Friends of Akajia

[Laszlo]

Spring 60th, 512 Midnight. "Laszlo. Hey." The hard point of a boot nudged itself between Laszlo's shoulderblades, piercing past an uncomfortable, disjointed dream of smoky images and raw, unnamed emotions. He opened his eyes and remembered reality, pulling a cold breath into his lungs. Abalia's warm body still lay sleeping against his chest, which almost helped him forget about the way his shoulder and hip ground against the earth through his bedroll. The reddish yellow light from a smoldering campfire was momentarily blinding, forcing Laszlo to contort his face into an unattractive grimace and squint as he rolled onto his back. A human woman stood above him, her lean frame blotting out the stars that swirled brilliantly across an indigo sea. Her tired eyes bore down at him expectantly, and his heart filled up with dread. "What is it, Mae?" he asked through the gravel in his throat, as if he didn't know. "Your turn. It's midnight. Go and take over for your friend." "Already?" Laszlo rolled his head against a dusty, makeshift pillow of bundled fabric. Some distance from camp, a rocky bluff rose into the sky, providing an excellent vantage point of the nearby crags. He could see Duvalyon's familiar shape seated on its apex, patiently waiting for Laszlo to come and replace him. The Ethaefal sighed reluctantly, closing his eyes again for just a few seconds more. The two guides Laszlo had hired to bring his party to Lhavit were experienced in traveling the Unforgiving, and showed their resourcefulness in making use of his and Duvalyon's keen Symenestra vision to help keep watch at night. They were appointed high positions to keep a grander watch on surrounding area, while the guides themselves would take turns keeping vigil at camp. Only Abalia was allowed to sleep through the night, her pregnancy making her the most delicate in their small group of five. Though both Laszlo and Duvalyon would be mostly useless even if they did spot any form of danger, being able to provide an early warning would give them more time to act accordingly. Mae and Keito were native Lhavitian merchants, frequently making routine trips to and from Kalinor to sell their wares, primarily fruits and jams. Considering their trade, it was comical to know that they were also quite capable in combat and navigation. Made sense, really. It was more cost efficient, if you didn't have to hire extra any extra guards to travel. Laszlo had found them in the Meadows Public House, having taken refuge in the cavern from the mountains soaked in wild djed after the Storm. After waiting in Kalinor for several weeks, they were planning on returning to Lhavit anyway, and were willing to be hired as mercenaries for an agreeable price. Somehow, the Ethaefal had pried himself from his companion and the warmth of his bedroll. His wool cloak made a poor substitute, but the chill in the air was tolerably mild, if a bit windy. After securing a water skin to his belt, Laszlo picked up his satchel and began stocking it with edibles to tide him over until morning. Mae crossed camp, quietly waking up Keito as well so she could retire for the rest of the night. Laszlo lingered to watch them thoughtfully, still not entirely sure whether he really trusted them. Like Duvalyon had initially done with Abalia, they seemed to avoid referring to the Symenestra by name. Hoisting himself up the crag was much more easily done in his nightside form. His long limbs, durable claws, and adhesive grip seemed to transform the Unforgiving from an impassable, treacherous nightmare to something more like child's play. Complicating his ascent, however, was a sharp, nagging pain in his left side. Minor bruises, he assured himself, sustained from a fall earlier that day. By now he had a vast collection of tiny injuries that seemed to hurt worse at night, when the adrenaline of travel wasn't dulling his aches. At last, he pulled his weight onto the summit, then made his way toward Duvalyon with a sleepy greeting. He grunted as he eased himself down, a nagging spike of pain surging through his abdomen. It didn't worry him. He'd feel better once he ate something. "Feels like I only just got to sleep," Laszlo complained wearily, still trying to coax his eyes into staying open. "I'm ready to be in Lhavit, now."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"I am in no hurry." Only Duvalyon's mouth moved, the rest of him perfectly still. If Laszlo wasn't so familiar with the Symenestra's tones, he would have assumed the voice came from another source. Duvalyon watched the dark like one would a sunrise. It held its own majesty to him, its own reassurance. He did not slacken with the hour, accustomed to disjointed patterns of slumber from his work at the Purging. Illness and peril didn't keep predictable hours, so neither did its combatants. If feeling charitable, some would use this disorienting clock as a partial reason for the medic's inability to kindly suffer the fool. Firelight and human voices had flickered behind him for the first portion of the watch. He was grateful to escape the forced familiarity of evening meals. Keep a light touch, he reminded himself. His capacity for courtesy to Azo had a limit and he would not waste it on their happenstance companions. The pair also bored him exceedingly. It was taking years off his life to muster meager civility. In Kalinor he had hours of solitude to recover from social exertions and niceties. Now he was perpetually in the company of others, without any window to replenish his mental stores. Additionally, he was asking his body to withstand the slog of travel. All this paled to the dread of Lhavit, though. A sunborn city, known for it perpetual wash of light and its exalted airs. It would be a marvel, but it was not one built for him. Duvalyon had sunk further into himself, trying to insulate against the slow grate of sunshine, strangers and fatigue. He seemed the same, perhaps more resolute and commanding than ever, but it was compensation. Laszlo and his companion were looking to him for the impossible and he was pushing them to a city he had only a rough knowledge of. There was a role set out for him that he would not waver from. He had maintained it for Melia, Dor, his patients, cousin and now this careening Ethaefal. Viratas, he was what, twenty-three, four? But they could never catch on. The thread would sever and the whole pattern would be destroyed. At least he had principle and some wisdom to guide them with. He breathed deeply then turned his head, awaking from his stasis. "You're grunting like a sow."

