[TheChapel]Ain't Gonna Tell You Where He Comes From(Veldrys)

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke considered Veldrys’ answer, and juxtaposed it against a vague recollection of something the bounty hunter had said – a brief comment from almost a year prior and one that Syllke had only an imperfect memory of. Something about the Symenestra – and the kidnapping of females. But he could not conjure the exact words from his mind. So he could not contest his guest’s somewhat ambiguous explanation, though he felt like it was far from complete. His mind was thus elsewhere as Veldrys inspected the sketch. But when the Symenestra posed his questions, Syllke’s gaze refocused on his guest. He was well used to criticism of his work and well used to raised eyebrows and people being a bit at a loss as to what to say about it. Unusual was far from the worst that had ever been said to him about something that he had created. Stretching out his hand for the paper, Syllke glanced at it again as Veldrys passed it back to him. “I could duplicate the exact lines of your body - your face – your hair and muscles and eyes. But that would be . . . boring. I don’t want to just copy you – or anything I draw, or paint, or sculpt. That’s just simple mimicry. I . . . I want to – know you – to understand you – through my fingers and my eyes and my mind. I look at you – and I hear you. I talk to you. That all flows into me, and through me. Sometimes – with other people, or things – I even . . . touch them, smell them – taste them. It all goes in here.” He pointed to his temple. “And . . . here too, I guess.” He placed his hand over his chest. “I don’t know – it goes in, all of it, and . . . this is what comes back out.” His hand moved to rest lightly on the paper, his fingers brushing over the lines of his drawing. His colorful eyes lifted to those violet ones. “It’s how I see you – how I understand you. That’s why I want to do this.” His fingers tapped the paper again. “Art – creation. It’s how I learn.” His voice trailed off, as he appended, “That’s the best I can explain it.” His head turned and he reached for the red crayon, holding it before his eyes as if really seeing it for the first time. “This?” He said, softly. “This . . . I don’t know . . . “ His eyes went to Veldrys and back to the crayon. Shaking his head gently, the image of Nayayik’s corpse – a shell cupping the remnants of her liquefied innards – flashed before his mind’s eye. “It – it just seemed . . . to fit.” It was no explanation, but he couldn’t offer a better one, for he didn’t understand it himself. Tossing the crayon on the bed, he rose and crossed to the kettle, stirring the contents. “Almost ready.” He said, easily. “And you’re in luck, I have some bread as well – fairly fresh. I, um, I guess you can maybe soak it in the soup, if it’s too hard to eat?” He was still unsure of how the healer actually did eat, and he was wondering now if he really wanted to know. Taking a dark loaf from under a cloth, he carved off two pieces, as he asked, “Are their artists among your people? Or storytellers?” He placed the slices on his only plate and took a bowl and a big cup down from the mantel. “What kind of stories are told in your city?” It might have sounded as if he was trying to change the subject. He probably was.

[Veldrys]

„That would be boring“, Veldrys agreed. Trying to replicate reality exactly didn’t require a lot of creativity. Syllke’s painting, no matter how unusual it was, was a better demonstration of artistic talent, but still, there was something about it that made the Symenestra a little uncomfortable. It almost seemed as if the Vantha had been able to look through the calm, polite exterior, the precious silken robe and straight into his soul. He cast another glance at the drawing, and then he shuddered, as if he were suddenly cold.

„And do you understand me now?“ he asked. The tone of his voice was unusually intense. He was looking directly into Syllke’s eyes. The expression on his face was strange. He sat completely still, as if he were waiting for something, as if Syllke’s answer mattered to him more than the human could imagine. „What do you see when you look at me? What do you hear when you listen to me? And do people ever get mad at you because they don’t like the way you see them?“

He looked at the red crayon in Syllke’s hand. „Do you intend to keep the painting?“ he wanted to know. He almost asked Syllke if he could have it because it seemed as if the human had captured a piece of his soul with his art, a piece that belonged to him, but then he decided not to. He wasn’t sure if he really wanted to look at that painting every day, see the blood and be reminded that there was a darker aspect to his being.

