[flashback]I want to kiss your scars tonight (Mara)

[Syllke Skyglow]

Fall 80, 509 AV More than four weeks had passed, since the little altercation at the Commons, and in that time the two boys had grown closer with each passing day. Well, closer in some ways, though there still existed a rather wavering boundary that Syllke knew he should not attempt to cross, even while he wasn’t sure exactly where it lay. Mara still held him at arm’s length, in many ways, and Syllke was learning which triggers not to pull, or risk getting shut out – for a few minutes, an hour, sometimes a whole day or longer, depending on the transgression. Mara was never mean about it. He simply . . . withdrew, to some place inside his head. The healer would get very quiet and be less receptive to the young artist – verbally, emotionally, physically. It was a good thing that Syllke was a very observant person by nature, for bit by bit he was inching his way forward, to a better understanding of his friend. If he had had any concept of a minefield, he might have thought his friendship with Mara was something like that – he never knew where he could safely put his foot. But each time a topic, a gesture, a mood – some something that somehow reminded Mara of his past, his family, his ‘other half’ – exploded silently in Syllke’s face, he would remember, and he would not set foot there again. It was a good thing that Syllke was by nature a happy person and a resilient one, for another boy might have given up on the healer – his depth, his layering, his complexity making him so very difficult to really touch and know. But Syllke was both bright – eagerly accepting challenges – and affectionate – and it was perhaps this last that really won the day, when things got a little rocky. Syllke would simply hold on and hold out until Mara came back into his welcoming arms of his own accord. And then they would just move on. Since that day of the storm, the two had spent a lot of time together. It had become an everyday thing, for the most part, for Syllke to wander to the Whitevine hold and look up Mara, to see if he was busy or not. Sometimes his studies or his work in the clinic made him unavailable. More days than not, he would find a way to spend some time with the artist – who was often supposed to be elsewhere doing something constructive. But for Syllke, spending time with Mara was constructive, for he found his new friend to be inspiring. Being with Mara made him feel positively brimming over with ideas – about art, about life, about his future. Mara made him happy, and to Syllke, that was the only thing in life really worth pursuing. For if he couldn’t be happy, why bother? No doubt, the younger boy’s presence was sometimes an irritant to the other, who was in many ways far, far more mature than Syllke. Where Mara was serious and quiet, Syllke was boisterous and sometime obnoxiously noisy, and rarely if ever serious about anything. They made good foils to one another, but it typically was Mara who tired first of too many hours spent together. Syllke tried to understand that – Mara’s need for solitude, despite his reassurances that, yes, he still liked Syllke and no he didn’t mean go away forever. Mara would patiently repeat that he just needed some alone time, and Syllke would take it philosophically and leave, but not before asking when he could come back. Mara was indulgent. Syllke was silly. Mara showed Syllke the most amazing things about some of the topics he was studying, and Syllke made Mara laugh. Emotionally they had found that magical connectivity that is rare and that a person is lucky if it even comes along once in a lifetime. Physically, well . . . physically they were on a journey of exploration, though both were a little hesitant to take things too far. Maybe they were afraid that they would find it was so perfect that they’d never want to come back down out of those clouds they kept seeming to almost reach. It was a nice dream. Of course, they were still fresh, still brand new, to this phenomenon, and to each other. But life, in each other’s company, had seemed to definitely be on the upswing, and they were enjoying the hell out of it. On this particular day, Syllke had tried to coax Mara into coming out snow shoeing with him. He wanted to show him a skeleton that he had found out on the ice pack, just a short distance from town. The Vantha thought it might be some sort of sea creature that he had never seen before and he wanted to go back and fetch it out of the ice, to bring it back and study it. Syllke had thought for sure that Mara would be up for such a scientific pursuit. He had noted that Mara was careful of his body, and Mara had somewhat briefly explained that this was necessary because of its frailty, which was inherited from his mother’s race. But this proposed expedition would have posed no hazards of those sorts. So Syllke was surprised when Mara steadfastly refused to go with him, for no readily apparent reason. Mara had made the mistake of already saying that he wasn’t busy and was free to go do whatever it was Syllke seemed so excited about. But as soon as Syllke had outlined his plan, Mara had just point blank refused. When pressed for a reason, Mara had only remained silent and shrugged. Syllke had teasingly said he was lazy. Mara had become even more quiet, and Syllke took it for sulking, though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what was going on with the other boy. In the end, Syllke had shrugged too, and left by himself. He thought he would give Mara a few hours, and then see if he was still being grumpy. It was almost dinner time when Syllke was making his way back through the gates. He was amazed to see Mara there, almost as if he had been waiting for Syllke’s return. Syllke didn’t press him about it though. He was simply happy to see the healer and begged Mara to come back to his own hold so they could look at the fish, or whatever it was. Mara had agreed, without too much protest, and within no more than twenty minutes, the two were yanking off their outer layers and throwing them on Syllke’s floor. The contents of his leather satchel were extricated and strewn over the floor as well, and the boys bent their heads over the collection of still frozen bones for a good half hour. They barely heard the door open, when Syllke’s mother stuck her head in. “Syllke, it’s time to eat.” The still pretty middle aged woman, who looked just like Syllke – or he like her – smiled at Mara. “And you must ask your friend to stay too. There’s plenty.” Syllke smiled back at her. “Sure. Thanks. We’ll be right there.” She nodded and withdrew, carefully closing the door behind her. “C’mon. We can look at these some more later. And maybe my grandpa can help us figure out what it is. I’m starved. Let’s go eat.” Syllke had been kneeling on the floor, sitting back on one foot turned under him. He replaced the bone he was holding back onto the pile, and leaned over daringly to brush his lips over Mara’s cheek. “Come on,” he urged. “My mom’s cooking is great. You’ll love it!”

