Lazarus Rising (Sian)

[Mara]

Spring 36, 512AV

There is no burden in life much grander than living. To endure when all odds are against you, when a boundless cloud hangs over and all is lost. What then must you do to continue on and to overcome? Will you rise to mend that which is broken, or plunge to gravity's relentless embrace? The resolve to survive is one that is stronger than any other. When absent there is little that can be done. When striven for, you may indeed conquer death. Though death holds count the days until a body may return and put purpose to decaying meat. He does not waver, he does not forgive.

Today, death will wait.

The drum of hastened steps pulsed like the pumps of a heart against the empty corridor. Mara had abandoned his side only for a single tick to dress in replacement attire and rinse the miasma from his weary judgments. He had hurried, the pestering of his gut kept him in constant nausea and allowed for little rest and no ease until what he cared for was safely in sight. His refugee, a seeming nomad and so he had come to call him for he had no name for him. Days upon days of tireless efforts and pleading prayers for the unconscious were given as payment for his blood.

It was an obsession, a cloying disease that his nature would not settle until what was entrusted to him was well. He could not veer away or allow himself to feel nothing. Perhaps it was the austerity or the struggle etched into his tale and put on exhibition in gore and bandage. With the surrogate’s he had treated there was no hope left in them, at least the ones he had seen. They were prepared to accept their fate or detested all things Symenestra that they asked nothing of him. It pained him still, but his sense of duty was lost on them. He could do nothing for them, so he stayed away when he could.

His re-entry of the room was abrupt and trailed by the raced inspection of his patient. He breathed his relief and unwound his rigid form. Cool composure washed him over at the sight of Sian’s peacefully resting body. No arc to his back or bend in his finger would be out of place with Mara having missed it. The subtle hints of pain upon his brow he had memorized.

His fingers ran over the raw opening upon his neck and only a tense was given in reply. No groan or hiss was certain, only a tense that justified his mild torment. The blackened plague had retreated, and webs of grey had faded to a shimmer of splattered blue. Only the pinked gashes of the puncture remained for Mara to look upon in silent indulgence.

He had not redressed the wound due to the constant treatment it had required; the last of which was melting away in crystal flecks of ice. Streams of tears cascaded down the curves of his arteries.

Now all that was left was to observe and to wait, as he had hoped to do days ago, for any falter in his condition. His hope was still resting in his awakening recovery.

A careful hand weaved through his half bandaged locks and slipped easily from them. He left to fetch the basin and return with the chilled water that he would spill over his lips and quench his thirst. He had brought some food to anticipate for when he would stir he would surely be famished as well as parched.

[Sian The]

“Dra-Marvasa Whitevine. Is that still you?” The voice croaked forth, even rougher than the last time Sian The had spoken out loud, three days before. His eyelids remained shut, as his brain and vision adjusted to the light filtering through them. The tip of a milky tongue crept past cracked lips, only a shade or two less white than the sheets under him, to poke at those parches surfaces. Despite Mara’s avid attention and care - the frequent dousing with cooled water – Sian’s lips were covered in patches of opaque dried skin – like a snake in the midst of shedding. Still, unbelievably almost, the corners of his mouth lifted, in what could only be an attempt at a smile – though it was only the flimsiest ghost of one. “You’ve kept me alive? I’m not sure if I should thank you or curse you.” It was said in what was meant to be a jesting tone, but as weak as Sian’s voice was, that intent might have been lost in translation. Slowly, he pushed his eyelids up, and blinked, still dazzled by the almost gloomy, soft illumination. From a now skeletal looking face – the high, prominent cheekbones standing out like shelves under his sunken eyes - Sian turned his unexpectedly bright gaze on the healer. Of course, Sian could not know this, but Mara looked too like a specter – a shadow of the wraith that he was even before Sian was thrown so casually yet so fixedly into the narrow confines of his life. The healer too looked like death warmed over, and as if he had suffered equally every inch of this tortured journey right alongside of his patient – and of course, he had. Precious flesh had melted away from both, and they might have been two corpses freshly pressed into the earth, ready to have a soul to soul encounter, in the place of two young men each staring at the other in some little wonder. For all that pain and misery that his body had endured, Sian now rested on the bed with an air of ease – at least, much more so than when last he had been conscious. He made no attempt to move, but his chest moved up and down regularly, with neither the rapid shallowness of the fevered brain, nor the alarmingly, unnaturally deep, stentorious breathing of the profoundly damaged and soon-to-slip-away-forever injured. In fact, as Sian made a survey of his angel of mercy, much as Mara was no doubt surveying him, his dark eyes held a look of concern, but not for himself. “How long has it been?” Sian asked, his gaze locked on those oddly color changing sym-but-not-sym eyes. “How long have you sat here, Dra-Marvasa?”