It took him a moment to register what Syllke had said next. „I don’t really eat a lot of bread“, he admitted and shook his head, as if he were trying to make his previous thoughts go away. „Just the soup is fine.“ He glanced at the bread that Syllke had cut. He found it strange that humans had such a weakness for solid food. He had never had any interest in it.

„Most of my people are artists“, he answered Syllke’s next question. „Our city, Kalinor, is a work of art. We don’t paint a lot though, at least not with crayons or a brush. My people are weavers. They create art with a loom or with a needle and a bit of thread. As for stories, don’t all people tell stories? We have the same stories as everybody else. There are stories about the origins of our race, about how Kalinor was founded, about famous Symenestra. We tell stories about successful hunts and sometimes about those that live above us, on the surface.“

He was glad for the change of topic, although the topic of his people’s stories was slightly problematic as well.

Symenestra also loved stories about successful Harvests, about Harvesters that had gone to Lhavit, to Riverfall or Ahnatep to capture human women that would bear their children and assure the continued existence of their race. Back in Kalinor he had loved to listen to those stories as well, despite the tragedy. Some of them had been exciting, but it was obvious that he couldn’t mention them to Syllke. The human wouldn’t understand. He would only be shocked.

[Syllke Skyglow]

That look was more than a little unnerving. Those violet eyes took on a more crystalline appearance, as if they were brittle and likely to shatter at any moment. Veldrys’ questions were a mindfield, though Syllke did not feel any immediate risk of harm from the healer. The two concepts seemed to be diametrically opposed – certainly a man who spent his life trying to help others would not actively seek to also hurt them? But had Veldrys always been this type of person? Syllke was at heart a truthful person – and he wasn’t inclined to lie, even now. But he was hesitant. His answer was carefully worded. “I’m beginning to have some feel for who you are, Veldrys. Sometimes, it takes me more than one attempt to really know something - or someone. When I look at you, I see . . . a healer. A man who wishes to care for others.” Though whether his desires are ever totally fulfilled remained to be seen. “In your voice I hear . . . the truth.” If, perhaps, only a partial, cleverly veiled truth. “And you would be surprised, maybe, to hear what people have said to me – about my work. For you are right – there are few who see themselves as others do.” Syllke had turned then, back to the kettle, and he took a spoon and tasted the contents carefully, for it was very hot. He gave a satisfied nod, and took a ladle hanging by the hearth and ladled some of the soup into the bowl, and then the cup. Placing the former before his guest, placing a clean spoon next to it, he then sat on the bed, taking the bread with him. Only then did he answer Veldrys’ question about the sketch, his eyes fixed on the drawing. “I’m happy to let you have it, though I’m not sure it pleases you. But if you’d like it – it’s yours.” Much like its subject, Syllke too was a bit disturbed by what the sketch might represent, and he wouldn’t be so unhappy to part with it. Taking a small sip of the hot liquid, Syllke then fished about with the spoon for some of the solid contents of the cup as Veldrys spoke again. He took a spoonful of the rubbery kelp, much softer now that it was cooked, and swallowed it with a smile. The soup, in his opinion, had turned out very good indeed. “Weaving?” he said, looking at Veldrys, who seemed a bit more relaxed than he had a few minutes ago. “I’d like to try that. I would like to visit your city one day.” Taking another sip, he then asked, “Do you have any favorite stories? I’d love to hear one.” The Vantha, like most people, loved a good story. If Veldrys could tell him one he hadn’t heard before, he’d take it, assimilate it, and make it his own, some day - just as he did his art.

[Veldrys]

There was something strange about the way Syllke said the word „wishes“. The Symenestra looked at him sharply. What did that mean? Did he only wish to care for others? Was he not really helping them in Syllke’s opinion? Was he still too Symenestra, still too caught up in his people’s traditions to be everything a healer should be? Would he ever leave them behind? Did he want to? Or did a part of him still yearn for the darkness of his underground home? What kind of opinion did Syllke really have of him?

„And what is the truth?“ he asked softly, almost as if he were afraid of the answer. Was he lying to himself? Was he really as oppposed to the Harvest, as opposed to the bloodshed as he always claimed to be? Had he really left Kalinor for that reason, because he couldn’t bear the things that his people did? He enjoyed spilling blood in the name of his god sometimes, although he wished he didn’t. He only wanted to be there for the people of Denval. He wanted to become a part of them, wanted them to consider him a part of their city.

