The kitchen servants greeted them both warmly, their voices carrying easily across the courtyard. "Little Chef!" "Morning!" "You've grown taller, haven't you?" one of the older cooks called out with a laugh. "And the little brother too!"
Hazia bowed politely to each of them in turn. "Good morning, Auntie Mina. Good morning, Uncle Doran. Brother Jun. Sister Liri."
Kazu blinked, quietly astonished all over again. She remembered every single name, without fail, every single time. The servants' smiles widened noticeably at hearing themselves addressed so personally; people liked hearing their own names spoken aloud, he had come to realize, more than almost anything else and it costed nothing to give.
Then Hazia gently nudged him forward with her elbow. "Kazu. They're talking to you."
He froze entirely, uncertain of what he should say. Talking to strangers had always frightened him, more than hunger, more than cold, more than almost anything else he could name.
Hazia smiled reassuringly beside him. "This is my little brother," she told the gathered servants, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "His name is Kazu. He's a bit shy."
One of the cooks chuckled warmly. "That's perfectly alright."
Another added, with a kind smile, "He doesn't need to talk if he doesn't want to."
The old baker crouched down until he was level with Kazu's eyes. "You're welcome here too, little one."
Kazu hesitated for a long moment before finally, very quietly, managing, "...Thank you."
The servants beamed at him, and Hazia looked outrightly proud, as though he had just accomplished something remarkable rather than simply forcing out two small words.
Later, as the two of them carried vegetables together toward the kitchen, Kazu finally worked up the courage to ask something that had been sitting in his chest for a long while.
"...Why?"
Hazia glanced sideways at him. "Why what?"
"You gave me a name."
She blinked, then seemed to understand exactly what he meant. Back in the White Tower, no one had ever called him Kazu. Boy. Brat. Ghost child. Monster. Those were the words people had used, when they bothered using any word at all. Only Hazia had ever called him by his real name, consistently, without fail, even now, whenever she introduced him to someone new. She never said simply, "This is my brother." She always said, "This is Kazu," as though the name itself mattered as much as the relationship it represented.
She stopped walking and turned to face him fully until they were eye level with one another. "Kazu," she said, her voice gentle but serious. "Names are important."
"...They are?"
She nodded. "If someone knows your name, they're acknowledging that you exist."
He frowned slightly at that. "I exist."
"You do," she agreed. "But sometimes—" she reached out and poked his forehead gently, "—people pretend others don't." She knew that better than almost anyone, having grown up surrounded by people the palace itself wished would simply disappear. Princesses with no futures worth mentioning. Princes with no value to anyone. Children without names at all. She smiled at him then, soft and certain. "I'll always call you Kazu. So don't you ever forget it."
His throat tightened uncomfortably. "...Okay," he managed.
That afternoon, while Hazia busied herself preparing Aleel's midday meal, Kazu carried water from the well, one bucket, then another, then another still, until his arms ached and his small hands grew sore from the rope. He welcomed the discomfort, oddly enough, because carrying water was something he could actually do, unlike cooking, unlike easy conversation, unlike making an entire kitchen full of adults smile the way Hazia so effortlessly managed. He could only carry things, sweep floors, gather firewood and wash dishes. All small things; very small and unremarkable things.
He watched Hazia laughing with Inae from across the courtyard, and even Inae, who shouted at nearly everyone within earshot on any given day, smiled easily while speaking with her. How did she do that? Why couldn't he manage even a fraction of the same ease? He stared down at his own reflection in the still water of the well. A quiet boy stared back at him. Thin, small, weak. 'What use could someone like him possibly be to anyone?'
That evening, after dinner had been cleared away, Hazia noticed he had barely touched his food.
"Kazu."
"...Hm?"
"You're thinking too much again."
He shook his head quickly. "I'm not."
She folded her arms, unconvinced. "You always wrinkle your forehead when you're thinking."
He immediately relaxed his expression, and she burst into laughter. "You did it again!" He blinked, realizing too late she had tricked him into confirming it, and a small, involuntary smile escaped before he could stop it. "There," she said, pointing triumphantly. "I knew it."
He looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. "...Sorry."
Her smile faded instantly. "Why are you apologizing?"
He didn't answer at first. She waited, patient as ever, until finally, very quietly, the words slipped out on their own. "...I'm useless. I can't cook. I can't talk to people. I can't help anyone the way you do." His small fists clenched in his lap. "You do everything. I just follow you." His voice grew smaller still. "...If I disappeared, nothing would change."
The words had escaped before he could stop them, and the moment they left his mouth, he regretted them entirely. Hazia stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then, quite suddenly, she reached forward and flicked his forehead. "Oww—" He rubbed at the spot, startled and confused.
"Idiot," she said, and she wasn't smiling anymore. Her eyes had gone slightly red. "You think far too little of yourself."
"But—"
"No," she interrupted firmly. "Listen to me." He obeyed, as he always did. "When I cook, who carries the water?"
"...Me."
"When I'm working, who cleans our room?"
"...Me."
"When I'm too busy, who tends the fire?"
"...Me."
"When I forget to eat, who reminds me?"
"...Me..."
She nodded firmly. "Exactly." When he tried to protest that those were only little things, she suddenly grabbed both his shoulders, her voice trembling with an intensity he rarely heard from her. "So what? Little things matter. If nobody carried water, could I cook at all?"
He shook his head slowly.
"If nobody cleaned, could we sleep comfortably?"
"No."
"If nobody stayed beside me, would I ever feel safe?" He froze at that. Her grip on his shoulders softened. "Kazu." She smiled at him then, a sad, tender smile unlike any he had seen from her before. "In this whole world, I only have one family. You. And you only have one family. Me. So stop talking about disappearing." Her voice cracked slightly. "Because if you disappeared, then I would be alone."