[Mara]

Mara was alarmed by his abrupt speech. He withdrew like a skittish rodent scampering back into its burrow. The fright promptly subsided and eroded away all other emotions. "Yes, it's me." His voice a moderate breeze through the stiff branches of his esophagus, he reposed a hand upon his forehead and rubbed the towel from its place.

Mara chuckled, a feeble and pathetic noise resembling a sob more than a laugh. "Thank the gods for they surely have found favor with you." he took in his gaunt face and still found pleasure in the sight of his fluttering lids and glassy eyes peering back at him. He had been waiting for such a long period for this. Itinerant in the desert of desolation and finally the syrupy eyes engulfing him had saturated him completely. "Your will as well, served you better than any effort I could offer." He offered his silent thanks to those entities who may listen.

He felt fragile, the plummeting in sensation that he would disassemble upon malnourished and ill-bid extensions. He wanted to care for his carnal needs and then rest for bells on end without intermission. He could hold out, he was sure of this, if by resolve alone. It's what he had run on for many days now. He had anticipated all this time. He would at least nourish this man with a meal and get him more comfortable.

The expression in the traveler’s eye was mistaken for discomfort and he extended to grab his water skin to offer him drink. His lavender eyes flickered to cerulean then returned never budging from their eternal floral blooming shade for the worry had subsisted and only trickled away to abate some relief.

His grasps lifted Sian's skull and offered him drink as he taxed to piece together the answer to his question. His silence was long and his face grave. "...Five days." he finally concluded. "Five days, you lay here fighting an infection the likes of which I have never laid eyes upon." he continued to offer him drink until he seemed to need a disruption from swallowing and he cast the container to the side.

Just speaking of the ordeal rushed the despondency back over him. He was too curious to halt, to find the answers he had been so search for in his stagnate form. He wanted to ask his name, to deal in pleasantries and understand him, but his brain was static with awful connection What attacked you? the questions threatened to spill out like excreting bile Why did you take the forsaken journey to get here? His concern always caused him to scold the things that he had come to find valuable. He stopped himself, mashing his molars together in a case-hardened swallow.

"I'm sure you're hungry, we can talk while you eat. I brought some things for you to eat." It was just a footstep away and comfortable to retrieve without squandering the moments he was spending enjoying his wakened presence. "I'm sure it's not to your liking, but it will be easy enough to eat and it's prepared to be full of nutrients despite its appearance." the liquefied food set inside a covered container and Mara revealed it to show a diluted brown paste. "It's not as warm as it once was, but it's just the same either way." It was made with a variety of ingredients the mixing of such had provided it such a dismal color, but the product would taste of a select cut of red meat and vegetables. Mara had eaten it a handful of times, finding it one of the few things advantageous about Kalinor. The meals were designed for a pallet such as his, when he found time enough to bother with it.

He fetched another cushion, still stirring about the contents of the container in hand. He returned and with some shaking assistance and a little luck was able to wedge it under his patient so he could better appreciate the meal. The utensil in hand spooned out a testing bite before preparing to slide it between his lips.

