The sky above Noho Ali’i was gray as slate when Tēya walked under it- a constant reminder of the storms that were to come. The region had a rainy season, though she was almost certain they weren’t currently in it. No, every islander she had spoken to had said that the rains of the season had passed moon cycles ago. There wasn’t any reason for the sky to still be dim.

No natural reason, that was. In the past few years, Tēya had learned to distrust the rhythms and cycles of the world, especially when her companions were involved.

The people of Noho Ali’i kept their sick on the furthest edges of the village, to prevent infection. Of course, spirit curses and possessions certainly weren’t contagious, as far as Tēya knew. The practice was just like the ocean folk themselves- paranoid, overprotective, and distastefully worrisome. All it did to help was give her an excuse to look at the sea while she delivered the midday meal to her quarantined companions.

Of the sick huts, the one farthest from civilization had been gifted to Jarrah- a prize fitting his now-gruesome appearance and vague, haunted, symptoms. Kamalani and their healers didn’t know how to fix the condition that had befallen the sand prince, so they resorted to isolating him.

The curtains of the house- both those over the windows and the ones serving as the door- were drawn, perhaps to keep out the rain, or to keep out the people. The log steps leading to the door creaked from disuse as Tēya climbed up them, taking extra care not to spill the congee she carried. Once at the doorway, she knocked on its wooden frame twice and was answered by silence.

“Jarrah, I know you’re in there.” She sighed, purposefully lowering her voice to a gentler tone. “I brought you lunch, can I come inside?”

A few moments and a thudding sound later, the door-curtain was abruptly pulled open, revealing the lean, spindly figure of Jarrah Al-Mutari.

Jarrah, at least within the time Tēya had known him, had always been a lanky, skinny boy- the type of person who always wore clothes too big for him. Even the plain, bleached cotton tunic he wore now fit him poorly- gathering at his shoulders and revealing his collarbone. If there was one sign of Jarrah’s poor state- other than his coloration- it was that his hair was uncovered- dark, wavy locks, cropped to chin-length, fell across his face and framed his lean, delicate features.

Tēya couldn’t take in Jarrah’s appearance without noticing it. The mark. Rather, it wasn’t a mark, but a complete shift in the hue of Jarrah’s appearance. Instead of the warm tones she was used to-the colors of her own skin and hair- Jarrah was blue- his skin a soft slate gray like the sky outside, his hair the color of an ocean at midnight. It was hard to tell in the dim lighting, but Tēya was fairly certain his skin had taken up a rougher texture in addition to the death-like color. Most unsettling, though, were the boy’s eyes. Instead of the earthy green they had been before, Jarrah’s eyes glowed a majestic gold-tone, like the jewelry they both wore or the sun peeking from behind a rain cloud.

Tēya must’ve stared too long, because Jarrah stepped back. His brow furrowed. “What do you want?”

“I’m sorry.” Tēya immediately glanced downward, opting to stare at her feet. That was considered polite in Jarrah’s culture, wasn’t it? “I just brought you some food. I can leave if you want.”

Jarrah paused. He must’ve been scanning her over, but Tēya couldn’t tell without looking up. “No, it’s alright. You can come inside.” He took a step inward, leading her into the hut. “We can eat together.”

The inside of Jarrah’s hut was about as dismal as the world outside it. It was cold, unsurprisingly so- Jarrah had never managed to learn to build a fire, even the traditional way, leaving the space to be dark and frigid. Tēya followed Jarrah through the small space and ended up sitting across from him, in front of a mat of bamboo. Tēya set down the bowl of congee.

Jarrah produced a pair of wooden spoons and a set of bowls, handing one of each to Tēya. With his own spoon he served himself some congee and muttered what Tēya knew was a blessing spoken in his native language- she had heard it said over and over again.

“You know, I’ve been wondering what that means.” She said as she served herself.

“Hm?” Jarrah replied. He didn’t look up from his meal.

“That thing you say before you eat. I don’t speak your language, so I don’t really understand it.”

“Oh. It’s just a blessing, nothing more. Just a simple set of words to ensure the trust of the spirits, you know how my people are. It roughly translates to, ‘may the great spirits bless this food and nourish those who partake in it’. It’s… tradition.”

“Hm.” Tēya looked down onto her own food. “My people have a few traditions like that. Most of them are during the act of cooking itself, instead of when eating.”

“Do you like to cook?” Jarrah looked up, briefly, then returned to his food.

“Sometimes. I haven’t in a while. I used to make tamales with my mother, but that was a while ago.”

“Mhm. That sounds nice. Your mother is… well, I’d be lying if I said she isn’t intimidating, but she’s kind. It must run in the family.”

“Mhm…..” Tēya muttered. “What about you? Did you ever cook growing up?”

Jarrah shook his head. “Growing up in the palace and everything, I never really learned how. My mother cooks, and so does Shaimaa, but men don't cook in our culture. I think my father would've killed me if I ever tried to-” He paused, the words hitching in his mouth. Something Jarrah had said had made him pause.

