[Flashback] A Pair of Portraits [Syllke]

[Belgar]

75 Spring, 508

“Afraid?”

“Well, yes. Or... it’s different than fear.” She pressed her palms against his chest to smooth out the creases in his linen shirt, then reached up to tug his collar straight. Her eyes scoured his face, but there was no blemish to correct there. Though he itched to see her expression, he only stared forward with black eyes, having learned long ago how she hated to be looked at when she was nervous. “Just talk to him. Let him look at you. Show him that you won’t hurt him.”

“I would never—”

“Yes, Bel. I know. Just...” She sighed. Her hand clasped his chin and turned his gaze to match hers. He was taller than she was, and stronger and more deadly. But he was a child, in her hands. “Just be gentle, okay? He is my friend. Sit still, and do what he asks. Do not shift...” She glanced at the door, then added, “unless he asks.”

He followed her into the next room, an art studio with many tables. The ceiling was too low for the Kelvic’s tastes, but he did not dare say so. He glanced around distractedly until she directed his attention to the boy. The tension in her arms was gone as she spread them between the two strangers. Belgar had always admired how she could be so kind and sociable even when she felt differently, inside. “Syllke,” she said, regarding him, “This is Belgar. Belgar, come.”

He obeyed. She led him to a tall stool. As he sat, he dared to meet Syllke’s eyes. A moment passed before he realized that he should smile, and when he did, it was thin and lopsided. He did not say anything because he thought that she was speaking, but then suddenly there was a noise at the door and she had departed. The man seemed a lost dog as he searched the crack in the threshold for some sign of her presence. When he found none, he looked back at the other Vantha. Unsure of how to avoid frightening him, he waited patiently for him to speak first.

[Syllke Skyglow]

It was certainly an opportunity. But for at least the tenth time in as many minutes, Syllke wondered if this was really a wise thing for him to do. Tomorrow would serve just as well. Or maybe next week would be even better. If he just jotted down a little note and left it for his friend, she would understand. She would . . . The Vantha boy jumped a bit as the door opened, startled by what he knew was coming. Oh, he had seen the ice bears, many times - at a nice distance. Other children might have pressed close, when the chance presented itself. The bears were trained – he knew this. They weren’t supposed to hurt people. Well, not unless the person in question had done something wrong. At least, that was the idea. Like all things, Syllke was sure there had been slips from time to time - a trained bear who might have turned on an innocent . . . artist, for example - maybe torn his head off his shoulders. It probably had happened, maybe more frequently than just once or twice, and no-one would ever speak of it, of course. So yeah, sure – Seisswyn’s kelvic was tame, trained, safe. Sure. He swallowed as the pair walked in, gulping down his reservations, already feeling the pin pricks of fear on his skin. Greeting Seisswyn warmly, he avoided looking at the man altogether, as she introduced them. Man for now, easy enough to shift into a huge, towering shaggy great beast with razor sharp . . . Forcing himself to focus on the young warrior, Syllke tried to ignore the hammering of his heart, as Seisswyn led her bond mate to a stool. With a great deal of dread, he watched her leave. It had already been discussed. It had been his idea in the first place. What could ever have possessed him to think doing a study of the man who could shift to dire polar bear would somehow help him deal with his phobia ? For the life of him Syllke could not now remember how that idea had seemed like a good one, last week when he and Seisswyn had discussed it. Dragging his eyes from the door which closed behind the young woman, he turned his head ever so slowly to find the bear’s eyes boring into him. No, not bear. Man, for now. And Belgar wasn’t really staring at him, just looking at him curiously. Expectantly. So Syllke needed to do something. Now. He cleared his throat. The two were separated by a good five meters. Syllke could have wished it was more like five hundred. He felt a trickle of sweat roll down his back, between his shoulder blades. One time he had been close enough to an icewatch bear to see that its eye was on a level with his head. Swallowing again, hard, Syllke asked in a soft voice, “You – you aren’t going to shift, are you? Seisswyn did tell you? Not to – to shift?” His slender fingers ran unthinkingly over the surface of the table next to where he stood, nervously tracing some pattern only his subconscious recognized. “I – I . . . that would make me . . . um, yeah, please don’t shift. OK?” Syllke's eyes were practically aflame with red at the alarm he felt deep in his innards.

[Belgar]

He did not have to smell the fear in Syllke’s sweat to know how it affected him. The slouch of his shoulders made him look like a cornered caribou, and the flare of color in his eyes told the rest of the story. Belgar’s face remained straight, but still he glanced nervously at the door a few times. Only the strongest of emotions painted the irises of that Morwen-touched Kelvic, and even then he was not a creature of passion. His was almost always a gaze of unrelenting blackness, and that lack of empathy sometimes unnerved even the kindest Vantha.