[Sian The]

Sian The drank readily and greedily, feeling the elation of moisture over the parched surfaces of lips, tongue and throat. He had to concentrate on swallowing, past something that felt like a hard rock lodged in the side of his neck. The motion of his throat muscles, too, set off an uncomfortable stinging around the same area, more in the skin and flesh than deep in the tissue. But he was so thirsty, he blocked the odd feelings and simply drank long and deep. He was not unaware of the careful way the healer held his head, the better to raise it slightly to accommodate the water going into his mouth and not down his cheeks and chin. It was clear to him that this young healer was entirely dedicated to his art, but he still wondered at a citizen of Kalinor taking such pains with an outsider. Sian knew little to nothing of the workings of this society, other than what he’d been taught in the Shinya training. And that had caused him to believe that the Symenestra were vile, evil monsters, with no pity and no mercy. Dra-Marvasa was setting that image on its ear, but, of course, it was clear too that this particular healer had been an outsider himself, at some point, if he had grown up in the north. Perhaps, Sian thought, as Mara withdrew the skin, that was why the half-sym was willing to aid him, to the extent he had. “I think you give yourself too little credit,” Sian said quietly, his frank stare taking in once more the fatigued air that hung over the healer like a weighty cloud. “The gods, my will, yes – but your hand, and skill, and attention. I feel those played more of a role in my continuing to breathe.” He paused, considering Mara’s words. “Five days is a long time. Looks as if you could use someone to devote a little care to you as well.” He thought his words went pretty much unheeded, or blatantly ignored, for Mara simply continued to do as he had been doing, which was focusing on his patient and so obviously not on himself. Sian wondered if the young man had taken any rest or nourishment himself whilst he labored over his charge. Probably very little, from the haggard look of him. Rising, the healer fetched the food he had brought, and then went to the added trouble of propping Sian up a bit, the better to eat more comfortably and without choking. For the first time, Sian attempted to use his arms and upper body to assist in rising a bit, so the pillow could be placed properly. But he felt as weak as a newborn, and his arms were like limp noodles. In the end, though, he was settled and Mara had scooped up a spoonful of the pasty substance. Sian nodded that he was ready and the spoon slid between his lips. He felt more than a little ridiculous – indeed he was very like a newborn – but he was realistic. The tiny amount of energy he’d expended trying to move about was exhausting, and he did not even have the strength to feed himself. With a stoic resignation, then, he allowed Mara to do the work. The paste, despite its odd texture, was flavorful and it was actually a good thing that he didn’t even have to chew it. It slid down his gullet easily and when the first bit hit his stomach, he realized that he was ravenous. Five days without food was a long time. And it was more like seven for he had not eaten for the last forty-eight hours or so before reaching the gates of Kalinor. But he knew, too, that food hitting a too-long empty stomach could catalyze severe nausea as well. So after two spoonfuls, he forced himself to talk, to allow those to sit and see how his body reacted to it. Once again his eyes searched for Mara’s. His bandaged hand, which was encased in cloth to the point that it was invisible, raised up and he touched Mara’s knee lightly. “I owe you my life, Dra-Marvasa. I am indebted to you now – a life for a life. I don’t know what impelled you to take such pains over me, but I’m eternally grateful that you did. I hope that someday I can render you some service that would be a small recompense for all that you have done for me.” His eyes went to his hand, guessing at its mutilated state under the wrappings. “Did I . . . did I have a fever? From this infection you mentioned. Did I talk in my delirium?” Sian felt a prick of anxiety that he might have mumbled or cried out words that would have given some hint at why he had come here, to this detestable place. Looking at the healer, knowing how very much he owed him – his very life – he began to wonder if he really had any chance of success. To have even a faint hope, he now realized that he would have to lie to Mara, deceive him, perhaps even . . . hurt him, when it came right down to making a move to rescue Jael – if she was even here. Well, his plan had always seemed completely insane – that was probably why the Shinya would not support it. But, he could not just do nothing. He was sure she was here – he had felt it all along. And if it meant her rescue – her safety – her life . . . he would just have to do what he had to do, regardless. Crap. Sian felt his skin crawl with the self-disgust that washed over him. Could he really bring himself to harm the one who even now hovered by him like an anxious mother? After what he himself had just said? Were they only empty words – or could he justify the possible harmful means by focusing on the end he so desperately wanted to achieve? He looked at Mara and he knew, in his heart, what his answer to those questions would be – would have to be. “That stuff is not bad,” he said, nodding ever so slightly at the container in Mara’s hands. “Thanks – for . . . everything, Dra-Marvasa. I - I would not really have expected such kindness . . . here."

