Friends of Akajia

by **Laszlo** on April 1st, 2012, 7:06 am

Finally, Duvalyon pulled away, allowing Laszlo to stop worrying about the smell of his own breath. Despite his insistence that he could wrap his own bandage, the Symenestra had done a finer job than he could have hoped to. Tentatively he felt at the taut cotton hugging his midsection, already warmed by his own body heat. The long, wicked nails on Laszlo's slender hand looked wicked against the soft, white dressing that protected the gash underneath.

He paused to consider his hand, ashamed to feel the brush of self-pity that he did. Hands like these belonged to demons and monsters in children's stories.

It surprised him when Duvalyon mentioned his brother. While he completely sidestepped Laszlo's question, he had begun talking about his family with traces of a tone that he didn't recognize in his silken, usually dry voice. Laszlo kept his eyes downcast, pretending to still be interested in his bandaging, but his silence was meant as an invitation for Duvalyon to continue. Alas, his sharing was already at an end.

Laszlo wondered if Duvalyon was already missing Kalinor, to begin talking the way he did. Or, more selfishly, he wondered if the Symenestra was somehow doubting Laszlo's piousness, through a related comparison. He did only seem to bring up Syna's name in vain, so he could see Duvalyon making that mistake. To Laszlo, faith was something practiced in private. It made his skin tighten to think anyone would question his devotion to his goddess, but an argument on mere speculation wasn't worth having.

"I didn't know you were marked," Laszlo remarked, genuinely interested. By now, he was used to Duvalyon's passing insults and minor condescension. He absorbed it with a note of amusement and a tugging smirk. "By Viratas, then?" A flower of envy might have bloomed in Laszlo's heart. He wondered if Syna had ever marked him in a previous life. He hadn't done enough in this one, he reassured himself. Maybe She was waiting for him. "Of course Viratas. I'm going to assume you're not secretly a devout worshiper of Ivak. Though you're right. It is surprising to think of you as pious. I can't imagine you facing a god without some criticism about what they happen to be wearing."

Laszlo returned to his vigil over the shadowed mountains, watching some distant, moaning animal—probably a goat?—wandering to find some smoother, more even spot to lie down. "So what does it do? Strengthen family bonds? Give you control over blood?" Something occurred to Laszlo then, as he remembered the things that Viratas reigned over. Think of me as family, Duvalyon had said to him. Hmm… "You don't… drink blood, do you? Er… never mind. Stupid question."

He turned his violet eyes back to Duvalyon, trying not to smile because he knew his impending request would probably be refused. "Can I see it?"

by **Duvalyon Hellebore** on April 1st, 2012, 7:07 am

When Laszlo suggested Duvalyon would have a glib critique for the god, the Symenestra looked away. Correcting the observation required too much time and a further dissection of his character. He would not relinquish that knowledge to amend a light jest, so he simply ignored it.

Duvalyon smirked despite himself at Laszlo's child-like request.
"Lest I forget you're three."

A denial was his first instinct, but talk of the god encouraged a greater sense of patience. The limb was rotated so the chitin scale of armor didn't block his claws. He said nothing but pulled at the edges of some of the fabric wrapping his upper arm.

A portion of the chain was glimpsed. It was the color of frost and close to the skin.
"One link is red, but it's covered," Duvalyon explained flatly as he released the layers of wound fabric.

As he readjusted the fabric to conceal the mark again he answered more of Laszlo's leaping questions. Countering the Ethaefal's quick and curious tone, Duvalyon's was sedate and colorless.

"Yes, I drink blood, but it doesn't take much."
Recalling his uses of the gnosis, he tried to formulate a description that would encompass the experience.
"The effects are varied. It can heal me or allow me to read memory and mind. The latter can be-- unpleasant."
Recollection troubled him, but the discomfort manifested only in a long stare.
"I am compelled to feel as they do."
A finely hewn torture for the medic. His own emotions were beaten into coils and frequently submerged as he hunted a larger purpose. Yet the thoughts and feelings of another could infest him like a fever, ripped from the logic of experience and disposition.

"There is your lesson for the evening."
Duvalyon's eyes followed the black crescent of a bird in flight, his air distracted.
"Fortunate for you, I am a wellspring of Symenestra knowledge."

