Who Do You Think You Are?

[Laszlo]

Winter 2nd, 511, Just after eighteen bells. Ned stumbled through the door in his usual fashion, leaving it carelessly ajar as he made his single-minded journey to his usual table. The Symenestra bartender, who had been incubating a mug of warm ale, slid from his barstool and made his way over to the Sun and Stars' entrance. He had more or less finished tidying the place roughly an hour ago, and though more could have been done, he had run out of momentum and somehow ended up filling a tall mug from Arrow's nearly empty keg. "Hello Ned," Laszlo greeted lifelessly as he neared his table, placing his clawed hand upon the edge of the door. He paused there briefly, assessing the days' weather. The wind was howling today—literally howling like a pack of wolves—and carried a flurry of leaves, assorted cloth and paper, and other nameless refuse in a steady current across the road. It looked as though like Ionu was tidying, himself. The cacophony was shut out as the door latched closed, leaving the rest of the tavern peacefully quiet. As Laszlo returned to the bar to find a new mug for Ned, he spied Victor Lark on the other end of the room, leaving the stairway. Twin amethysts lingered on his olive face for half a moment, and his mouth parted, but Laszlo returned his apparent focus to the mugs hanging behind the bar. "On your way out again?" he asked calmly, quelling a surge of immediate frustration as he filled a mug from a tap. The Ethaefal was still riled from his encounter with Siofra a few days earlier, as well as riding the last few days of his heated blood and short temper. Mostly, however, Laszlo had barely spoken a word to the human since Roxanne had been killed. Even if it was Seven who'd technically taken or life, it was Victor who had so ruthlessly sealed her fate. Ugh, Laszlo could still remember the light in the Ravokian's eyes as he watched her die. Watching Victor continue on the same as always was completely perplexing. Today, for whatever reason, Laszlo couldn't stay quiet about it anymore. Ned's undelivered mug clapped against the bartop. "Really? Is that it? You just continue on like nothing happened, don't you?"

[Victor Lark]

Victor could not say what had kept him so late. He had been thinking, or maybe sleeping, or waiting for something that he could not remember. His fingertips felt like the tip of his nose, vaguely numb but somehow returning to him. Whatever it was, he did not have the time to swell in wondering. The sun was already down and, even though that could have meant anything in this city, Victor could only assume the darkness meant that he was running late.

He leapt down the stairs and had begun his hasty shuffle towards the door, hoping that the man behind the bar would at least notice his rush, if not disregard him entirely. A quick nod and courteous wave replied to the first question, but then his hand dropped towards the tavern’s entrance and was forced to pause at Laszlo’s persistence. Five reaching fingers coiled into a fist. Ned, conscious for the first time in Victor’s experience, grumbled into his mug. His fellow human turned around and leaned briefly against the door, revealing a broad smile like a glare.

Seven had said something similar days ago, days that seemed like their own little lifetimes, filled with long nights of dutiful work and longer days of half-conscious perfection. The blood of the girl and the subsequent adventure had bound the two like muscle and bone, and Victor had gladly wallowed in the goodness and the rightness that Seven had so easily explained. Everything had an explanation, a purpose. It was not nothing, but everything. Laszlo might have been a part of that, under different circumstances. Victor had tried to pursue him at first, to see the fear that Roxanne had refused him, but then he had been working, or wandering, or consumed in Seven’s contentment. He could not know what else Laszlo had suffered, but now he caught a glimpse of it and even the threat of Thorren’s wrath became second to it.

“And what was it that happened?” He replied, sharp and crude like an old knife. Tempered steel sneered at those accusing jewels, saw them cower behind Laszlo’s ignorance of Roxanne’s significance. Advancing on the bar, he accused him in turn, stealing the words from that venomed tongue and twisting them through an amused grin. He leaned against the counter with folded arms. “What did you see? How could you possibly think it was like nothing?”

[Laszlo]

It caught Laszlo by surprise when Victor didn't simply respond with a shrugging smile and disappear through the door. The human actually approached the bar, and the blood in Laszlo's veins heated even more. Victor was smiling, which could have meant anything. He could turn smiling into an artform, making the expression appear menacing and angry, or confused and dismissive, or a multitude of things that other people who express in completely different ways. Laszlo was sure he did it on purpose, finding some odd joy in masking his untold intent in a thin veneer of personal amusement. Fearing that Victor's smile would widen if Laszlo stepped back out of intimidation, he held his ground and let the human lean in close. His narrow, colorful eyes remained locked on his steely gaze, an eyebrow twitching as he resisted glaring. Victor had asked something unusual, and Laszlo wasn't sure how to answer. "I don't get you," the Symenestra said lowly, loosely cradling his own half-emptied mug of ale between two clawed hands, the bar providing a comforting barrier in between them. "What is with you? You play all the games—to what end? To amuse yourself? To prove something? Don't you even care that Seven and Abalia are damaged by something that you made happen?" He went on in a more quieted tone. "That a life ended because of you?" Laszlo withdrew one hand and slid it through his hair. "Sure, Seven is more concerned about his father than the girl, but… I mean, he dyed his hair. It affected him. Abalia is all but shattered. I…" Well actually, Laszlo had become more involved in his own issues. "Well you know nothing about me. You keep walking like you don't have a care in the world. What is the matter with you?" He shook his head incredulously, briefly forcing his eyes shut. Again his voice was hushed. "Are you just a murderer? Did I mistake that about you?"