[Mara]

Mara spooned more gracious bites of the paste, as Sian seemed to enthusiastically accept them and he was heartened to carry on. Again feeling flappable and somnolent he was taken off guard by the dressed hand stationing upon his lap, not that he protested. Affections were not something he turned away when he was in this state of mind. Mainly because he did not discern them as affection by bedside manner, and with this he was lither than at any other manner of speaking or acting. Where he was uncooperative and reserved in life he was earnest and elegant when betrothed to his work.

He shook his head in exaggeratedly lethargic gesture with eyes concealed behind lids, a fan of delicate chestnut strands sailing with each sway of his head to swat softer than air at his cheekbones. "It is not necessary, I implore that you not make such promises. I was merely doing my job. My compensation is that I succeeded in keeping you alive."

He spooned another bite to him unable to will his eyes to look much farther than the bowl and follow the journey to his patient's mouth. When the next question arose his eyes skimmed to the wound at his collar, still fearful to find newly emergent ornaments of the horrific contagion, but he found none. "Yes, your fever was very high. It only broke last night." His brow raised in questioning as he asked what he had spoken about in his feverish state. The first accounts of his reason for being here shadowed without connotation? No, he wished he had gathered something, but there was nothing substantial he had caught on to. At least not that he knew of, only a word or a name, he could not be sure. It had almost slipped past him, but his direct question had brought it to light.

Only now did he deliberate if he should trust him. He had cared for him so deeply because it is what he required of himself, but now that he was in recovery, he really knew nothing of who this man was. Still to look upon his threadbare face, he could not deny him and with rue he answered "There was just one thing I can be sure of. What it insinuated I don't know, but the word was....Jael." He took in his features waiting for some explanation, whether on purpose or by slight of expression.

They seemed to continue their conversation as if nothing else had come about, so whether it was relevant or not did not become obvious. This traveler either had nothing to hide, or was just exceptional at masking what his true resolves were. His gut told him to remain suspicious, and their dance of questions was only alleviated by Sian's next statement.

"We make do with what we have I suppose. No better slop in all of Kalea" he joked, but did not laugh. He was not sure why, perhaps the Symenestra that still lay within him had been prodded forward from living with them for this short time, but he felt defensive. Maybe he was only defensive of himself. "They aren't that bad, you know. The Symenestra I mean. They are more prideful of their race than anything, but not all are the monster's they-" he paused realizing he still could not contort himself as a round peg into their square of a hole, so he tried for once to conform. "We are made out to be."

He continued to offer him food, a continuous gentle nature throughout the extent of their conversation. "Would you allow me the pleasure of a few questions of my own? Ask me whatever you like in return." He struck a deal, hoping to understand better what he was now being faced with. Without waiting for his reply he persisted. "An easy enough question to begin with. What is your name? I've come to call you many things over the past few days, but I have been waiting to hear the truth from your own lips."

[Sian The]