It was a falcon. He knew the shape instinctively, like one would the laugh of a lover.

by **Laszlo** on April 1st, 2012, 7:08 am

The fatigue was merciless, continuing the blur the lines in Laszlo's vision and weigh his eyelids. Leaning to his side, he unlatched the flap of his satchel and began sifting through the assorted food stuffs, looking for something that would revitalize him. There was a strip of seasoned, dried meat in here. Why would he pack that?

"Thank you, honored teacher." Symenos felt like the perfect language to convey Laszlo's good humored sarcasm, delivered past a smirk as warm as his voice.

Laszlo's fingers closed around the soft, velvety skin of a bruised, overripe nectarine. He held it in his lap thoughtfully, batting off a memory that always came with this breed of fruit. "I'm two, by the way, if you're keeping track. My—" he batted a number of fingers in the air, to add a flavor of absurdity to what he was saying, "—second birthday was last Winter. Not that that helps my case any."

Slicing one nail into the fruit, an aromatic scent immediately reached his nostrils. His stomach seemed to curl at it as his mouth watered. Laszlo cut himself a surprisingly neat slice of the dripping fruit and fed it into his grayish lips. Oh Gods, the taste of it made him want to melt. Eating was a new habit he was still getting used to, and he simply could not get over the way sensations on his tongue could almost produce an emotional response. Unfortunately, this made him something of a picky eater. Why settle for mediocrity?

Duvalyon's gnosis mark had been intriguing, though a little more eerie than he'd expected. It made Laszlo feel a little more uneasy, knowing he was sitting next to a mortal favored truly by a god. As if the medic weren't intimidating enough. "Interesting to know that blood can heal you. Only someone else's, I'd wager?" Laszlo carved a larger hunk of the fruit, his fingernail scraping against the pit inside. He waited until he was finished chewing to continue.

He was blind to the bird stealing Duvalyon's attention, taking his burgundy stare to be something more pensive, or bored. "That's something, the image of you being candid. It would be… useful, though. To have some insight into what someone else was thinking. Hypnotism doesn't really lend me that kind of… or… never mind. I'm sure you don't want to know about that."

Shyke. How did that slip out? Lack of sleep, hunger, some profound sense of security? It didn't matter. It was out now, anyway. Hell, he'd outright told Seven (who told Victor). Why shouldn't the entire world know about it?

Actually, in all seriousness, he didn't mind Duvalyon knowing. It wasn't as if Laszlo had ever planned to use it on him. In fact the idea had never occurred to him, which was something that he belatedly found pleasantly unusual. The Symenestra actually inspired true sincerity from him. That was rare.

by **Duvalyon Hellebore** on April 1st, 2012, 7:08 am

Duvalyon watched Laszlo split the overripe fruit open and let the juice drip around his hands. Laszlo's cavalier approach to the mess almost made the Symenestra twitch, a small reminder that he had quirks like any other creature. Duvalyon was always so private with his meals, as they poignantly reminded all gathered of the strangeness and limitations of his race. His expression was mildly bemused to see Laszlo enjoy the nectarine so openly.

His answer was half mumbled, distraction muddying it.
"Yes. Only another's. Willingly given."

To spare himself the inner turmoil of watching Laszlo make a sloppy mess, Duvalyon flung his attention towards the familiar avian silhouette. He thought a secret prayer for Dor of the blood, that she be content and whole wherever she nested, finding all he was incapable and unwilling to give her. In her absence he allowed these indulgences of care. They could only harm him, and that meant nothing.

Laszlo was talking again, Duvalyon spared half an ear, feeling his own fatigue claiming the rest.

His body went rigid, responding instinctively to a word still being pulled through his understanding: Hypnotism.
Duvalyon's head snapped to look at the Ethaefal. No feature could convey dark anger so well as red eyes narrowing on Laszlo. They were at the height of their power of expression, while the rest of the Symenestra's face was cast in cold, unmoving silver.

Sharp silence was draped thickly between them, and under its folds Laszlo could find different apprehensions. Did Duvalyon suspect manipulation? Betrayal?