[Victor Lark]

Victor’s sigh began as a cry of impatience and ended with something like bitterness. Both were filtered through that peculiar smile, turning it all into one big joke. “You insult me, Laszlo,” he complained sardonically, “I am a murderer like you are a spider. I was as much a witness as you, except you cannot be bothered to see anything but death. Seems to me, you’re the one who acts like it was nothing else.”

Whispered words of confidence and belonging hung in his immediate memory from an absent mouth. Seven had made him cocky, reaffirmed that they knew better, that they were better. Victor recalled those few hours the following day, after a thorough scouring of the scene and a long bath with the culprit. He had sought out his fellow witness, craving his reaction. And since he had not been able to discover it then, he had forgotten the pursuit. And now here was Laszlo, feeding this leech of a man with all the angers and impressions he could have ever wanted. The ends of Victor’s black hair twinkled silver in his delight.

“Seven is fine,” he explained, glancing idly at his nails, the way Vethis had done when they had first met. “No. He is happy. He is perfect. She was only an animal.” Victor had only thought so after he was able to confirm it with her death, though that it was hardly his only excuse for wanting her to face it. His fool had taken a liking to the phrase, and so he used it too. He looked at Laszlo again, dropped his arm with a sudden smack on the bar. “I don’t know who Abalia is, but I might like to meet her, she who is so tragically damaged. Another one of your fisherman’s daughters, I presume?”

He chuckled. He had not stopped to explain himself, had not risked some creative punishment to resolve his own reputation. It was Laszlo he wanted to know, to enrage or to frighten. If he tried to answer the teasing rhetoric, he would be interrupted. “You stand here, balking and accusing, but what did you do? What have you done? Nothing. It’s curious. It’s cute.” His head tipped like polite curiosity. “Why are you so concerned? Are you afraid?”

[Laszlo]

A harsh glare sharpened Laszlo's features, polished by the frustrated tilt of his head. Having lost his taste for ale, his hands parted and retreated, abandoning the sullen mug. The amber pool inside still quivered, excited by the vibrations sent from the floor as Laszlo twisted his boot into the ground. He didn't like standing so close to a person that he could taste the scent of them. It was too intimate, particularly considering the confusing friendship he'd fostered with the Ravokian in front of him. "At first I was, perhaps. It could have been me there, at the wrong end of a knife, just to amuse the both of you." Laszlo's words were caustic and coated in venom, heavily implying an assumption that he didn't truly believe. Roxanne's death had been an accident, as Seven had said. One of their dark games that got a little out of hand. That's what he'd brought himself to believe. Yet his logical mind nagged at him, remembering the way Victor had seemed excited, not remorseful, to see Seven carve a knife into another person (whether she was or wasn't a person was something Laszlo had not decided on). "What could I do? She was already dying when I arrived, and Seven told me it was legal. Will you stop smiling?" Surrendering to the urge, Laszlo finally leaned back and rested his weight on the counter behind him. He grouped the majority of his hair in one hand had pulled it behind his head. He sent his eyes to the floor, taking a necessary moment to gather his thoughts. Of course Victor didn't know Abalia, but to hear him even mention her name… His gray violet pools shimmered back up at him. "Whether she was an animal or a person doesn't matter. You took a life that wasn't yours to take. She belonged to Abalia, who now has nothing. What if something happened to Seven? Would you still be as smug?" She won't be part of your games, Laszlo thought bitterly, his mind lingering on Abalia a little longer than he expected. It was distracting. Still careful to keep his voice quiet, he was sure that Ned wouldn't care much even if he did hear anything incriminating. "You were the one who brought her here. That was your knife, wasn't it? But it wasn't your fault, right? Seven says it wasn't his either. So whose fault was it? Mine? Hers? Lhex's?"

[Victor Lark]

It could have been me.

