âNever,â Santinoâs voice softened, a somber gravity weighing down his timbre. âI would never mean you harm.â And he meant it, in that moment. Beneath the heavy ceilings, every sound seemed muffled, somehow dulled, as if it had to filter through the curtains of musty dirt and odors before it could unfold. It was a cemetery through and through, and nothing could thrive here. This, too, was by design. Ankur was a bright light in comparison to them all. And Santino was poisoned by light, addicted to it. No penance, no fasting could alleviate him of this burden. He had seen too many like him.
The Coven Master was a figure in the hallway, half-swallowed by numinous shadows. Otherwise Ankur might have seen the beseeching gleam in the younger creatureâs hollow gaze, the nearly snuffed flame of feeling. But then, he was old. Perhaps he could. When the other allowed himself to be led further, Santino showed him to a secluded room which once must have served as a crypt for a distinct personality. In a way, it still did. A chair, chiseled out of limestone and finished with granite protruded from the far wall, decorated in an archaic manner. The holes in the walls gaped like open mouths and within them, the soft rustling of rats.
When they were alone here, Santino finally turned back to Ankur. âI would introduce you to the children, but first we must talk.â He said, a step closer than before. He looked strangely starved, as if he did not dare reach out for fear of having his hand severed at the wrist. Briefly, he didnât look like the master but like the captive. He regarded Ankur with unveiled hunger. âI see the way you look at us, and what strange phantoms we might seem to you. So I ask you: What are you used to? Where do you hail from?â
For a moment, Ankur speculated on whether or not Santinoâs wide-eyed stare was born of lust- despite the manâs supposed modesty, the otherâs gaze held anything but. Instead, there was an obvious longing, desire, and Ankur raised a brow, mouth twitching in some amusement. Whatever misgivings heâd had earlier aside, he could entertain the possibility of some encounter- though certainly he would be more amenable to it if Santino had not chosen to isolate them in such a vile room. Still, he held his ground when Santino came closer, watching him curiously- would he dare reach out?Â
But Santinoâs line of questions- and their desperation- was less expected, and Ankurâs brow furrowed subtly in confusion as he considered them. This feeling of being... an object of fascination for the gaze of others was one that had occurred more frequently the further he traveled from the land that had birthed him. It was odd, different from the way he had felt scrutinized as a prince or even a king- for here, it was not the strength of his character that was being observed, but the circumstances of his existence. Then again, he supposed the members of this... church might well feel the same about the way he looked at them.Â
He was quiet for a moment, mouth in a firm line as he thought- but he broke the silence with a small smile. âI think I understand the issue. I have been impolite- you have welcomed me into your private life, and that of your âchildrenâ, and I have not been nearly as forthcoming.â Ankur bowed his head slightly. âMy apologies for the offense.â Even in his careful Italian, he managed to sound gracefully diplomatic- polite, but not overly so. âAnd I can certainly share a little of myself with you.âÂ
Ankur looked briefly to the chair, where he might sit if he were not concerned about the dust contents of this crypt, and shook his head slightly. Tucking one arm behind his back, he began to pace slowly along the perimeter of the room, careful not to get too close to the walls- lest a rat cling to his clothing.
âI came here from Tunisia,â he began lightly. âWhere I âlivedâ for... twenty, thirty years. I learned Italian there as a merchant,â he added with a small nod toward Santino. âBefore that was Egypt, and before that, Yoruba, Abyssinia, Darfur, Yemen- most of Africa and the expanse of the Ottoman Empire, really.â He waved his free hand. âFurther east as well- Zhongguo, Tibet, Laos, and others- though that was centuries ago. Iâm sure I would hardly recognize any of them now,â he said jokingly. But his expression became somber quickly, and he quieted for another moment.Â
âThough I suppose you mean my origin- where I was born.â He turned, holding both hands behind him now. âI... am unsure what the land I come from is called by its inhabitants now, but when I was mortal, I lived in...â he trailed off, the name of his old kingdom sitting on his tongue like a stone, unwilling to be either swallowed or spoken. âSapta Sindhu.â A more general answer, but still painful, in its own way. He looked towards a corner of the room, expression soft. âEast of Persia, in the northern region of, ah, India.â He paused, then a thought occurred to him. It was very possible (indeed, very likely) that Santino was not as worldly as him, and that he may, also very possibly, have no idea what existed outside of Italy beyond the vaguest descriptions. He turned to Santino, expression apologetic (and genuinely so). âOh- have you heard of any of these places before?â A small smile. âOr am I speaking, ah, nonsense?âÂ