[Mara]

The weeks devoted to Syllke were like treading into a diffident newfound reality. Mara found he thought more often of the Vantha, his smile, his innocence, his well-being. To be with him was as positioning his hand to a flame, he could only allow himself bursts of the melting sensation before his ice-covered crust began to blister and he would need to find haven in his seclusion and in his labor. Mara had expended so much time unaccompanied, it was an odd conversion to become exposed in even the most uncomplicated of ways, but he was appreciative of Syllke's understanding and absence of meddling. It allowed him to feel more secure knowing if he refused he would not typically be hard-pressed.

There were just affairs he either did not want the artist to know, or he himself did not want to reiterate. Things were permanently and excessively convoluted for him, whether of his own doing or the circumstances of his upbringing. An answer was never as artless when it came to such a subjects as his household or history.

When Syllke had absconded on his escapade Mara declined for a number of reasons. None of which would have made much sense or done more to sway the Vantha than his uncomplicated declination. The most prevalent reason being, he did not delight in functioning nearby the frozen ponds. It was simply something he did not do. He would adamantly deny it, because of how foolish it would seem for someone that would be in no peril on a layer of ice with the gift Morwen had bestowed, but he was plagued with terror. He had never even been to Mirror Lake or the ice fishing spots, or even remotely adjacent to them since he was a child.

Syllke had returned with his findings and persuaded him to return to his home. The afternoon of waiting had left him thirsting enough for his company. It was not a challenging decision. When they arrived it was not long before the rousing and effervescing sounds of a family murmured into his ears. It was an unusual sense. His own home was never so relatively noisy with mirth so boisterous and full of liveliness. It was daunting.

A charming peek of the outward female description of the artist peered inside and beamed a smile that was all too acquainted and all he could do was stare with entrancement. His legs were popped to his chest in the crouching position in which they had been in exploring the pile or bones and his neck craned to view her. Once she had disappeared Syllke broke the superficial spell she had left with his own invitation and a seal of a skimming kiss to his cheek.