An eyebrow perked at the suggestion, but Victor did not act on it, not yet. In the heat of the moment, in the depths of Seven’s mind, it had not occurred to him to turn the dagger on anyone else. But if Laszlo could know fear in the face of another’s death, he could certainly fear his own mortality. Despite everything he had gained out of that ordeal, he still had not seen real fear the way he had only once before; but he had tasted it in Laszlo, and he thirsted for more.

An obedient frown pursed his lips momentarily, if only to mask the thoughts that should have inspired a smile. He leaned back, standing straight, and his fingertips traced the polished ledge of the bar. His mind wandered to the faceless Abalia. He was happy to assume Laszlo’s attentions for her were less than innocent, and his comparison only confirmed that. It would be fun to examine the poor thing, who somehow missed their No One and warmed Laszlo’s loins with her patheticism. The same finger tripped over a notch in the bar, and he shrugged. The difference between her and Seven was that Seven had Victor to protect him.

That teasing smile rose up again, because he could not stand to content the bitter man for long. “Not everything is as plain as night and day. It was no one’s fault.” He laughed, corrected, “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It happened. Placing blame is child’s play.” With a pause of consideration, he added, “But if you need some consolation, blame me. The dagger was mine. The idea was mine. Well, partially hers. It’s your fault you saw it.”

Somehow, he found himself at the bend in the bar; his wandering fingers had led him there, or maybe it was his reaching mind. With a flourish of a hop, he swept into the narrow threshold between it and the wall, effectively trapping the object of his curiosity within that tiny wooden corridor. His gaze dipped to consider the guilty blade as he retrieved it from his belt. When he looked up again, his eyebrows seemed to be greying. “Tell me, Laszlo. Does it help you, to empathize with someone who knew her? Does it make her any more or less real, to you?” His hand became a fist around the hilt, but his arms dropped to his sides. “Because I’ll tell you what: she wasn’t. You could see it in her eyes.”

His lips became shy and he bit the lower one benignly, like Seven often would. He began to step forward. “But I saw something else in yours.”

[Laszlo]

A short, nasal laugh was accompanied by an amused and doubtful smile. Laszlo wasn't sure whether Victor would actually use that knife on him. The human was as unpredictable as the weather in Alvadas. However, he was absolutely tired of veiled threats and knives and general, ongoing insanity. It may have been wiser for him to be apprehensive, but the glint on that blade just stirred something fierce in him. He'd rather fight than show fear. "Are you threatening me? Do you think I’m afraid of you, Victor Lark?" Laszlo saved Victor the trouble and helped him close the distance between them, taking his own step forward. Though light of build, the Symenestra had an easy height advantage. It was difficult to issue a threat when one had to look up. Victor hadn't seen that woman get beaten into pulp like Laszlo had. Death frightened him, as it would anyone, but he was particularly tired of seeing it. Yes, in Kalinor and particularly at the Place of Purging, he'd been surrounded by death. Those however had been Symenestra murders—justified killing. This was senseless and pointless loss of life. It wasn't the time for an existential rant, but Victor was right. Empathizing did make her more real. It bothered him that the Ravokian's assessment was so accurate. Had Laszlo gone on much to him about how the world felt faraway and dreamlike? He must have, or Victor was more intuitive than he'd realized. "Stop this nonsense. Give me that." Laszlo's tongue burned as he delivered the hypnotic statement, applying enough djed to ensure Victor couldn't disobey. Presumably without realizing why, he stiffly lifted his arm and appeared to offer the knife in his palm. Laszlo reached forward and snatched it away before the human could think better of it, and set it loudly on the bartop safely out of reach. With Victor disarmed (unless he was hiding any other knives, in which case Laszlo silently dared him to try something), the Ethaefal took another step closer to him. A graphite lock of hair dislodged from behind one ear and caressed his cheek, oblivious to the seriousness of the moment. "You'd kill me, Victor, just to see me afraid? I've always thought you were a little strange. I never took you for a petching sadist."

[Victor Lark]

Victor’s expression dropped, and he blinked genuine confusion out of his eyes. He could clearly see the weapon where it was no longer in his hand; his muscles vaguely remembered the action of relinquishing it. But while he had never planned to draw blood tonight, neither had he meant to give away his most useful tool for inciting fear. There was nothing that ego or reason could invent to excuse the mistake, and so Victor withdrew from the attempt, at least for tonight. Whatever it was, he refused to show Laszlo that he did not know.

He did not step back, however awkward their propinquity. He lifted his hand to hold a face that was, no doubt, familiar with the intrusion, feeding the angry ethaefal the frown he seemed to crave. “I won’t kill you.” His jaw tightened in mocking. “Seems that’s not what it takes.”