A sigh escaped his lips, and he averted his gaze for a moment. He didn’t like the things that Syllke implied with his words. The soup that the human placed in front of him was a welcome distraction. He took the spoon. At first he only tried very little, and then, after he had realized that it would neither make him sick nor kill him, he ate a little more. It wasn’t as bad as he had expected, unusual, but edible. „It’s good“, he said to Syllke. „Is this kind of soup very common where you come from?“ he wanted to know.

„You should visit Kalinor“, he said. Despite everything that was wrong with it, Kalinor was the most beautiful city he had ever seen. None of the cities on the surface could compare to it, apart from Lhavit, maybe, but it had been years since he had visited Lhavit. „The clothes I’m wearing have all been made by Symenestra. Kalinor is famous for its silk, and weavers are held in the highest regard. The most talented weavers are almost treated like kings.“ He gestured for Syllke to come closer and touch his robe to see how soft it was. As far as Veldrys was concerned none of the clothes that human made came close to it. Human clothes were scratchy and uncomfortable.

„I have a few favourite stories“, he admitted. „One of the stories I like the most is the one about my people’s past, about the jungles of Falyndar and how we ended up underground, although it’s a sad story that might make you cry. Would you like to hear it nevertheless? Or would you rather like to hear some kind of adventure story, about a Symenestra’s first hunt?“ As he waited for Syllke’s reply he ate a bit more of the soup.

It occured to him that he had never been asked to tell a story before. He wasn’t sure if he’d be any good at it. He liked to collect stories, sometimes, but he’d never told any of them to others. Nisana, the young woman whose company he had enjoyed in Kalinor, was a much better storyteller. The story of how she had hunted and killed that cat had been amazing. But his story, whatever story he decided to tell, would most likely be lacking.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke had carefully avoided answering Veldrys when he put his question about what the truth might be. Truth was, in fact, a very slippery subject, in Syllke’s mind. So it never bothered him that there might be several truths about any one topic, or person, as it seemed to bother others. Syllke didn’t know Veldrys, beyond their limited contact of the last two hours or so. And the man might be all that he appeared, or more, or less, and that dependent upon the time and place and circumstances. People could be like the flickering flame of a candle, or the ever moving water of a stream – always the same, always different. There wouldn’t be any use, as far as Syllke could see, to giving the healer his own views – it really would not impact what Veldrys thought of himself. And he knew he was being influenced by that gruesome memory and the bounty hunter’s words – so Syllke thought it best to just keep quiet. But he did rise and move towards the Symenestra to feel the soft fabric. It slid through Syllke’s fingers like water, and he smiled. “This is wonderful! I can see why you value their work so highly. Now I really want to go and watch them make such a fantastic thing. I wonder if I can buy some here. It’s probably too expensive though.” Almost reluctantly, he gave off fondling Veldry’s garment and sat back on the bed, having some more soup while he considered what type of story he would like to hear. “I think one about your people – and where they came from. That sounds interesting. A hunting story sound good too, though.” He paused a moment and spoke before really thinking. With a puzzled look, he asked, “If your people don’t eat meat, what do they hunt?”

[Veldrys]

Veldrys hadn’t really expected Syllke to tell him the truth about himself, although a part of him had hoped he would. Maybe it was better if the question remained unanswered, for his peace of mind, for both of them. Truth was after all relative. Most people thought that Symenestra were cruel murderers that raped their daughters, but for the Symenestra it was about nothing less than the survival of their race. They were dying. So much of Kalinor was empty. Veldrys didn’t agree with the Harvest – he was convinced that they should focus more on alternative means to save their people – but he didn’t see it as the crime that others claimed it was either.