When Duvalyon finally spoke, Laszlo could see extended fangs.

"You are a fool."
The medic had turned his head away.
"Trading sanity for a power you don’t need." Clarity of thought only made his voice all the more cruel. "Do you think the eras will dissipate the whispers?"
A challenge that wanted no answer. Obviously Duvalyon thought time would do the exact opposite, and Laszlo would one day curse his unending years. The whispers would demand not only his present and future, but bleed the peace and happy memories he would covet and build so carefully over his long life. Much was given so much could be taken.

"You forget that you are not a Symenestra and do not require our tools."
Duvalyon's reaction had a taste of fear, like a parent fuming over a newly found child who wandered away. It was as close to losing his temper as Laszlo had seen. The pitch of it was lowering by the time Duvalyon spoke again.
"You have chosen to steal when you could ask and lie when you could persuade."

Laszlo knew what remained unspoken: now all would wonder what he stole and when he lied, including Duvalyon.

by **Laszlo** on April 1st, 2012, 7:09 am

Steeling himself as one might against a torrent of icy winds, Laszlo tensed and weathered Duvalyon's reprimand. His mouth was ajar in want of retorting, but he knew better than to try to interject. It surprised him that the medic was so upset; although Seven had been angry too, Duvalyon's concern was more for Laszlo's well-being than his own. There was something warm about that, and it made Laszlo grateful to know there was someone who seemed to personally care about his sanity, but it did little to lessen the resentment that began to smolder in him.

At last, Duvalyon seemed to finish, and the heavy silence pervaded between them again. It felt like the quiet after a battle fought, thick with deep thought, simmering emotions, and the smell of blood. Though in this case, it was mostly the fragrance of a nectarine. Containing himself, Laszlo deliberated on his response, knowing the wrong words could change Duvalyon's opinion of him. As he tried to tame the ire that rose in his throat, he dug the pit out of the nectarine and tossed it into the shadows of the Unforgiving.

"You think you understand everything, don't you?" Laszlo flicked droplets of nectarine juice off his nails into the chasm below. His fingers curled into his palm afterward, sticking lightly to his palm. "I know I'm not Symenestra, Duvalyon. You've made that very clear. I'm not like you, and no delusion I give myself will ever change that." Laszlo's lip curled for an instant as he finished speaking, betraying an underlying bitterness he'd been ruminating deeply on.

He rolled the hollowed nectarine in his hand, keeping his keen eyes on the nearby mountain ridges. The sweet flavor slowly decayed on his tongue, but he'd lost his appetite for the moment. Duvalyon may have intuited that Laszlo did seek out a Hypnotism teacher under the pretense of being a Symenestra, but the pretense was just that.

"Require our tools." Of course Duvalyon would make excuses for his own kind. And he'd spoken of "eras"—as if Laszlo had the responsibility of living forever. With the way everything was happening for him in the past two years, it didn't seem likely he'd make it past another one.

"No. I'm Ethaefal. I barely even know what that means, except that I'm some petching in-between who doesn't belong anywhere. And all you see me as is this petulant child playing pretend and encroaching on your culture, don't you?" Laszlo rolled his eyes skyward and shook his head. "I couldn't possibly have pursued Hypnotism out of personal reasons, searching for grains of a past life because I didn't know what it was to have an identity. Look at you, with your family and your principles—can you even see beyond the security of your life in Kalinor? All of it was given to you. You were born with a name and a heritage.

"You speak of 'eras' as if my longevity means anything to me. Every day I breathe, Duvalyon, I remember that I'm no longer where I belong. The idea of living forever, of never getting that back, is terrifying. You think because you follow Viratas, you value the meaning of family. You couldn't begin to understand the bonds that I've lost. You once met your Patron God? I lived alongside mine. I had family there. I had a true name. Now I barely even have the memories."

Running out of breath, the Ethaefal paused and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. He clearly wasn't finished yet, but at least he was taking a moment to calm himself down. Duvalyon was waiting to hear what any of this had to do with Hypnotism, he was sure. Admittedly, much of this was merely reserves of resentment that had been shoring up in Laszlo, waiting to be released. Perhaps the medic would appreciate it more than most others.

