. Regardless, I have...little to teach you that would be of value to you."

"That's not true," Mirk said. "You've taught me enough about fighting to fill at least three grimoires."

"A practical matter," Genesis said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. He paused to think again, his expression slipping back into the guarded blankness that'd been fixed on it when he'd left the bedroom. "A nis'yk...trains a child in their specialty until they become equals. Roughly. You are knowledgeable in things I will never understand. And you were that way...from the start. There are different kinds of equals. There are those who...share your potential. You become equals once they have taught you all they know. Then there are those...with differing potentials. Who understand magic you can never learn. These people can be equals as well. Despite their differences. And in this sense...the equality between them is more even than the equality between individuals who have similar magic. In certain aspects."

Mirk was too overwhelmed by the whole exchange to catch the finer details of it, all the nuance Genesis was fighting to explain in that deliberate, pause-filled way of his. But he understood what Genesis was trying to say, somehow, though the chaos twined around his mind was as impenetrable to Mirk's empathy as it ever was. For some unfathomable reason, Genesis considered him his equal. Which, as best as Mirk could understand, was the basis of all lasting relationships, according to Genesis's odd beliefs. His body got the better of him once more and he hugged the commander again, albeit a bit less ardently than before. "Thank you, Genesis. It means so much that you'd think of me like this," Mirk said, his voice muffled against Genesis's chest.

It took Genesis some time to sort out how to alter his response. That time, he elected to give him a few rigid, precise pats on the back. When Mirk couldn't bear to release him straight away, he chose to simply rest his hand there, in the center of his back, until Mirk scraped himself together and let Genesis go with an embarrassed, flustered laugh. Mirk didn't know what it was about the book, about Genesis's words, about everything that made his heart feel like it was about to burst. It wasn't as if Genesis had come to him and gotten down on his knees to profess his undying affection. But somehow, coming from Genesis, who was loath to do anything impractical, anything sentimental, the book Mirk clutched to his chest in place of Genesis's thin body felt like a similar symbol of devotion.

Or maybe he was just imagining things. Or maybe he'd had one too many glasses from Yule's bottle of whiskey. It was probably that. "Ah, I'm sorry for getting so carried away, messire. I suppose it's just been a long day."

Genesis frowned down at him. "One would think that, with this additional gesture, you could...dispense with that."

"With what?"

"The lord business."

Mirk shrugged, unable to keep from grinning to himself. "If you were a real lord, I'd have to call you seigneur."

"Nevertheless. The...feudal spirit remains."

"Hmm...think of it a little like that name Niv calls you sometimes. What was it....sneg...sno..."

"Snegurochka," Genesis said, his frown deepening.

"Yes! That's it. Messire doesn't mean lord anymore, just like that other name doesn't mean...what was it? Snow queen? It's just something nice to show you're friends."

"I see." Despite the concession, Genesis still seemed thoroughly unconvinced. And dissatisfied.

"I suppose I could think up a different one, if messire bothers you so much," Mirk said. "Let's see...euh...chaton?"

Genesis grimaced.

"Or maybe you're more of a loulou..."

"I..."

"Or chouchou? That could work..."

"Are they all...miserable sing-song nonsense?"

"Well, no. But a lot of them are."

With a tired sigh, Genesis turned on his heel and beat a hasty retreat toward the bathroom. "Considering the alternatives, I will...tolerate the original. As it were."

Mirk laughed to himself as he watched the bathroom door close, then heard it lock. That had all been a bit silly on his part, Mirk thought. He could have at least offered up something like mon râleur, which at least fit Genesis's dour personality better. But Mirk knew he never could have kept the names switched around, no matter if he'd thought of one that Genesis found less bothersome than messire.

Genesis had been messire ever since the morning after he'd first met him, in a disreputable inn on the port side of Nantes. He and his mother had put their heads together on the matter over breakfast, searching for a proper title for the mysterious sellsword and his band of jovial foreigners that they'd hired to deal with the problem of the House Rose demons in his father's absence. Genesis wasn't the head of a family, and he'd been quick to inform them that he'd never been given a title by the English guilds, despite his already apparent mastery of the thaumaturgical arts.

But a polite monsieur — the title reserved for any mage of substance — seemed beneath a man of Genesis’s station, who had three dozen hulking fighters at his beck and call, though they did grumble a little about his orders. Genesis hadn't yet been willing to divulge that he and his men were K'maneda. Otherwise Mirk was certain Genesis would have told him that comrade was the only acceptable title, without any extra flourishes or concessions to his higher rank.

They'd tried commander, but Genesis had rejected it straight away, without any explanation, though the word still stuck in Mirk's mind as a description of him, even though he knew now why Genesis had refused it. In the end, messire was the only option left. It seemed a fitting compromise between politeness and accuracy, at least to Mirk and his mother: better than a plain monsieur, but not as lofty and weighty as a full seigneur. A term that was a little fussy and antiquated. Just like Genesis.

As he'd told Genesis, even though it'd started as a way to be polite, it had shifted into something more than that. Something complex, something layered, something beyond what an entry in a dictionary or a rough translation could convey. Something that held a mixture of fondness and respect. Friends and equals. Mirk stroked the front cover of the journal Genesis had given him as went to the bedroom, tracing its delicate gold foil design with his fingertips.

Messire. A compromise that had evolved over time into something different, something strong and real. It was the same way Mirk liked to think of the connection between them. And the book in his hands was clear evidence that Genesis felt the same, even if he had trouble putting into words exactly what he meant.

If only he could have kept his heart from fluttering like a man awaiting his first dance with his betrothed, the moment would have been perfect.