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Arlen Kallem has recently come into possession of a boat. Well, actually he's recently come into possession of a few things, given his mother just died. But most relevantly, he has a boat. And a friend, with whom he can boat. These facts are relevant.
Harin has no objections to boating; he's still in shock, as far as Arlen can tell, which is pretty unreasonable, considering it's been like a week since his dad died, and the guy was a complete asshole. But it does make him conveniently portable and boat-able. Arlen is the skipper and Harin is the something. They are the perfect team.
Even the most perfect team can make dumb mistakes, though. Like drifting farther out to sea than intended. Or not noticing a hurricane brewing. Or being swept across the ocean until they smash onto the far shore. That sort of thing.
Ari, sprawled on the beach, has a pillow; the pillow is a large chunk of rock protruding from the sand. It's such a lovely pillow. Very comfortable. He's going to sleep now. Harin has similar opinions on the subject.
"Ah. Um, sorry. For some reason I kind of expected it to be an 'everyone is tiny' thing. I mention I'm concussed?"
Arlen peers at Nior as best he can with his vaguely unfocused eyes. "What are your blessings? You're not wearing them, unless that... weird squiggly one is... what is that. What the hell kind of blessing is that?"
"This is Elannwy. We have different elemental blessings here. Most countries don't have them at all. This," he taps the silver pin on his sleeve, "is complexity. My brother and I have it in common. He's charm/inspiration/complexity; I'm understanding/focus/complexity."
"Gross. That's weird. I'm joy and beauty and strength. Normal blessings. I like them. The hell is complexity, anyway."
"No worse than 'synthesis'. I'm power, clarity, and loyalty. Don't be a dick, Ari, we're the weird foreigners here."
"My mother is Welchin, as I mentioned. Her blessings are flexibility, resilience, and travel; is that normal enough for you?"
"Yes. Yes, it is. Very coru, is she coru? My ma was coru. Though she might not be the best example of the breed."
"Incredibly coru. And Father's incredibly hunti. They make quite a pair."
He shivers, slightly.
"Very strong."
Arlen wobbles over and hugs him, trying very hard not to look exasperated with his friend's inability to instantly recover from six years of severe trauma.
"Mm. Sorry," says Nior. "My brother's crowned sweela too, but he's coru underneath. Oceans of it. We take after Mother that way."
And then the house comes into view. It's a very pretty house, built partly into the side of the hill that stands between it and the ocean. The path that winds around the hill leads straight to the back porch. All the shutters are open, and lace curtains drift back and forth at the prompting of a slight breeze.
"Probably, yes. Beds that we are not going to sleep in, because we might die."
A boy who looks remarkably like Nior sticks his head out of an upper-floor window and peers down at them.
The boy in the window yells down a question in some language that sounds plausibly related to Welchin but not related enough to be understandable.