Only then did he catch what the entire conversation had been of. Dinner? "U-uhh, Syllke-" he stammered out his objection all too belated as the boy had already stood and was parting the room in anticipation of his straggling. He looked back at the pile beneath his feet, weighing his options. He thought about just not leaving the room, or quietly slipping away. Would they really notice his absence? If not, Syllke would. He had not been familiarized more than a passing mention yet, and even that was a bit unnerving. Syllke was someone he favored and he was now becoming mindful of the first outlooks of the possibility that artist belonged to a family that may not accept him. This situation was about to get a whole lot more unpleasant. If they were not already aware or had not noticed the signs, how would he explain to a group that he could simply not eat their food? Not for lack for disapproval of the dish, but for actual disability to digest it.

He erected with the unfolding of lean appendages and ran a hand through his hair with hushed defeat and followed Syllke out of the room, seeking to catch his attention.

The boy seemed utterly engrossed in his own family, already helping set up for the meal and no more than casting a smile in his direction. He looked over the courses strewn over the tabletop where they would all sit together and swallowed hard. It was something he had not even imagined families did.

He made a straight line to Syllke fronting him, so that they were facing opposing but shoulder to shoulder. He leaned in with an aggravated whisper. "Syllke...I can't eat this." His glanced over to his face to search for signs that no further explanation was need, but found none "And it's not that it doesn't look great, and I'm sure it tastes it, but I really CAN NOT eat this, or any solid foods." He pulled away finding this admission more awkward only now having to admit this with expectation to eat.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Oblivious to his friend’s reservations, Syllke exited his bedroom blithely and meandered to the dining area, which was really just an extension of a large kitchen. At one end ran a great fireplace from wall to wall, with a hearthstone and mantle. Above and beside and around this huge nook were arrayed any number of drying plants, baskets of vegetables, preserved hunks of meat, and a multitude of small containers for spices and flavorings and seasonings. Along an adjacent wall, ran a long counter for the food preparation, and above and below cupboards for dishes, drinking cups, bowls, plates and all manners of cook ware. The next wall was not a wall, but a curtain that when pulled aside led into the common living area. The fourth contained an alcove, and this is where the family table sat, large enough for ten or more, but as Syllke grabbed plates, the table was set for six – two parents, two grandparents, Syllke, and his guest. Already when Mara arrived, Syllke had set the plates down with a loud clatter, one even spinning in its place, and he was moving to help his grandmother carry a dish of food to the table. This accomplished, he turned to encounter Mara, and grinned at him, ready to say something, until Mara leaned in and voiced his confession in a low and private tone. Stupid Syllke. Sometimes he acted as if he really had no brain. One millsecond of consideration would have made it clear that Mara made his pronouncement almost in Syllke’s ear because he didn’t want it broadcast to the family at large. One further millisecond of thought would have allowed what he actually said to register. As it was, Syllke – feeling famished and hearing his own stomach rumbling at the prospect of good food – only half listened to the healer. Even as Mara made his first declaration in a subdued tone, and looked to Syllke for comprehension – or at least acceptance – Syllke’s eyes slid to the table and the dishes that were piling up on its surface, making an inventory of their contents. He was ready to extol their merits – and even to fall back on that hackneyed mantra of all parents – But how will you know you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it? – when the last part of Mara’s polite explanation of his predicament registered, in a half ass way. Syllke turned back to Mara and said in a normal tone of voice, “You can’t eats solids? Are you sick?” His face looked both mildly concerned and more distracted, as the tantalizing scent of the cooking filled his nostrils. “Are you sure you can’t eat a little something?” As if he had any idea what he was doing, his palm went to Mara’s forehead. “You don’t feel hot. Where do you hurt? Do you feel like you’re going to hurl or something? I swear – my mom’s cooking is the best. Maybe if you just eat a little something . . . you know, you don’t eat enough, Mara . . . “ His mouth came to a sudden halt, as two small, delicate hands descended gently on his shoulders. “Syllke, I think your friend is trying to tell you something. I don’t believe that he is sick.” Syllke’s mother smiled softly at the other boy who bore a strong resemblance to his own mother. “I am Aniska.” She held her hand out towards him, as if he were a little child, and then simply stepped forward and slipped her slender arm about Mara’s shoulders. “Come, I’ve prepared something just for you.” Aniska led the boy to the counter and gestured gracefully with her hand to two bowls. “Sweet,” she indicated one that was a mélange of pureed fruits. “And hot.” She nodded at the other bowl that held something that looked eerily similar to the volcanic soup that he had prepared for Syllke at their first meeting. Speaking of whom, Syllke, eyes wide with astonishment, had followed them and was peering over Mara’s shoulder. “Syllke,” the woman said in her soft, lilting voice. “Take one.” Her green flecked eyes returned to the young healer. “Dra-Marvasa, isn’t it?” Her hand went to his arm, a gesture of perhaps . . . sympathy? But she smiled again. “I knew your mother, long ago.” She motioned to the remaining bowl. “Take it. Come. Let’s sit . . . and eat.” And without further fuss, she moved to the table and did just that. Syllke, throwing Mara a look that clearly said, “Huh?”, shrugged, and followed her. The three others were already taking their seats as well.