[Laszlo]

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Laszlo held his breath. A guilty wash came over him at first, hearing that Duvalyon would apparently prefer the Unforgiving over a surfacer civilization. He remembered quickly, however, that the medic hadn't spent the last sixty or seventy days in these same mountains, scraping over this hellish terrain so long that it had begun to feel like a permanent way of life. It had been roughly two weeks since they had left the safety of Kalinor, and knowing that this second journey was half over made Laszlo almost giddy with relief. Still, knowing that Duvalyon was putting himself through this on Laszlo's behalf (and by extension, Abalia's as well) troubled his conscience. "I'm sore," he finally exhaled, too tired to act defensive. With one hand in the other, Laszlo splayed one of his hands and felt at the calluses forming on his palms and fingertips. A tapered, black thumbnail traced over the hardened skin. "I've been traveling like this for about a season, now. I want to be somewhere with shops, and inns, and people, and roads. Sunlight only does so much. My body wants to heal." Releasing his hand, Laszlo rubbed tenderly at his left side, through his cloak. He was surprised at the electric feel of pressure against his offended injury. It was more sensitive than he expected. "Oh, that's right. You missed it. I basically fell off a cliff, this afternoon." Laszlo clasped his hands together in his lap, becoming mindful of his fidgeting. His head swiveled as he turned to watch the camp down below. The tiny fire burned below, like a mild sun flickering in a starless, deep gray sky of cracked rock and massive boulders. Abalia had rolled from one side to the other. She realized he had left her alone, he knew. "You were up ahead waiting on us, I think. We were going up and over a ledge, and Mae was at the top holding the rope for me. A field mouse ran over her shoe and scared her. A ferocious field mouse, Duvalyon. So naturally she dropped the rope and I fell about ten feet. Lucky for me, a sharp rock cushioned my landing." Despite the story, he smiled in amusement at himself. "I'm fine. I'm fairly certain nothing's broken. As soon as they realized I wasn't dead, we all had a good laugh at my expense." After rolling around on the ground, the wind forced out of his lungs, Laszlo had gotten back to his feet again only a few minutes later. There had been a wound, which had worried him at first. The pain however was minor, and the gash looked shallow. It bled, but the Ethaefal sealed it gingerly with the swipe of his hand. However, one day's worth of healing left it far from perfect. Mae pulled him up the cliff wall again, then began to help Abalia. Laszlo had taken that moment to unpack an old, torn shirt (which reminded him of the tattooed woman at the Sun and Stars). It served as a makeshift bandage, and would tide him over for the rest of the day. It was only after he'd laid down to rest that it had finally gotten sore. "She carries no less than three blades on her person and a field mouse scares her. Gods forbid we come across any hares."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon turned his head so Laszlo didn't see him smile. "Pity I wasn't there." Duvalyon actually made a mild attempt to obscure his initial, mocking comment. "I might have been able to help." Silence condensed the air between them again. Quiet accrued more gently in the dim, meaning nothing. It was merely part of the cadence of the Symenestra. "Rodents do carry disease," the Symenestra offered from nowhere. Humans were afraid of quite a few things he didn't fully understand: night, spiders, heights, blood. There was no accounting for fears. And yet he could fixate on things that didn't even make a human wink: how something was sloppily done or overlooked. Like Laszlo's half perceived attempt at medicine. Without preface, Duvalyon flicked one finger to soundly thump Lazslo's side. The Ethaefal's quick wince and low yelp of pain was met with a thrumming noise of interest. Where the medic's finger struck, the cloth was speckled with burgundy. "'Fine'. Indeed." Duvalyon looked up from the blood splat with something like parental annoyance. "What did you do, Laszlo?" There might have been something like offense that welled under his flat voice. Gods, he hated seeing something like this poorly done. It could have been one of the faceless guides and he would still inwardly twitch over an injury's neglect. "I'm glad you took care of it. I have a sterling record of all my non-Symenestra patients dying shortly after my attentions. Can't have an immortal ruin it." One thing was certain, any lofty idealized versions of graceful Ethaefal had been efficiently gutted then set on fire after prolonged exposure to Laszlo. Duvalyon had ample to add to the Cribellum tomes about these 'outlier' Ethaefal who were fortunate to walk upright in a straight line.