Syllke spoke and Belgar fidgeted. While he genuinely cared for the plight of the young human, he was not the sort of man to comfort or coddle. He guessed that he should not move much, especially not to reach out and touch Syllke’s shoulder, like Seisswyn might have. So he tried to act calm, calmer than was customary. Perhaps he could encourage those red eyes to settle into blue composure. “No,” he promised, “I will not shift.”

An attempt at a smile twitched at the corners of his mouth again, and crossed his hands in his lap. He thought it might comfort him if he looked away, so he glanced idly around the room. His expression dropped without his attention. Then he remembered. Small talk is the most important kind of talk, she always said, It’s the stuff relationships are made of.

“I could not shift here,” he reasoned, “There are so many tables and chairs. I would get in trouble for ruining them. I would have to move them out of the way, and you could leave before I was done. You can leave, if you ever want to.” He stopped the last word short. He was getting ahead of himself. Seisswyn wanted them to stay there; if he let Syllke leave too soon, she would be disappointed. But Belgar did not know how to correct himself, so he remained silent a moment, then raked his mind for a change in subject, like a good conversationalist.

“Do you... are you a carver, like Seisswyn is?”

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke nodded at Belgar’s reassurance, perhaps a bit too long, for his head seemed to bob up and down like he had temporarily lost control of his neck joints. Those eyes, though, caused him to shudder involuntarily. It was one of a polar bear’s worst features – that utterly cold, soulless look they had. That coupled with huge canines and unbelievably long claws. Thankfully, Belgar looked away, and Syllke tried to surreptitiously take in a deep, calming breath. He moved to a stool, set before a table set up at an angle, and smoothed his hand over the paper he had already attached to it. It was only a nervous gesture, an attempt to distract himself from his fear. When Belgar spoke again, it made Syllke jump slightly. His eyes widened a bit. To him, it seemed as if the bear . . . no, the kelvic . . . had given much thought to how he would go about shifting in this room. Too much thought, to Syllke’s way of thinking. Belgar’s rather flat statement that Syllke could leave at any time seemed to open up a golden door of excuse for the young artist. Yes! He could leave. He could make up an excuse – any excuse – and leave and say they’d do it some other time. Then, he wouldn’t have to face this today. He could wait, until . . . But, it always came back to that, didn’t it? Tomorrow never came, unless you made it come. He could back away forever. But hadn’t that been the real impetus of this insane idea? Hadn’t his desire to overcome this phobia, or at least learn to deal with it, been the reason he had discussed this session with Seisswyn? And she had been so understanding, and supportive, as usual. Belgar’s words seemed to echo Syllke’s own thoughts, at least partially. He and Seisswyn did have their art in common. But more than that, they were friends. And she was trying to help him, through Belgar. He shouldn’t just discard her assistance like an unwanted boot. Looking up to his subject, Syllke nodded again. “Y-yes. I carve, amongst other things. But today, I’ll start with a sketch. That way I can take my time carving, and you won’t have to sit as long.” He gulped, steeling himself to say the next bit. “I – I – I usually like to try a few different poses, to see what will work best, so . . . “ He slid off the stool and took one hesitant step forward. “So, I’ll just, um, come a bit closer and, um, show you what I’m thinking . . . OK?” As if he was being led to the executioner, Syllke shuffled forward step by step, his eyes wary and fixed on Belgar, in case he made any sudden moves. Wondering if a bear would be more, or less, sympathetic, towards someone who was mortally afraid of him - or simply consider that person that much easier of a catch, Syllke asked, “Did – did Seisswyn tell you anything about me? About this?” He gestured at the room, vaguely. He had finally come close enough to Belgar that he could reach out and place his fingers under that incredibly strong looking jaw, but without touching it yet. “D-do you mind?” He couldn’t believe he had actually come within touching distance of a polar bear. Well, no . . . a kelvic. But still . . .

[Belgar]

“That is fine,” Belgar replied with a short nod. He did not move as he watched Syllke approach. Not only was he wary of startling him, he was not certain whether the artist wished him to stand at all. “Do what he asks,” she had said. And the boy had not asked him to move. Belgar wondered what he meant when he mentioned poses.

Occasionally he turned his eyes away, trying to comfort the nervous Vantha the way Seisswyn always liked. But he did not want to seem inattentive, so he complemented the gaze with short flicks of a returning glance. He did not know how the gesture might have made him seem nervous; though really the Kelvic was far from it, Syllke’s antics were beginning to unnerve him. Belgar could not tell if his attempts at consolation had affected Syllke at all. At least he seemed to be willing to talk. “She did not say much,” he answered, “You are a Skyglow, so I can deduce that you are an artist. Because you are her friend, I can assume that you are a good one.”