People had moods, beads of separate sentiments on the strings of their personalities; Victor had chosen the wrong one tonight, but it was easy enough to set his eyes on another. Where confidence is challenged, one of two things take its place. He could play the daunting murderer as easily as the cornered rogue or the charming youth. Unfortunately, he had not quite mastered the frightened mouse.

If Laszlo did not pull away, Victor would glance his thumb over that fragile white cheekbone, pushing a stray hair aside. It was fascinating, to see such confidence on a face which he remembered to be so panicked and broken. “I’ve seen you afraid. I know what you’re capable of.” Really, he did not; he was ignorant to the blood on Laszlo’s hands, the volatility in his veins. But he was not referring to a symenestra’s strength, not entirely. “You underestimate me. You can try to beat me, but you can’t. You can’t touch us.”

He stepped back then, flashing a glance at his dagger and then at the door. He sighed. “Abalia, on the other hand, shouldn’t be too difficult to find.”

[Laszlo]

Victor reached a hand toward Laszlo's face, not dissimilar to a familiar afternoon the Ethaefal still remembered from last Fall. In no mood for the human's games, Laszlo leaned back and swatted Victor's hand away. "Stop." His amethyst eyes narrowed in resentment. He wasn't falling for that again. You don't know what I'm capable of, Laszlo retorted silently, though even the voice in his head was tinged with doubt. There was a quiet observer seated behind Victor's tin colored eyes, always so sharp and measuring. Laszlo understood the practice of analyzing other people and baiting conversations. He wouldn't be all that surprised if Victor's guess about the limits of the Ethaefal's character were accurate. Then he said her name. Laszlo's heartbeat seemed to stutter, painfully skipping a bit as he processed what Victor had just told him. His shrewd expression dropped, changing into something akin with fear and a hint of outrage. The amethyst rings set behind his delicate silver lashes became a little more visible, as did the whites of his eyes. Unconsciously, Laszlo's clawed fingers curled into tentative fists, tight enough that his sharp nails pushed against his palms. The threat may have been empty, but Laszlo had no doubt that Victor would toy with Abalia just to see what he'd do. Reflexively, Laszlo felt an urge to hypnotize Victor, to somehow correct this conversation and bring it back to somewhere more comfortable. He didn't, as his mind didn't seem to be functioning well enough to devise a way how to fix this, but the Ethaefal remained poised to use his djed. He also consciously reminded himself that the human's knife was within reach, and just out of Victor's. Neither of these means was necessary, at least not yet, but at least they remained available. "Don't you petching dare," Laszlo growled, pausing to swallow a lump of what felt like guilt. Risking his own well-being with the Ravokian was one thing; he couldn't afford to allow someone innocent get caught up in his business. To create more distance between Victor and his knife (and hopefully cut off the arrogant human's sense of security), Laszlo took another step forward. He was close enough to smell the other man now. He reached for Victor's collar. "You will not touch her. You won't even look at her, or I'll make you regret it. She's not going to be involved in your childish games. Understand me?"

[Victor Lark]

Unfortunately for Victor, he had been too busy pretending some diversion at the door to perceive the trace of fear he had inspired. He knew only the ire in the masked ethaefal’s voice, and was forced to be satisfied with it. He rocked as the taller man took hold of him, looking down at the clawed hand in flat disbelief. When he found his smile again, lifted it up to Laszlo’s glare, his eyes twitched at what he saw. By then, the color of the hair in front of his face had undeniably changed; it would have matched his silver eyes, if they were not blooming with practiced purple. Invisible to even him, djed raced around his gaze and reached for another’s; like pale ink, Laszlo’s flesh dripped from his temples to his cheekbones as he tried to mirror the man’s anger with only his brow.

He remained that way for seconds, until he realized that he had left too long a pause between them. He blinked once and his mask vanished, twice and his irises regained their empty steel. Victor was Victor again, excusing his silence with considering and contemplative nods, as if it troubled him to answer the rhetorical question. He lifted a finger, peculiarly calloused despite the grace in his blood, to the fist that lingered below his chin. He caressed one of the tense knuckles.

And with all the strength in his human hand, Victor pried Laszlo from his collar. His arm lurched and twisted suddenly; the symenestra finger, so thin and frail and familiar, gave to his hard grip with an impassive crack.

“No,” he answered with a pout. “I don’t think I do.”

He released him there, without spite or irritation, without a pull or a shove. He felt drained, almost numb, and could not even muster the energy to glare or smile at the reaction. Taking advantage of the inevitable shock that would ensue, his feet swept him quickly away and turned him around the bar. He leapt for his dagger, unconsciously desperate to do so before was told that he could not, and kept it unsheathed in his hand as he moved toward the door. Sighing, he walked backward for a moment to add, “I’m going to be late. Good evening, Laszlo.”