It was hopeless. 

After several assurances and a second pot of tea emptied, Jun and Amari were interrupted by a servant to notify Jun to begin preparations to welcome an additional two honored guests—the first prince of Nanjie and his close attendee. And so regretfully, he left Amari alone to rest in his room for the evening. The door clicked shut behind Jun. And then, an invisible, snaking tension cut loose from Amari's upturned lips and upright shoulders. He let himself fall back against the bed, limp, and sink into the thickly knitted blankets.

He pulled a leg up in the air, watching the pant leg roll back to the bed and reveal the thin, chitin patterns spread up from the dark shade of green of his toes, all the way to his upper thigh. Amari traced them, watching the skin bounce back with no problem after the slight pressure. When he first entered the temples, he'd do nothing but claw away at the marks—cursing them out as the source of his mistake.

Amari pulled the covers over his head, letting his human form consciously melt away, before rehardening into a tight, locked shell of comfort. Here, no one could hurt him. And, here... he could help no one.

A medium-sized tortoise lay burrowed in the sheets of the solitary guest chambers.

In his past life... he had committed a great wrong against the past Leishan.

Not even ten years ago, Amari had already committed a great wrong against his people, resulting in their decimation as a culture. He survived, and they did not. The one with the least amount of control—the one with the most telling marks of a Caller.

And what if he'd do the same to Leishan?

He couldn't go meet Leishan again. The fact that Amari reconsidered... was another sign of his weakness.

'Don't cry.'

The words flowed throughout his turmoiled indecision, suddenly silencing the anguishing denial bubbling out of Amari's rational choice. If Amari did not show up tonight... Leishan would cry.

Amari transformed back into a human, rolling in the sheets until the blanket was tangled through his legs. Just the thought of Leishan's reddened eyes, twisted a phantom knife through Amari's gut.

He hated it—he couldn't stand the idea.

Amari sat upright. The dark of night awoke from its slumber. The time approached where Amari promised Leishan another meeting. He stumbled out of the bed, banging against the wall with a pained noise. He halted in front of the vanity mirror to carefully tie his hair half up with Jun's gifted zan, before resuming a brisk walk to the standby carriages.

Townsfolk congregated the busy streets in close pairs. At every winding crossroad, merchant carts crowded around, only leaving a small gap for streams of people to walk in and out. Peddlers keenly harassed their customers, pointing their own gloved hand to their wares. Veneer, silken gloves of all colors and embroidery hung like proud produce, waving in sync with the turquoise banners.

Amari could only impatiently push through the crowds, looking on curiously at some with only one glove. To the side, a stout young woman in a ponytail leaned close to another woman. She smoothly pulled off the glove of the other's hand, before the crowds concealed their subsequent kiss.

"Caller!"

A voice screeched incessantly until Amari finally spun around and walked back.

"Where are your gloves? Right, you don't know—come here, closer—now pick one, go on, go on!"

Thoroughly vexed, Amari pointed to a pale, baby-blue pair of elbow gloves, hoping to stop the noisy racket in his ears. The lanky peddler whistled, praising endless empty praises as he hooked the pair with a long staff and dropped them into Amari's hands.

"My gift to you, Caller! You can't be here tonight without a pair—it's a complete waste!"

The gloves were even softer than Amari thought, with thin ribbons criss-crossed down the sides of the sleeves. Amari pinched the slightly embroidered claws at the gloves' fingertips.

"Why does everyone wear them?"

"Yesterday was the celebration of the Caller—our gifts to you."

"Right."

"And today, it is the celebration of the Holder—our respect to the body, and the land."

Amari paused, the glove halfway up his arm before he straightened it out. It fitted comfortably. It was a foreign sensation–a faint, yet constant reminder that veiled fabric coated his touch.

"You celebrate the Holder... even though he does not originate within your kingdom?"

"Without our Caller, Beijie's holder is nothing. But without Beijie's holder... how can our Caller use his power to commune with the rain, if the energy of the world itself is not tangibly contained in a body? You may be our Caller, but you must pay respects too!"

The man hawed a hyena's laugh, slapping Amari's shoulder with force rocking Amari back and forth.

"Why then," Amari grunted, struggling to pry the man off, "are people taking each other's gloves off?"

The peddler threw his hands up with an uproar, slamming the side of his cart as if Amari were the local clown, rather than a revered power. The small pathway out to the ramping paths opened up—and with his sudden release, Amari eyed his getaway. But for some reason, Amari's feet refused to move.

He waited impatiently for the man to respond, but he only continued to wheeze and gasp. A female peddler rapped on his head with her wooden hook, then crossed her arms.

"Ignore the old coot. He's spouting nonsense to rile you up, Caller. Today, our hands are sacred—we wrap them in scarves and bandages, in order to keep them pure. And then, we don our gloves—and only the person most important to us can pull a glove off in exchange—it's a pledge to the Holder that you'll use your body to cherish only that person."

Amari numbly nodded and thanked both peddlers, before joining the crowd, now with gloves of his own. His thumbs rolled circles atop the backs of the gloves, fidgeting with the ribbon. It twisted and looped endlessly, matching the roiling of his stomach. Every step climbing the narrow, winding stairwells further spread the numbness cinching his abdomen.

Amari knew... the peddlers didn't have to explain anything to him. From the moment he saw endless couples, young and old exchanging gloves—a dream-like thought spread like wildfire. Leishan guided Amari's hand down his silver glove, pulling it down to reveal the deep brown skin. Then... with his other gloved hand, pulling Amari close with a tender hold, his dry lips nipping against Amari's.

Seared into his mind, Amari bit his lip, not even the sharp pinch dispersing his thoughts. Even his reasoning could not disguise the magnet pulling Amari closer to Leishan—the invisible string entangled his feelings so closely to Leishan that it was like he was chained once more in Nanjie's temple. And yet—these chains did not suffocate him. They elated him. They imbued Amari with an intensity stronger than any turbulent storm he had called before.

Amari despaired.

It was hopeless. From the very beginning, this glove belonged to no one else but Leishan the moment he saw gloves exchanged between unveiled hands. From the very beginning, Amari intended to meet Leishan—to indulge in a glimpse, a conversation—but then, his companionship, his honesty, his sensitiveness—everything would prove this faint, attractive force was, in actuality, a deep-rooted affection.