He tried to smile again, but was not sure if suggesting the joke in the comment was entirely polite. It was generally true, though, that Seisswyn only associated herself with the best of people—or at least people she thought she could improve. She was the sort of woman that spent every waking breath refining herself and her talent, or trying to show others the importance of achieving the same perfection. Outwardly, she was more humble, but Belgar had the privilege of learning many of her secret opinions. She would not have liked Syllke if she did not see some talent in him.

With his thoughts on his bondmate, Belgar did not notice that the boy was suddenly very near to him. The surprise manifested in a sudden intake of air through his nostrils, but when he realized that it might startle him, he continued the inhale as if it were only a steadying breath. He had said something. Belgar searched his immediate memory for what it was. When he realized, he did not answer with words. He only raised his brow a fraction of an inch, met the Syllke’s eyes with his own, and dipped his chin gently into the boy’s grasp.

[Syllke Skyglow]

The trust implied by Belgar’s simple gesture, as much as the gentleness with which he moved, was more of a reassurance to Syllke than any words the kelivic might have spoken. Being a person motivated himself by observation and his senses, more than his intellect, Syllke was a firm adherent to the adage that actions spoke louder than words. For one brief moment, he dared to look straight into those black eyes. But it was still too overwhelming. He felt almost as if they had the power to suck him in – those bottomless black pools. Though he had never encountered a wild bear, thank god, Syllke had thought that might be one of their most powerful weapons, one which would immobilize an enemy, or a meal, with terror at the thought of what lay – or maybe didn’t lay- behind those dark orbs. Was their a soul in there? Or was this a beast that had no pity, no compunction about tearing a head off or eviscerating with one swipe of its huge paw? The man now sitting before him did not seem to be that way, but then again, Syllke knew nothing about Belgar. As gently as Belgar had dropped his chin into Syllke’s hand, the young artist turned his head, slowly, until his face was one quarter turned away. Syllke’s eye was drawn to the jawline especially, square and strong, and somehow – bearlike. “Well,” he said, “I don’t know if I’m a particularly good.” He breathed deeply, trying to keep his voice steady. He hoped his hand wasn’t trembling noticeably. “But it is something inside me – a need to . . . make. To – create something. I see or hear or feel something and my brain will not rest until I explore it, with my hands. Sometimes, it’s beautiful and I just want to . . . capture it. Other times, I . . . I guess it is my way to understand something. Like . . . like, right now.” His hand dropped away from Belgar’s chin, and his eyes dropped to the man’s hands. Hands – that's all they were right now. But if Belgar shifted . . . Tentatively, Syllke reached for one of Belgar’s hand, picking it up and holding it for a moment, easily imagining it as a fur covered paw with long, razor sharp claws. His eyes flickered up to Belgar’s face again. “But what I meant, was . . . did Seisswyn tell you about . . . my fear? Of – of . . . bears.”

[Belgar]

Belgar’s ears twitched, but otherwise his head remained still where Syllke left it. At first, he thought it was merely the language on a native Vantha’s tongue that moved him, the way it sometimes did, swooping and swinging with the same lyrical syllables he had known since he was very young. His own accent was far from flawed, but there was a deep staccato to it that most of his kind shared, remnants of a brief childhood surrounded by beasts. As he regained his eyelids from where they drooped, he realized that it was more than the sound of the words that made his mind’s eye wander. It was what was in them: art.

But he could not ignore what Syllke had asked. “Yes, she did,” he replied flatly, blinking. He did not want to move his face for fear of ruining what Syllke had made of him; his tone lightened, instead. “But I am trained.”

Another man might have said the word with disdain. Belgar, however, was proud of his meticulously obtained civility. He was glad to show it to anyone who would see it. He did not bother to mention that his makeshift assimilation made him an exception among his kind.

The Kelvic knew that the fear in Syllke’s heart was not as simple as to be assuaged by shallow reassurances, but he could find no more words. His mind was on other matters. Accidentally, he used the best tactic available to him for offering the boy comfort: distraction. With his eyes stretched in the direction they had been placed and his hand hanging limply in the smaller one, he said almost timidly, “Tell me what you meant, when you spoke of needing to make. I... I have seen it, I think, in many from this Hold, but I do not...” understand. He paused. “When I do not understand a thing, I was always taught to take its scent,”—his mother’s words—“or to see it from another angle,”—his bondmate’s. His hesitance grew and the words he meant refused to pass his lips. The next pause was longer, but still only a length of seconds. Finally, he decided on, “I envy the man who sees more than timber in a block of wood. How can you better understand a thing you cannot perceive?”

