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Rachel was alone in the barn when Ax started shouting about death and honor.
“There is no inn on the way to the underworld, so where shall I sleep tonight?“
He stormed through the barn door as he said this, full volume, arms outstretched. He moved slowly in a way that reminded her of the actors at those medieval themed restaurants or some weird Viking cosplay.
One of the injured hawks squawked indignantly from the back of the barn.
“My coming, my going - two simple happenings that got entangled.” Ax intoned, beaming at her.
His face was alight in a way Rachel hadn’t seen since he learned you could place double orders at Cinnabon.
“O- okay.” Rachel said. She wasn’t sure if there was any other appropriate response.
“This dream of a fleeing world! The roseate hues of early dawn!” Ax said, continuing to beam. When Rachel did not beam back, he raised his eyebrows.
Eyebrow use was new for him. In Geometry class the week before, Marco told him the eyebrows were used to express hidden meaning to others. Ax spent the entire class period wiggling his eyebrows, but their teacher was no closer to understanding advanced Andalite notions of spatiality than she was at the beginning of the hour.
“Uh... You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here?” Rachel inquired back.
Ax frowned. “I am not familiar with this particular stanza. Is it from the 15th century impromptu Korean tradition? I admit I am not yet comfortable with the Hanja five-syllable format.”
“Uh. It’s a goodbye song.” Rachel said, aware that they were talking about completely different things but with no idea how to rectify it.
Ax nodded, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration and thus no longer in motion.
“I see. Is this a favorite of yours? Which rhyming pattern does it utilize? Is it a justification of betrayal or a reflection on impermanence?”
Rachel considered this. She wished Cassie would come back from feeding the rabbits.
“I guess... impermanence...?”
Rachel was never good at all of that “the dog in Old Yeller represents Truth” English class type stuff. She preferred things be a little more cut and dried, a little more straightforward, which is why she was really over this conversation.
“Ax, I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about with all this death and honor Ren Faire stuff — and using your eyebrows doesn’t help.” She finished firmly as his forehead twitched.
Ax’s disappointment was significant enough to bar follow up questions about “Ren Faire stuff”.
“I have been studying Earth Warrior Culture to better understand human notions of honorable conduct in war. I found verses in your popular culture, however crude, that reminded me of the most ancient and esteemed Andalite death verses, long discarded.”
Rachel shrugged. “Cool. What was it from, Kill Bill?”
Ax looked crestfallen. “I have just recited them — 16th century Samurai death poems. These are not a part of your ‘popular culture’ texts? I learned them through- Week. Weeky. WE KEE -Peed-
“Uh... yeah. I don’t get the reference.”
Rachel interrupted Ax’s syllabic freestyling before it could drag on. She would have rolled her eyes, but Marco had explained to Ax that eye rolling was a sign of derision in retaliation for making fun of his Gorilla morph.
“We don’t really... know those. In America.”
Ax considered this for a moment. “Ah, yes, I forget. humans place meaning in antiquated geographically based differences, especially those demarcated by negligible biology.”
“Uh, sure.”
The look on Ax’s face made Rachel feel... something. Not angry.
Guilty? Lonely? Whatever it was, it was a feeling Rachel hadn’t experienced much since she started ripping people’s throats out as a Grizzly Bear.
She tried to think of something to say to Ax that would make the feeling go away.
“They sound pretty.” She offered.
Ax nodded, solemn. “They are written as the poet dies, a reflection on life and living. For centuries, Andalites wrote a similar, albeit more intricate, type of poem, until the fear of Yeerk infection made composing them dangerous, obsolete.”
“Oh. That sucks.”
“Yes. They were very beautiful — the best Andalite poets could capture the fleeting high of bloodshed, weighing the sharp rush of battle against the slower, more contemplative joys of home, watching your trees flower.”
“Sick. Maybe you could... I don’t know. You want to recite some?” Rachel had kind of hoped that once Ax realized she didn’t speak D&D he would leave her alone, but the whole glory of violence thing sounded... kind of neat.
“Certainly. Then... perhaps you could teach me the goodbye song of which you spoke.” Ax said stiffly, but he didn’t move his eyebrows.
“Sure. It’s uh... pretty ancient.”
The feeling didn’t go away, but Rachel was glad to know she could still laugh.
—
The blare of sirens indicated the Intrepid’s hold had been breached, and the Andalite Prince prepared his last transmission.
He was grateful, even with smoke billowing from the navigation system, the bodies of the fallen around him. His writing marked a return to custom, ironic for such an unorthodox officer. An impossible luxury of time during the Andalite-Yeerk War was now ritual, the ancient made new again.
As the One’s onslaught approached, Prince Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill wrote the final line of his death poem and felt satisfied.
“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.”
—