[Laszlo]

The dark joke inspired a dry, closed-mouth laugh. Laszlo then winced and coughed, cutting it short, as he reached down to grasp his side. He realized then that the fabric was damp, then curiously looked down to find his shirt tinged with spots of red. Ruefully he blamed Duvalyon. It hadn't appeared to be bleeding before someone maliciously thumped it. More realistically, his climb up the bluff's rock face had pulled his wound open again, but who could know for certain? "Come on, it's a just a cut. I'm not going to die." A pale, spidery hand pulled back the side of his cloak. Beneath a lightly soiled layer of thin brown linen, a lumpy bundle of fabric interrupted the graceful contour of his lean torso. He peeled away a flap of his shirt, revealing his haphazard attempt at a bandage, brandishing a large, deep red stain. There had been limited time to tear strips from what had once been a dark gray shirt, until someone had playfully shredded it with a knife. Laszlo had actually packed the article for just this purpose—spare fabric—instead of throwing it away. Though at the time he'd tied the bandage snugly against his skin, a day of moving and contorting had stretched it out. Laszlo curled his lip at it, more in disappointment than disgust or pain. There was almost the sound of Duvalyon Hellebore judging him buzzing in the air. The Ethaefal felt mildly ashamed, though there was an unidentifiable warm edge to it. "Although, it's a pretty good drop from here if you're feeling especially ambitious." He began untying the dressing. Most of it was still dry, so all he had to do was readjust and fasten it again. It would stretch less through the night, and tomorrow he could reapply his Syna-given talent again to expedite the healing process. "I made the wound a day older," he explained, on the off-chance that Duvalyon wouldn't infer the use of his Ethaefal ability. "It's nothing. I had an injury like this last Winter, when someone actually did try to kill me." Indeed, traces of a jagged scar were visible along the edges of the dressing. Though the cut had been clean, the skin had healed unevenly. "I didn't see a physician about it, and turned out fine. The hospital in Alvadas was… weird. I only ever went there when something was actually broken." Laszlo spared a glance down to the rocks below. "It would be funny, actually, if I did die from a stupid fall. It'd make a mockery of my would-be murderers. Not that there are many of those," he added quickly.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon appeared to pay more attention to Laszlo when he was mangled than whole. The former had some professional interest. At first, he observed peripherally, but as the wound was exposed his head turned in increments until he was fully looking at it. When Laszlo mentioned the source of the raised pink line, an attempt on his life, Duvalyon made a vague sound of acknowledgment. "Terribly popular, aren't you?" He then nodded once, stood and left. Laszlo sat alone, Duvalyon apparently gone to bed. Night exhaled, the wind making tight tremors of sound. A sharpness inhabited everything: the peck of cold air, the slant of dusty violet shadows, and the ancient cut of the rock. The distant mountains seemed old, craggy gods burying their feet and fists into Semele's side. Living things were so desperately small in comparison, no bigger than flecks of starlight, and yet they fancied themselves lords of all. A rattling of glass and the textured sound of cord being untied drew Laszlo's attention backward. Duvalyon was opening his kit. Most of the instruments within had a terrible mystery to them. They were long and sharp or flat and edged. There were a few tied pouches and corked jars tucked between rolls of material Laszlo recognized from the preparatory bundles Duvalyon had brought home before they departed Kalinor. He said nothing but measured a small dose of salt into a jar. With a steady hand he added water and a liquid with a smell that pinched the nose and mouth. As he shook the mixture, Duvalyon said colorlessly. "Uwrap it." He checked the cloudiness of the liquid then poured it on a small square of cloth. Without explanation, he rubbed it along Laszlo's cut. It felt like nettles and heat, enough to make one wince. "Oh. It will sting." An unhelpful afterthought. Laszlo recognized the brisk focus of Duvalyon the medic, so it was surprising when he prompted, "The scar. Explain." Even if it was delivered in voice as metallic as the tools in his kit.