From the healer’s words, it seemed to Sian that here was a man wed to his work surely. If “just doing his job” equaled spending what must have been around the clock attention to a patient that he didn’t know – if his payment came in the form of seeing the steady rise and fall of a chest not his own – if he did not wish even to be thanked for such herculean efforts – then this healer must literally live for his art. It was a dedication that Sian could appreciate and admire, for, up until the very end of Winter, he had been the same type of man. Devoting his life to Zintilla and her city, by pouring all of himself into his Shinya duties and training, he too had felt a committment to a calling and certainly not to himself. There were two in his life that he placed above the Shinya though, in the end. And it was for them that he was here, now, wrapped like a mummy and not even able to feed himself. He would not have done differently, though, had the choices been set before him a thousand times over. In his mind, there had been no choice really. And that name was falling from those oddly pierced lips, in reply to Sian’s anxious question. Jael. His sister. The only family left to him, besides her son, Jiu. It was for them that he had deserted his post – disobeyed his superiors – disavowed his unerring obedience to the Shinya, to come across the Unforgiving, to Kalinor. But it was so very imperative that Sian not react to that one precious syllable sounding from the mouth of a man who very well might have met her, without knowing it. That thought – that his sister might already be pregnant – by some murderous, kidnapping widow – caused a silent and invisible shudder to run through his very core. His face though remained impassive. As much as the name meant to him, he did not give anything away, even as he looked directly at Mara, wondering if his gentle, caring hands had touched Jael as well. Sian didn’t know if that possibility gave him more relief or more anger. The import of what the healer said about the food, and the Symenestra, and Kalinor itself, was not lost on Sian either. He immediately picked up on the pronoun Mara chose as he spoke – they – not we, not until the very last bit. Sian saw the conflict flitting across that drawn but delicate face, and once again he thought his Lady must have directed his poor, broken body right into the hands of this young mixed blood, or those hands to him. There had to be something here, he thought. Some tiny fissure that would provide the first crack – the first hairline aperture – into what might be an extremely thin veneer of the Widow’s culture overlying this other ‘outsider’. If he could find that opening, could it be – would it be – possible to . . . enlist his sympathy? His support? His aid? Sian The’s heart beat a little faster at the thought, and he tried not to become hopeful – for truly, he knew little to nothing about Dra-Marvasa Whitevine. Not enough to . . . trust. Not yet. As Mara posed his own request and that first question, Sian knew he stood on the brink – of a possible alliance. But he knew that he must tread very, very carefully. Swallowing another spoonful of the mash, he nodded. “Of course. I owe you so much – you may ask me what you like, please.” Sian’s lips curved into a true smile. “I wonder if one of those names might not have been Trouble.” He tried an experimental chuckle but it came out strangled, mainly because of that lump in his throat, and ended in a rough cough. “My name is Sian The. I’m afraid it’s probably not worth hearing, after such waiting and speculation. But – it’s the only one I have.” He chuckled again, a bit more naturally. “And as it’s likely you’ll ask this too, know that I am from Lhavit – born and raised there. I hired on as a guard with a merchant’s caravan, and . . . we got caught. In that storm.” His voice had almost died with those last three words, so somber and quiet had he become all of a sudden. His face too held a look of unmitigated dismay. “Did – did you feel the effects, here? Underground?”

[Mara]

A spike of worry drove into his gut as his abysmal chuckle morphed into that rancid cough. His sights drifted over the moors of the traveler's face down into the jagged edged valley of the nape of his neck where potholes of flesh were still plainly disheveled. His affliction was no longer crammed through the chinks, but his obvious discomfort was a testament that out of sight did not conclude its prolonged visitation.

He was pulled back at the declaration of the name he had been waiting for, Sian The. It was well worth the wait. He had named him traveler, nomad, and when times were the bleakest, fool, but never trouble. It was not trouble he found in his obligatory attendance. The name was a pleasant departure, unique as his bronzed skin and caramel eyes. In Kalinor children were named with a set of rules, a code that would easily connect them as kin, his own included. "Well, Sian The of Lhavit, you may be many things but you are no disappointment."

Questions continued to stock into his mind. Hired with a merchants caravan? He had no reason to doubt him, but he speculated. If it had taken them at least thirty days since the time of the storm and now only one strong to reach Kalinor, why did they not return to Lhavit when the storm struck? They must have been leagues closer, but something had driven them, driven Sian to reach Kalinor. Surely it was not for the novelty of the woven city. Why was he so desperate to reach the city? He could not ask him directly it would erect a wall between them. Their trust was teetering on a thin fulcrum easily swayed by a stifling exhale.

"I'm afraid word of the Storm did not reach us until after it had come and gone. When we heard of what had occured it was decided that refugees would be offered asylum." Even Mara had his suspicions of the reasons for their sudden hospitality. None of which he dare voice or plague his weakened patient with. A ladle greeted Sian’s rims with coaxing comfort.

He worried of the status of Avanthal upon mention of the storm. The obvious disturbance to Morwen's city was felt in his iris's telling variations. Time and thought was diverted away insistently. It would only haunt him to ponder on a city he did not feel he could return to.

"I am sorry about your caravan." He hoped if nothing else their souls would be guided to peace. "I'm sure you'll be eager to return to Lhavit when you are well enough. I can keep tabs on the coming traders if you wish join them on a return journey through the Unforgiving." his offer was genuine and only full of good intent. He hoped time would wean him from his pain and infection, and he wondered if he would have the heart to watch him depart without any true conclusion.