As Syllke remarked that his robe was wonderful, the Symenestra smiled, but only very lightly so as to not reveal his fangs. „As I said before, you should visit. You would be welcome in Kalinor. I’m not sure if you can buy silk from Kalinor here, but it might be worth asking around. We trade with the surface sometimes, in a limited fashion. Silk is one of our main exports. I’d offer you one of my robes as well, but I doubt that it would fit.“ He glanced at the human. „Your body is too different from mine.“

„Maybe I should have worded it differently. My people do eat meat sometimes, but not in the way that humans do. It needs to be treated a certain way in order for us to be able to digest it or cooked so long that it becomes very soft.“

„I will tell you the story of my people’s past then“, he decided. „Before the Valterrian, before the catastrophe that nearly destroyed the world, my people were much more similar to yours. Our skin had the same color, and eating meat wasn’t as problematic for us. Back then we lived in trees, in Falyndar where only savage, bloodthirsty Myrians can be found now. I don’t know if they remember that we used to live there. Maybe they have found traces of our old city, but it’s too dangerous to travel there now. It’s forever lost.“

„Our floating city was a miracle. It resembled a work of art, made of glass and wood and precious silk. Other races often came to visit us, and they showed no fear. The clothes that we created were sought after even then. When the world began to crumble, the trees where we had built our city fell. Countless Symenestra died when it happened. The rest of them fled to Kalea. They survived the changes the world went through underground, in caves. They built another city there, but it was a pale shadow of their old home.“

„Generations passed, and eventually it was safe to go outside again. My people were changed. They had grown accustomed to the darkness. They had become pale, and black claws adorned their fingers now. During the long time in the underground, their population had dwindled to almost nothing. Fewer and fewer children are being born nowadays. Our women often die giving birth. My race is doomed, Syllke Skyglow, and I’m doing what I can to delay the inevitable a little longer.“

He sighed and averted his gaze. Part of him suddenly wished he could tell Syllke about the Harvest – the story was incomplete without it – but he wouldn’t understand. Nobody did. Maybe that was the greatest tragedy of all. The Symenestra, those people that were capable of such great works of art, were dying, and nobody mourned their passing. But maybe the humans would at least remember the story of how they had turned into such hated beings – and why.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke was touched by Veldrys’ kind offer, even if it wasn’t one that could be fulfilled. Usually willing to give others the benefit of the doubt, Syllke didn’t jump to the conclusion that the fact that the gift couldn't be given was in fact what had prompted the healer to make the offer. Despite what his race might get up to – and Syllke himself knew nothing personally of such things, other than vague speculation over a dead girl – Veldrys himself seemed to be what he was – a helpful citizen of Denval. As Syllke had adopted the town as his own, for now, so apparently had the Symenestra. Choosing not to think about how the Symenestra ate meat exactly, Syllke concentrated instead on Veldrys’ story of how his people had been forced to migrate underground. It was an odd concept to the Vantha. Avanthal and the far, far north had escaped the Valterrian, and it was hard to conceive of how horrific it must have been for the many races of Mizahar. How sad it seemed that such a beautiful sounding city had been lost. And life underground – to a boy who had lived all his life surrounded by permafrost – seemed quite exceptional. Syllke’s always active imagination was lit and he speculated on the possibility of traveling to Falyndar to search for this lost arboreal city. The bit about the healer’s race dwindling was a sad one, but Syllke was lost in his own thoughts and didn’t pick up on any sort of implications, other than the females apparently had a high mortality rate. Veldrys’ tale had drawn to a close and both men sat quietly, ruminating each one on their own thoughts. Syllke finished his soup, then said, “That’s sad – when life leaves the world it seems . . . we are all diminished. And your people don’t even have the joy of many children to replace what’s lost.” His gaze went to the healer. “Will you return, to Kalinor? To find a wife? Or will you choose a Denvali woman?” His knowledge of cross breeding was zero of course, so he appended, “Or must you have a woman of your own race to have children with?”

[Veldrys]

„It’s sad, isn’t it?“ Veldrys agreed. „I became a healer because I wanted to find out how I could keep my race from dying. I thought that I could do something, but it’s probably all just wishful thinking. Countless people have tried to find a solution to our problems before me, but they all failed. Maybe I should just accept that we are doomed and live the remainder of my days here, without thinking about it again.“

He didn’t know why he told Syllke that. As he had already decided before, the story was incomplete without the mention of the Harvest. It was just another tragedy, one more tragedy that had resulted from the Valterrian. But he couldn’t tell Syllke that there had been another reason why he had left besides the desire to find a cure.