Duvalyon knew of Ethaefal, from things he had read, no doubt, and from Laszlo's own bumbling exploits. It might serve him well to know that there was a deeper part of Laszlo's character that he rarely showed, that he had a reason for grasping at straws.

"Vethis Orthilia knew Hypnotism. I took to it quite naturally. It used to help me feel… closer to the person I used to be, but that doesn't matter to me anymore. Now that magic is just a part of me, of Laszlo. I don't use it to steal and lie, but it helps occasionally to be able to… make things easier. In Alvadas I owned and operated a tavern. It wasn't some high-end establishment, it invited thugs and travelers and drunkards. I was the novelty Symenestra barkeep with bird bones. Without Hypnotism I would have ended up with more than a few scars and a broken hand." More than once, Laszlo had peacefully "escorted" the tavern's more energetic patrons out the door.

He hesitated. "It's not as if I don't feel the… pull of it, from time to time. The… whispers." Interesting, that Duvalyon knew of them. Laszlo suspected that there was more to that than simple academic knowledge, but he didn't have the gall to make any accusations. "And maybe in a decade or two, or twenty, I will go insane or become something monstrous. The passage of time may have done that anyway." Just as time would kill Abalia in the near future, it would also do away with Duvalyon, eventually, and every other person he grew to care about. Even if he became fond of another Ethaefal, they could die too. And imagine the shock if that happened.

Immortality only held an allure for those who didn't have it. "Even if Hypnotism is my undoing, it's also been my defense against the world—which is savage and merciless outside your cave, if you've forgotten. Unlike a blade, it doesn't hurt anyone but the user." He snorted. "Ask and persuade, he says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. Not all of us are equipped with a tongue as clever as yours."

by **Duvalyon Hellebore** on April 1st, 2012, 7:09 am

"Poor, poor, Laszlo," Duvalyon answered in common with a drawl of Symenos.

"Let us compare tragedies and see who has the greater right to behave stupidly." His face adopted mock pleasure and he would not return to his mother tongue.
"If I win, can I force you to stop whining about being alive?"

Duvalyon was coming to life in feature and tone, letting colors and inflections add scorn to his reply. It was as if unkindness quickened his blood. The Symenestra was speaking without the mildly protective filter of obligation or any endeavor at patience.

"But what searing logic you have, Laszlo! I could never compete with it. Unlike you, I have imperfect understanding. In a matter of minutes you have convinced me that you do no wrong and magic is the only avenue for the weak," Duvalyon smirked at that word, "To endure in a strong world."

Unable to contain himself, he went on, "When it pulls you over its teeth, I'm sure there will be vast consolation that you kept the tavern safe."

Mocking began to harden into derision.
"You don't seem to like being alive much anyway." Duvalyon shrugged dismissively, "And everyone is going to die before you, so what's the point?"

With a surprisingly courteous motion, the Symenestra indicated the nearest gorge that split the earth to the quick.
"Nature truly provides for our needs."
He chuckled in his throat and looked to the peaks again.
"If worry crossed your horned head, dismiss it. I'll take care of things. That's called a promise, Laszlo. It's something you're given freely."
A beat of quiet.
"Usually."

by **Laszlo** on April 1st, 2012, 7:10 am

Something about Duvalyon's false suggestion pulled a brief laugh from Laszlo's mouth, slipping with a dismissive hiss past his reluctant teeth. There was no part of him that felt particularly amused with the medic's lack of sympathy. He wasn't even sure why he laughed. For some reason, he just felt a little ridiculous.

A black, curved nail sliced another piece from the nectarine, then lightly swabbed at a droplet of juice on his lower lip as he crushed the fruit in his mouth. It liquefied easily, the dark orange flesh having already begun to break down in the fruit itself. It didn't even need any venom. The fruit was half gone now, but Laszlo's stomach was still painfully empty. Sunrise would remedy that in a few hours.

"Oh, but what would you do without me," Laszlo retorted lifelessly. There was a smile in his voice, but a certain sullenness remained in his wrinkled brow as he half-glared at the darkened peaks. Part of him felt relieved that Duvalyon wouldn't let him moan and whine about how terrible it was being Ethaefal—a trait he shared with Abalia—but it wasn't as if any of his worries or burdens had faded. They were still there, whether he happily buried them or not.