[Laszlo]

It was good that Duvalyon returned. The foreign tinkling of glass and nails scraping against rock startled Laszlo's eyes into opening again. His head, heavy and clouded with stubborn fatigue, turned to watch the Symenestra over his shoulder. Honestly, he was relieved for the company, but regretful that the medic was compelled to stay awake just to attend to an Ethaefal neglecting his injuries. Anxiety stung Laszlo's heart as he wondered what contemptuous thoughts were going through Duvalyon's head. The bandage was unwrapped again, exposing his wound to cool air. When the medic approached him with gauze soaked with some sharp smelling chemical, Laszlo reluctantly leaned away. "You really don't have to—ahh!" Combatting the urge to slap Duvalyon away, Laszlo leaned forward and gripped his knee with a set of clawed fingers, as if for balance. The other hand squeezed some nearby rock. He gritted his teeth as Duvalyon presumably disinfected his wound with affectionate mercilessness. Laszlo hissed through his teeth at the doctor's warning as he bit back pain. "Oh, thanks." The question about Laszlo's scar was so unexpected that at first he wondered if he hadn't imagined it, but the low sound of Duvalyon's silken voice hung in his immediate memory. Didn't he already explain that? Duvalyon wasn't actually curious to know, was he? Or perhaps the purpose was to distract him from the sting of medicine. Maybe. There was a brief moment of heavy silence, marked by Laszlo's hesitance. "I told you, someone tried to kill me," he mumbled sourly, teeth barely unclenching. "So I didn't give the wound the care I should have and it healed funny. I don't really mind how it looks. Scars make me dashing." Laszlo swallowed, facing forward again. It was easier not to watch whatever Duvalyon was doing. Still, he gripped at his knee as a countermeasure for pain. Violet eyes settled on the small glow of their campsite, especially the tiny, distant form of Abalia. Not even she knew the extent of the story behind Laszlo's scar. She knew bits and pieces—that's all anyone ever knew about him. She knew Siofra had been a friend, an Ethaefal, and was suicidal. Laszlo hadn't told her that they had been more like lovers, or that Siofra had been jealous of Abalia. That in a crescendo of rage and frustration, Laszlo had ended her life perhaps not entirely accidentally. Duvalyon would know Laszlo was dodging the inquiry. He'd either press Laszlo on it, or let it be. As he considered it, the Ethaefal realized he dreaded the Symenestra's potential lack of curiosity. His reasons for asking were still unclear. "At least I think she was trying to kill me," Laszlo added finally, after a lengthy moment of deliberation. "I was on the ground and she was descending on me with this very attractive dagger. She had just bought it, never used, freshly sharpened. I didn't even realize she cut me until I pushed her off. She missed where she was aiming, obviously." Fingertips touched at his breast, where he could feel the soft efforts of his heart. The Ethaefal pulled his eyes away from camp, focusing instead on the shadows in the mountains beyond. He could at least pretend to be paying attention to the peaks around them. "It wasn't that she hated me. Her reasons were… irrational. Gods, no, honestly they were insane. She was Ethaefal, Lethborn. Called herself Siofra. I met her in late Fall last year. She was even younger than I was, about the age I was when I met you, actually. Still terrified and confused and desperate. I only wanted to help her." There was a shift in Laszlo's tone as he purged emotion from it, in order to sound more academic. It might have been an effort to impress Duvalyon. "Her dayside form was… ah, what did she call it… Dhani? Serpentine-like race. I only saw it