He couldn’t talk about the things he had seen, the things he had done. Syllke would likely only be horrified if he mentioned women that had tried to cut themselves open, women that had been crippled, that had been maimed so that they couldn’t run away. There had been a time when he had condoned this ...

The revelation would ruin everything he had accomplished here, all his hard work. He didn’t want to be forced to leave because the people he had come to care about suddenly saw him as the monster that he really was. It was best not to talk about it, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much he wanted to. It didn’t matter that he opposed the Harvest now. He was still a Symenestra. He had still taken part in it.

„I don’t know“, he answered as Syllke asked him if he would return to Kalinor and shook his head. „I honestly don’t know. It hurts to look at them, to know that they are dying, to watch their attempts to prevent the inevitable, but Kalinor is still home. A part of me will always yearn for it, no matter how many things are wrong with it.“

„I don’t need a woman of my own race, but I’m not sure if I ever want a wife ...“ Like most people he yearned for somebody that lay beside him at night, somebody that he could love, children, so that a part of him would live on, but any woman that carried his child would inevitably die. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready to condemn somebody to such a cruel, painful death. Maybe it would be best if he just kept visiting the Temple of Nikali every now and then. The Kelvic he had met there – Lucette – had been pleasant ... maybe it would be better to love men or to dedicate himself to his god completely ... anything to prevent another death ...

„What about you? Do you think you’ll find a wife among the Denvali?“ He tried to divert the attention from himself. It would be obvious to Syllke that he didn’t want to talk about his future wife or the lack thereof, that it caused him pain for some reason.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke nodded, sympathetically. Sometimes it seemed that is was easier to run, and hide. Sometimes there was really no other choice. As the concepts of both a beautiful world torn apart by the gods and a race that was slowly dying out were so foreign to his mind, so new, the Vantha didn’t know how he would be reacting, were he to be in Veldrys’ place. The sadness in the healer’s voice was moving, though Syllke could not know the whole of what lay beneath it. In answer to Veldrys’ question back to him, Syllke shrugged indifferently. “I don’t plan on staying here – not forever. I left Avanthal to see the world – Denval was just the closest stop. I’m not sure a wife would be a good idea – not now anyway. Maybe some day when I think I’ve seen enough, and I’m ready to settle somewhere. If that day ever comes.” He grinned. “Hopefully, not for a long, long time. I want to have some fun and see as much of Mizahar as I can.” As Veldrys didn't seem inclined to speak further on the subject of marriage, Syllke thought it best to drop the topic. He rose and dumped his dishes in a metal wash basin on the floor. “Are you finished?” He asked politely. “Would you like another bowl? How did you like it?”

[Veldrys]

„Where will you go when you leave Denval?“ Veldrys wanted to know as Syllke admitted that he didn’t plan on staying forever. He had himself under perfect control again. The sadness was gone, and his voice was calm once more. It was better if he kept his feelings to himself, better if he pretended that everything was fine so that he wouldn’t break down one day. „Lhavit? Alvadas? I went to Lhavit once when I was younger and found the city fascinating beyond measure. And the city of illusions sounds like something out of a fairy tale.“

In Lhavit he had been happy, for a brief moment. Maybe he should have stayed there. Maybe he should never have returned to Kalinor, but only a coward would run away and try to escape his duties, and he wasn’t a coward, not completely at least. He had only returned to the surface after he had completed his training as a healer so that he could conduct his research. The problems he had with Kalinor had only been secondary. At least that was what he always told himself.

„But no, a wife wouldn’t be a good idea in your current situation“, he agreed. „There’s still time to settle down in a few years. You can’t be much older than I am.“ He ate the last bit of soup, and then he handed the bowl to Syllke. „I don’t think I can eat another bowl right now“, he admitted. „I had my doubts about it when you told me that you used seaweed for it, but it wasn’t bad at all. Just a little unusual. Maybe I’ll ask you if you are willing to make more in a few days.“

He glanced at Syllke’s hand. „It should be fine again soon, but if it doesn’t heal as it should, let me know.“