Duvalyon still didn't understand a scrap about him, either. It was difficult not to respect the Symenestra, who composed himself so neatly and seemed so wise beyond his years. It was bothersome to think that Duvalyon might lack the ability to comprehend Laszlo's own world views. More likely, though, he just had no interest in doing so. "Abalia isn't nearly as fun to lecture. She doesn't screw up as much."

Laszlo's period of suicidal thoughts had come and passed even before he met Duvalyon. Not for the first time, he wondered how better off the world would have been had he actually offed himself. Abalia wouldn't be dying, and Duvalyon wouldn't find himself dragged across the mountains on another's behalf. On the other hand, the medic might have been bored without him, and Abalia might have fallen victim to Victor and Seven. And, as Laszlo thought about it, despite all his lamenting, he found that he wouldn't want to give up the time he had lived.

"Besides, if I did throw myself off a cliff, everything you said earlier about cowardice would be disproven. You'd have been wrong about something. How would you live with yourself?"

The weight of Duvalyon's promise didn't escape Laszlo, however. He said he would "take care of things". There was the always chance that Laszlo (or any of the three) might meet his demise in any number of ways in the near future regardless. Despite the medic's cold demeanor, Laszlo could only imagine that he'd be gentle with Abalia up until her child's birth, out of something resembling respect. And then the child… what would Duvalyon do with it?

"Gods… what am I going to do…" Laszlo muttered under his breath to himself. "Did you know I'm going to be a father, Duvalyon?" The word struck his heart like a hand clapping across his face. It seemed to cause him physical pain to say it. Laszlo remembered, then, that Duvalyon was coming along largely on Abalia's unborn child's behalf. What did he plan to do with it anyway? Take it back to Kalinor? The poor thing was going to hear the worst stories about his or her true father, if that was true. But… would Laszlo even allow Duvalyon to… Abalia could be dead by then… none of this was remotely possible to speculate about.

Laszlo rubbed his left eye with fingertips damp from fruit juice. His heart felt suddenly weak. "Strike me blind."

Pivoting on his thoughts, he sharply changed the subject. Duvalyon's subtle avoidance of what Laszlo considered to be brilliant points had given him a taste of bravery. "What do you know of whispers anyway? You seem awfully intuitive on the subject."

by **Duvalyon Hellebore** on April 1st, 2012, 7:11 am

It would have been easier to lie.

"Enough to be circumspect."

And that was it, unless Laszlo intended to pull the rest out of him.

"I know."
He breathed the answer to an old question, rising from the stern quiet.
"I know you are. Or I wouldn't be here."

Suddenly anxious for something to do with his hands, he took the nectarine, Laszlo had begun to lose taste for. With a little more practice than the Ethaefal had, he cut a neat piece, but unlike Laszlo, he was a bit more careful about where the juice ran.

"I'm sure moaning about it some more will prepare you."

One moment there was a piece of fruit in his fingertip, the next it was gone. Duvalyon was in the habit of not showing teeth or being caught eating unless with a spoon.

"Some people actually look forward to children and family, Laszlo," an odd note was in the young man's voice, implying he might be in that category. He was speaking in Symenos again, preferring his mother tongue when working around such thoughts.
"The idea of something both you and more important than you."
Duvalyon's hierarchy was growing clearer, explaining some of his unflinching loyalty.

"I understand the circumstances aren't ideal," a vast understatement, "But being responsible for someone else isn’t an anthema."
His temper had been dampened by larger ideas, and mollified by Laszlo's brokenness, so he almost approached a place of patience. Almost.

"My brief experience says it is tiring and frustrating and you often don’t know what you're doing."
He had often felt like he was stepping boldly into darkness even he could not see through.
"But I would not relinquish the privilege for any price. For a time, you are more than the weight of just your life."