once." That was debatable. What Laszlo had seen was Siofra's warped reflection in the House of Broken Mirrors. Nothing in that place made sense. The mirrors lied and toyed with their heads. Whether that was her true form or just a mockery might never be known. "I knew what she was going through. She needed someone to tell her that everything was alright, that someone still cared. I sort of… I tried to take her in, give her some stability. The way you did for me. I might not still be here if you hadn't…" Laszlo left the statement unfinished. He hadn't actually intended to say so much, it had mostly slipped out. Shaking his head, he quickly moved on. "I think I only made it worse. Around that time, I met Abalia. Siofra was furiously jealous and overreacted. She bought that dagger just to kill herself. When I tried to stop her, she attacked me. It was only then I realized that she was completely irrational. Crazy. She said I was part of her… nightmare and that I had to die so she could wake up. "We tussled, fighting for control of the dagger. A mirror broke when I pushed her into it, and that's when I knew I had stabbed her. It wasn't completely my fault but I… I think I chose to kill her, ultimately. I can't really remember what I was thinking, except that I was scared and frustrated and angry. She didn't say anything as she died, she just… left. I brought her body to the sea…" Remembering that night still brought a chill to Laszlo's skin. Since his "birth" two years ago, it was probably the single worst night of his life. "I could have easily been just like her. My first few weeks of life, I remember being that desperate and lost."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Speaking to Duvalyon at length was a mild step above the solitude of thinking. He listened without commentary for unnerving spans, especially if the conversation covered more personal revelations. When Laszlo addressed him and their initial meeting directly, the Symenestra's ministrations stuttered, then resumed with compensating focus. Duvalyon didn't know the proper reaction to gratitude. It frankly made him uncomfortable, as if he had relinquished some piece of his authority for it. Social gratitude was simple, a glib bright thing he could flourish and cast aside. Yet, there was a tang of-- maybe contentment in hearing this? He wouldn't know. "I could have easily been just like her. My first few weeks of life, I remember being that desperate and lost." "But you were not. And are not." Unwilling to linger on something that too closely resembled approval, Duvalyon mumbled at the wound. "You didn't clean this well. Next time make a poultice of mud and shyke so everyone knows you find infection 'dashing'." After dipping two claws into the solution, Duvalyon used them to pluck bits of debris and crumbling fabric from the cut. It was pain in small doses, but the medic was surprisingly adroit. "The mind is a precarious place. Easily broken." He would know, having hurried along a few debacles in his time. "Choice and principle are its high wall." There were some damnable creatures that would not break until you were lost in the attempt, the arches of their minds held aloft with pillars of searing truth and purpose. He avoided them during harvests, out of begrudging respect and calculation. Though he imagined the savor of pulling down such a castle would swell the soul. "She chose cowardice and reaped the consequences." The melancholy story was that simple to Duvalyon. Easy as diagnosing a fever. It was both comforting and terrible to know he could keep or discard a person with such staunch certainty. "And you're stupid enough to choose dangerous company." He withdrew from cleaning the cut, his mouth slipping into mocking humor. "Not me, of course. I'm harmless."