Tēya set her bowl down on the wooden floor. “Jarrah? Are you alright?”

Jarrah mirrored her action and wrapped his hands around his arms. Even from the other side of the room, Tēya could hear the boy's breath quicken.

“Well, I just was thinking it's kind of funny,” Jarrah forced a laugh, but his voice betrayed his unease. “That I say my father would've killed me for wanting to make food… when he actually killed me for something less than that. He killed me for something I didn't even do.”

Tēya’s breath hitched as her fears unfolded around her. She had hoped these events wouldn't transpire, but all her wishes had been unrealistic. There was no way to avoid the topic of conversation.

After taking in a breath, Tēya forced herself to speak. “He…. tried to kill you because of what Wumei did, right?” From her perspective, the night had been a blur of strange customs she barely understood, loud arguments in languages she didn't speak and the streets of Siwa running with both blood and rain. She hadn't been present when Jarrah had… transformed, nor did she fully understand the event even now. She hadn't asked out of politeness.

Jarrah avoided her gaze. “Yeah. After Wumei murdered her father- you were there for that part- my father pulled me aside and took me to the Easifuh.” At Tēya’s visible confusion, he paused to explain. “It's the river we were traveling alongside for the wedding celebration. Apparently it's sacred to one of our most respected spirits- the spirit of storms. Weddings are done nearby for luck and fertility.”

“Oh.” Tēya replied. She had heard of the spirit of storms before- Kamalani had mentioned it only a week earlier, to Kavya and her. They had described the being as a vengeful, wrath-filled monster intent on capsizing vessels and interrupting trade routes, which, at least to Tēya, seemed more fitting to a storm spirit than the pacifistic fertility spirit Jarrah described. “So. Your father took you down to the Easifuh River.”

“Yeah.” Jarrah wrapped his arms around his body and pulled his legs closer to him. The chill of the small hut seemed to intensify. “When- when we got there he shoved me into the water and held me under. He drowned me.”

Tēya’s heart lurched as Jarrah stopped talking. In a way, his silence spoke more than any description he could’ve woven up. His father drowned him. That's all there was to say.

“I guess I really was disposable to him, second son and all. He has a perfectly good heir already so he really didn't need me other than to strike up a fresh treaty with the Mountain Empire, and you saw how that went. I was just a loose end he needed to tie. No one ever writes about what happens to the second son, anyways.”

Jarrah paused before speaking again. “My mother… found us at the riverbed. It's hard to remember what happened then, exactly, but she killed him. My father. She stabbed him in the back and watched him bleed out. She didn't want to lose another son, I don't think.”

“And she saved you.” Tēya finished. The rest of the story was easy enough to fill in. “But that doesn't explain everything. How did you get all…”

“That's the thing.” Jarrah bristled. “By the time she had come to save me, she was too late. I had already died. My father succeeded in his goal.”

“Then how-”

“Am I right here in front of you?” Jarrah looked at Tēya, in the eyes, for what could've been the first time. “When I was under the water, suffocating, I had a vision. The spirit of storms spoke to me.”

Tēya could feel her eyes widen and her lips part as she listened.

“The spirit offered me a proposition- it would give me a new life and the opportunity to survive, as long as I gave it a worthy price: my name.”

Even Tēya knew the implication behind the offer. Names were one of the most sacred symbols in Si Wong culture- it was why Jarrah carried two. To give away a name to such a powerful being was akin to ripping out one's heart and offering it as sacrifice. “And? What did you do?”

Jarrah took in a breath and closed his eyes. “I took the offer and gave the spirit my name. In return, it gave me life and changed my skin, my hair, my eyes. I can breathe under water now, I think. I'm… I'm not human anymore. The spirit of the storms owns my soul.”

“Oh.” Tēya mirrored Jarrah’s posture. The room was too cold. “You're… possessed by the storm spirit because you gave it your name.”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

Teya hesitated. She didn’t know what she could say next, how to be polite. Her empathy eluded her. “What does it feel like?”

Jarrah tucked a loose strand of indigo hair behind his ear, revealing it’s tip to be long and pointed. “It’s… it’s hard to describe. I feel… different, but it’s hard to place exactly how.”

The response she was given made Teya feel stupid. Of course. “You know, I don’t really understand any of this. I wish I did, so I could help you, but…”

“It’s alright.” Jarrah looked away, to the blank walls. “Hey, uh, Teya?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I be honest with you? Don’t- don’t tell anyone this.”

Teya hesitated. “Sure.”

“I’m scared. I’m- I’m so scared. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. It’s terrifying.”

Teya didn’t have to pretend she understood what he was saying. Of course it was terrifying. Why wouldn’t it be? She offered the one thing she thought would help. “Can I give you a hug right now?”

Jarrah closed his eyes and nodded. Taking his cue, Teya sat up and walked over to where Jarrah was sitting, then settled down next to him and wrapped her arms around his body. He relaxed in her embrace. “Thanks.” He muttered. “You’re...you’re a pretty good friend, you know?”

“Thanks.” Teya whispered back. “You are too.”