He chose his next question carefully. "Sian, I am curious..." lilac eyes shimmered to burgundy in their decisiveness. “What did you encounter on your journey that furnished you with such wounds?"

[Sian The]

That the residents of Kalinor were not even aware of the storm as it wreaked its fury over the outside world didn’t surprise Sian. After all, he and his now dead companions had survived in a cavern – perhaps it was the only way to survive. But there were many aspects of Mara’s simple statement that both troubled and comforted the acolyte. Though he had unquestioning faith in his goddess, Sian The could not help but feel a pang of resentment that Kalinor – of all places – should be spared the destruction that he had seen with his own eyes that lay between the city and where it had struck the caravan. If any should have been destroyed by whatever forces lay behind that storm, why had it not been these evil, murdering creatures? That had been a constant thought in Sian’s head, in the weeks it had taken the survivors to journey closer and closer to their destination – what if Kalinor was not even there? What if it had been wiped out? He dreaded the answer – for if the underground city was gone, then so too would be any chance of definitively knowing where Jael was. And of, course, he would have to assume that she had perished along with the city. At the same time, it seemed more than likely that, if Kalinor had not survived the storm, then there would be no hope that the stragglers would make it to any city. One by one they would die, in the Unforgiving. As they traveled south, they anxiously looked for signs that the storm had somehow waned and not made it this far. But each day they were convinced, this storm had been huge, with no sign of any weakening. Perhaps, they would find that Kalinor was no more – and their own doom would at least mean that the females of Kalea need no longer fear kidnapping and death, at the hands of the widows. Of course, this led to endless speculation about Lhavit as well. How had their families fared? How had the city fared? Had Sina and Leth and Zintilla been able to stop this destructive maelstrom? Had it even hit Lhavit? They had no way of knowing, and Sian had to consider the possibility that the storm might have already made his mission moot – that perhaps both Jael and Jiu were already . . . gone. But he could not let himself dwell upon such a grim possibility. He had focused on his goal – getting to Kalinor – and that’s as far as he would allow his thoughts to go. Now, as Mara spoke so briefly about others having found the city and sought refuge here, and having brought news of the storm, Sian felt both hope and fear clutch at his heart. There were survivors, but the storm had hit hard, and far. That much was clear. What fate had Lhavit suffered? He didn’t expect anyone in Kalinor to have that answer ready for him. It didn’t seem likely that anyone who might have set out from his city since the storm – if there were any such – would have made it to Kalinor yet, even by sea. And another question remained unanswered too – did anyone know what had caused the storm – what was it – for none of Sian’s party had ever seen the likes of such a phenomenon before. He had meant to ask Mara this, before his thoughts got derailed by the healer’s own question. ”Sian, I am curious. What did you encounter on your journey that furnished you with such wounds?" He should have expected this, but perhaps his mind was trying to protect itself by refusing to think on it, in its conscious state, anyway. So, though it should not have come as a surprise to hear Mara ask it, it did catch Sian off guard. His eyes leapt to Mara’s, and the fear in them was palpable. It bordered on near terror. Sian was no craven, but that – that was almost more than any man could bear – to think about . . . to remember . . . Sian swallowed, the lump in his neck impeding the movement of the muscles of his throat. His eyes dropped, to regard the cover that hid his mangled body from view. In a strangled voice no louder than a whisper, he said, “I-I don’t know. It was . . . “ He paused, for such a long time it might have been that he had forgotten that he was speaking. And indeed one look at his ashen face might cause Mara’s to think that Sian was lost, in thought – in some terrible thought. Finally though, his voice leaked out again, even softer than before. “It was a nightmare, come to life . . . Brought to life – by the storm.” His eyes, filled with an intense dread, lifted to Mara’s again. “You saw? The wounds. All made by one. One, but three, joined together. It was . . . “ He shook his head gently, unbelieving still, though he knew it had been real. “The world has changed, Dra-Marvasa.” He said still in a whisper. “There is new evil in it now.”