[Laszlo]

While Duvalyon picked the wound clean, Laszlo held his breath and tried to keep still. Winces of minor pain still occasionally tugged at his features, but he managed to keep mostly quiet while the medic gave his thoughts. Laszlo wasn't sure whether Duvalyon was talking because he was expected to, or if he genuinely wanted to offer him some guidance. Perhaps some mixture of both. Either way, it was relieving to not be met with indifference, or silence. Laszlo's breath finally left him in a sudden laugh, which disturbed the healed and healing wounds still smiling across his side. He spared a glance down at them and wrinkled his nose. Seeing his own body so cleanly split open made the taste of bile rise up to the back of his throat. He was glad his stomach was already empty. "Completely harmless," Laszlo agreed unconvincingly. Thinking on it, he had never actually seen Duvalyon take action or hurt anyone, but still he knew better. He'd performed Harvests—not to mention that time the Nest went up in a gigantic blaze. Whether or not Duvalyon had anything to do with that still hadn't been ascertained, but Laszlo had been discouraged from asking. One didn't need swords or magic to be dangerous. "Are you done yet? I can do the rest myself. You should sleep." But Duvalyon appeared to have no intention of getting up. Laszlo decided not to press it. If an actual medic applied the dressing, there was a much better chance that the Ethaefal wouldn't die from a terrible infection. After another quiet moment passed between them, he somehow found the courage to ask the question that had been lingering on his mind. "Did you tell your family why you were going to Lhavit?" How long was Duvalyon planning on being away, anyway? Did he intend to see Abalia's pregnancy to its end?

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Laszlo's opinion on his treatment resonated as much as a mite's fart, even regarding something as simple as winding a bandage. There was a method to ensuring it was layered correctly and allowed for adequate movement. Duvalyon wouldn't allow for any margin of error and by "error" he meant "attempts by Laszlo". When Duvalyon finished he looked only mildly content with his work. Ever the perfectionist with medicine, he thought of several materials he wished he had to further treat the injury. Then Laszlo had to bother him with a mildly personal question. Duvalyon's mouth made a line, and it seemed he would not allow any glimpse into this separate facet of his life. As far as Laszlo was concerned, Duvalyon was born in the same fashion as the Ethaefal. "They know what I deemed adequate." He sat back on his haunches, resting his wrists on his knees. "I have left Kalinor to ensure the safe birth of one of our own. It is no secret I would do much for the blood." But what was this mysterious "blood"? Surely it was not limited to his kind, if so neither Laszlo nor Dor would have been looked after with the same dutiful resolve. But it did not encompass all living things, or Duvalyon would not have adamantly continued and promoted the harvest and its grisly consequences. A disjointed smirk moved his closed expression into mockery. "It would surprise some to know I am a religious man, but not my family." One hand subconsciously slid up his arm as he spoke and one finger tapped rhythmically on the raised gnosis of his god. It reminded him of heavy promises and the consequences of taking a vow for another. "And faith is made whole by sacrifice. Without it your god is just a ward you raise against harm. Despite being a second son my brother does not understand this, which is why he will never be content." Duvalyon caught himself. He had almost fallen into a cadence of perfect sincerity. His belief tended to soften his features instead of filling them with sharp zeal. "I am expecting a second gnosis after withstanding all this unpleasantness," he added with a droll look. "Perhaps, even a third considering the general disarray of the company."