Unable to sustain the tone, Duvalyon tapered off into something sharper.
"Petch it, Laszlo. Pretend to love it and maybe you eventually will."

by **Laszlo** on April 1st, 2012, 7:12 am

With his food stolen, Laszlo resigned himself to delicately cleaning off his fingertips, carefully cradling his sweet flesh between his lips. He leaned forward with one arm in his lap, wondering at the last time he'd ever seen Duvalyon eat, and then he realized he couldn't recall. It was remarkable to see that even he required food to live. How humanizing. It was just odd. Who would have known?

"Abalia would like that." Laszlo's voice was weak, not much more than a whisper. To speak seemed to pain him, because he winced and set his other hand in his lap, beginning to rub his wrist. "She loves it more than I do, and it's going to kill her. She keeps trying to make me promise things." Laszlo was too tired to put his faith in blind hope, or perhaps he just wanted to a reason to pity himself. Probably both. "I just… I can't bring myself to see beyond… if I'm a father, then she's dead. And I can't…"

She hated him, didn't she? Some part of her, perhaps a piece that even she didn't want to acknowledge, must have resented him so much for taking her away from her home, giving her this death sentence, even being a part of Roxanne's death. Laszlo must have represented everything that was darkness and pain to her, wrapped in a guise of devotion and caring. A demon, a killer, disarming her with love and destroying her in every way possible.

Laszlo rubbed at his chest through his shirt. He barely even noticed the pressure of the bandage hugging his midsection as he shifted. "Of course, if it's my offspring, I'll care for it. It's not that I'm afraid of becoming a parent, I just… it's fantasy, Duvalyon. Pure fantasy. That isn't supposed to happen to me. I'll barely be older than the child itself. I'm not even mortal. I'm…" An in-between. "I just can't grasp it. Mostly because… I don't know what the future holds. If I'm the child's father, then it'll mean that Abby… she'll…"

From some distant foothill, a strange animal cried into the night. A high-pitched, fluttering howl which Laszlo didn't recognize. His violet eyes flickered up briefly. They were glistening. Laszlo saw nothing, so he looked back down.

"You'll care for it, if I can't." It was both a request and an observation. He knew Duvalyon would do as he promised. Someone here had to be unflappable, with a sense of reason. Duvalyon's greatest asset was that he always seemed to know what he was doing. "I just don't know what I'll do. I can't fathom her dying. Gods, look at her. Even asleep, she's tossing around. Alive. I…"

Laszlo hadn't told her yet that he loved her. He couldn't. How cheap would that be?

"You look tired," the Ethaefal said, nearly croaking. He cleared his throat. He was giving Duvalyon a reprieve. He didn't want to hear this, and Laszlo didn't want to be humiliated. "Maybe you should return to camp. We start moving again around sunrise. You should sleep while you have the chance."

by **Duvalyon Hellebore** on April 1st, 2012, 7:12 am

"I will."

It was the only comfort Duvalyon was capable of giving. At the end of all these things, his steadfastness would prove more valuable than all the properly timed and phrased condolences.

Laszlo's pendulum mood was moving into outright grief. A thing Duvalyon was unaccustomed to, especially in another man. But none of his kin had lost anything worth weeping over.
He had watched families at the Purging gather in their mourning, arranged around the bed of whom they lost. They were still life renditions then, a pattern in fabric. They only subtly shifted, holding their ground beside one another in clusters. The links and roles of blood never seemed more powerful and defined as in those quiet rooms. He could immediately tell who was in the most pain, which hearts were tied and who was prepared to accept or give in the seasons to come. It was sacred as a prayer. In those seemingly unbearable moments, the words of the blood catcher were illuminated as wisdom.

One thing Duvalyon knew, they did not leave. They bowed their heads and sometimes turned away, but they did not flee that gray gathering. It must have been important, that presence.

And so Duvalyon did not move. He made no gesture of comfort though, his mind didn't even suggest such an impulse. When Laszlo encouraged him to leave, his natural reaction slipped out unhindered.

"Liar. I never look tired. Only more distinguished." His head rotated slightly,
"You, on the other hand..." his voice rumbled, "Thank Syna for sunrise."

He might have smiled. It was hard to tell as the expression was so different from human looks. The almost smile diminished and he settled in for another span of vigil. Eventually, he would leave and Laszlo could greet the dawn, a heaven breathed creature again.