[Syllke Skyglow]

Belgar’s words weren’t exactly reassuring, but Syllke did the best he could to not think about “trained” Icewatch bears ripping people to shreds on command. Of course, he knew rationally that Seisswyn would never put him in danger like that. But this fear that gripped him was not a rational one. Still, he merely nodded, listening to the kelvic’s questions, and at the same time examining that hand further, wondering at the blunt finger tips and roughened skin stretched taut over the knuckles. It was a working hand, a hand that saw much use – hard use. He knew he wanted to capture that, as part of who Belgar was. So he placed the hand on Belgar’s shoulder, his arm running across his chest, the fingers splayed out in a fan. Syllke touched Bel’s chin gently once more, pulling it down, so that if the man looked down he would be staring directly at his hand. “Look at your hand, please, Belgar.” He said, already disappearing into his own mind, settling into create gear. He stepped back, carefully assessing the pose. As his mind worked, his lips spoke, almost without thought of what words came forth. “I don’t use scent myself.” He paused as if considering. “Well, not often. When I see something – something that calls to me, I like to touch it. I see it, of course. But my fingers, well . . . it’s like my fingers see as much as my eyes. Or more maybe. And that’s how I come to understand it – I . . . create it, all over. Of course, it always looks terribly different.” And he had heard that often enough, in sometimes quite critical tones. “For me, when I know what I want to create, it just seems like the material I will make it from flies to my hand. I swear, it’s like magic sometimes. I keep a lot of things handy – wood, stone, bone – and I have an idea, an urge, and I go to my things and put my hand right on something, and I know – what I want to create is inside that piece of wood, or jade, or ivory.” Syllke shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know how that happens, but it does.” He stepped back to Belgar, adjusted two of his fingers, and then walked to the table, smoothing out the paper once more, and picking up a hard stick of charcoal. “The only way I know how to understand something, Belgar, is to make it. If you can not perceive it, perhaps you are just not listening closely enough – or smelling.” Of course, Syllke did not mean that literally. It was just his way of expressing something that really could not be explained any better. With a bold stroke, he made a swath with his pencil that almost bisected the large sheet of paper.

[Belgar]

Belgar’s eyes hastened back from where they had strayed to Syllke and his explanation. He was not sure why he had to look at his hand, but he assumed the rest would be explained in due time and did it nonetheless. He let his vision fade from focus and his ears became his eyes. They reached out to the artist’s words, depositing them in a brain that could not comprehend them without much thought. He made what he could of the description, dread to think for too long and draw the conversation to silence. Fear lurked in silence, beneath distraction and delusion. If he could not convince the frightened Vantha of anything else, he could show him that he could talk.

“I think I could compare my nose to your fingers,” he replied hesitantly and after some deliberation. “…though I cannot recreate a scent, n- not with my nose or my hands.” Perhaps with magic, he thought, but it would not be real. The thought of it perturbed him. He did not quite grasp the comparison.

His jaw was stiff. He did not know whether he should have moved his mouth, for the sake of the same pose that fixed his eyes and froze him in place. He was torn between obedience to Syllke’s requests and the necessity to keep him calm and content; behind the two, the bud of curiosity had begun to blossom. Belgar could not wait to mention his thought, lest he forget it. “When we train—” he began, but soon realized that he would not make sense without clarification, no matter how cruel. “When we learn to fight... we are told that the best way to learn a thing is to do it over again, to practice it. A man only knows how a move can be used against him once he can perform it, himself.”

There was a hint of confidence on his tone when he concluded, “A man can only understand it when he can make it.” He forgot to ask if the analogy was a true one. He had become painfully aware on an itch on his neck; his ear twitched. Concerned that the assertion had unnerved the boy, Belgar quickly added, “Should I... if I am to be still, should I not speak?”

[Syllke Skyglow]

For long minutes, Syllke was insensate to anything but his sketch. His eyes darted back and forth from his subject to the paper, but otherwise he did not register what might have been going on about him. It was true – the fact that the Kelvic who sat so close could shift to a huge bear at any moment was both lost and assimilated in the creative process. He heard Belgar’s words, but, with no realization that is was rather rude of him, he made no immediate reply. His fingers gripped, his hand moved and his eyes flew to the man and back, but he did not speak. If this made Belgar uncomfortable, he made no acknowledgement of that possibility. Finally, his hand came to a halt. He frowned down at the paper, looked up at Belgar, then looked down again. Laying his charcoal aside, he looked at the Kelvic once more and visibly relaxed, stepping out from behind the tilted drawing table. “So, you have created art then.” He said, actually replying to the comment long since past. “With your body. That’s interesting. I hadn’t ever thought that fighting was art. You observe, you recreate, you understand. To me – that’s art.” He had walked to Belgar and gave a small chuckle. “You can move now, sorry. I should have told you that I was done.” Regarding Belgar speculatively, he added, "And maybe through understanding, you can lay aside fear."