[Mara]

Stunned by Sian's reaction, Marvasa's eyes delayed, ensnared in the net of that fearful gaze. None of what he said made immediate sense. What evil did this storm bring besides destruction? He had only heard tales of a billowing clouds, and fire and water finding matrimony in one another. It was indescribable to him and it had seemingly reared a new race of beast into this world and he felt in that instant the terror that was pulsing off his patient. He had no reason but to believe him, it explained everything, to the abnormal distinction to each laceration down to the unexplainable infection. What creatures lurked beyond the deep stronghold of Kalinor? It terrified him more to think he may never depart alive.

His instinct flew back to him and he could see his tensing muscles ripple at the bandaging wrapped around his exposed torso and arms. Afraid he may disturb his carefully designed casting he spoke up, "Ok, that's enough." his voice was final and calm having taken reign of his own emotion. "You are safe now." he did not want to watch him struggle with the memory of what could not even be put to terms. His curiosity drained and all that remained was concern. He fastened onto those guarded eyes and held him there. "While you are here, in my care, I will keep you from further harm to the extent of my abilities."

His voice softened and a petite palm cupped his bandaged knuckles. "Do not think on it another moment." he turned away and to reach for the water skin. "I'm sorry I troubled you." He placed the dish down where the water had just been seated and offered him a drink.

“Your home, Lhavit.” He began with caution hoping to ease his troubled mind. “I’ve never been, but I hear it is beautiful. A city of stunning glass, yes?” the musical tone of each note sunk back into his lightened speech. A dance of polite manners and tender dialect, this game he could play well.

“My own home was beautiful, but made of ice rather than glass,” he smiled, one that could only be imitated through practice to appear so genuine. “-and the lady of my land was Morwen.” In his mind structures of intricately reeved ice, spun into recognizable edifications and a mantle of the richest white descended like a sheepskin over the flooring. People only light wrapped to keep out a freeze that no longer threatened their lives and puffs of smoke that was accustomed with each spoken word, sauntered with placid effortlessness. His home, no it was too late to call it that. Kalinor was his home now, but even in that he felt no allegiance. No pull of loyalty strung him to this woven city. He could find the splendor of each without scratching much farther than the surface, but he had no home, only a purpose. “So I am interested to hear. I understand if it is uncomfortable to speak to someone like me of it, but if you’re so inclined …”

“Tell me of your home. Tell me of Lhavit.”

[Sian The]

Sian did not contest Mara’s assertion – that he was safe – that they were safe – for he knew what he knew, about what lay beyond the gates of Kalinor. He wondered, if he should somehow locate Jael and extricate her from this venomous pit – would they stand any chance whatsoever of making it back to Lhavit? If Lhavit was even there? The healer’s words brought no comfort or reassurance, as they were meant to. But Sian thought that, at least this young half blood had gone to great lengths to keep him alive so far. He not only owed himself and his sister the focus and strength to push past the fear he felt, he now owed it to Dra-Marvasa as well – the smallest token of payment for all his efforts. Else, those efforts would have been for nothing. He allowed himself to be distracted by soft words so obviously meant for such. “Avanathal sounds like some dream then – a cold dream.” He smiled, trying to appear not so glum. “And yes, Lhavit, too, is a beautiful place, perched on five mountaintops. It is truly the city of the skies, for it is beloved of Syna, Leth and my lady, Zintilla. It was their gift that allowed my ancestors to recreate life after the Valterrian, and it was their gift that allowed the survivors to build the city of skyglass.” He paused, musing about the place where he had grown up, a wondrous place but to him it simply seemed like . . . home. “It is lovely by day, but you should really view it by night to get a true feel for its beauty. Everything glows, and the residents are most lively then. The days are more a time for rest – opposite to most places, I’ve heard.” His eyes wandered about the infirmary ward, taking in the subdued lighting. “And here, there is not day and night – only stones that keep away the darkness – or so I was told by those who had been here before.” His voice dropped a bit, considering his fallen companions. “I don’t think I could live in a place like this,” he added softly. His dark eyes lifted to the healer’s drawn face, and he asked, unable to keep the hope from his voice, “Have you – have you heard anything . . . about the fate of Lhavit? Have any other survivors or travelers from my city arrived here?”