[Mara]

Mara was irritated by Syllke's reaction. He spewed like a geyser of light skin and brightly decorated orbs and did not rest, noticeably only half engaged in what was being said. His eyes tightened to half a squint as if straining to see past the boy as he continued to talk aloud unrestricted, for everyone to overhear. Was he honestly this dense, or was he just too diverted to know any better? An odd impulse escalated inside of him to raise his fingers and flick him between the eyes so he would stop speaking. He contained himself, attempting several times to intervene, or find a quick aperture to his interminable prattle.

When the cool curve of palms settled on his forehead he forced them away with one simple motion with the back of his hand and ducked farther away from him. "I'm not sick." was all he managed and it had descended upon deafened ears. For such an attentive boy it had done little to help his cause. His edges tensed with some annoyance and points clamped to the inside of his suckled cheek, ready to all together declare his departure. A pair of delicate hands silenced both Syllke and Mara’s coming spill with a statement that was as thoughtful as it was pleasant.

Aniska was her name and he could not help but find her agreeable, the air about her was warm and appealing, the same feeling he often received from Syllke, when not this very instant. He inaudibly followed her open arms as her actions implied. He too took up his role of a lost child and was spellbound by her presence suddenly liberating him. When they reached the counter his eyes broadened with disbelief as he beheld the dishes there. He ricocheted from the counter to her and over to Syllke, expecting that Syllke had played some punishing jest of not understanding what he had implied. How was it all deliberate? He had not approved to even visit for dinner until just moments ago.

Nevertheless, the dishes viewed remarkably, in his eyes more gracious than the cuisine set aside for everyone else. He usually ate whatever leftovers could be made into a broth, especially since he prepared his own food on most nights. It was never much and hardly consumed for the taste.

His head shot up again towards her as she had uttered his name, his face chilled into equanimity. He nodded his reply as she articulated it, like she truly understood more than could be explained from Syllke’s mouth. The arm reaching out to touch him he unexpectedly did not recoil from and the final sentiments hit him the hardest. This Aniska knew his mother. He was hesitant, but the look upon her face was unlike what he would have expected someone speaking of his mother to be and an urge to speak only with her tugged at his chest.

It was vanished all too hurriedly as he picked up his bowl as she instructed and pressed aside his questions and his yearning, so as to sit with their family and dine.

Mara barely glanced back at Syllke, but the hint of a smile upturned his orifice as the other looked at him with such confusion. She must have actually known his mother. He wanted to be acquainted with how they had known each other, and how she had been when they knew each other. Did they speak? Were they friends?

He came to sit at the table beside Syllke, placing the bowl so it sat next to its companion and gazed down at them, smoothing out his lap with nervous gesture. He found he was unsure where to begin.

[Syllke Skyglow]

They had all settled themselves at the table and Syllke was just reaching eagerly for a platter of some fragrant, roasted game, when his mother said in her soft tone, “Syllke, do you remember where I put the little mukluks – your baby ones? Please, can you go get them and bring them here?” Syllke’s hand stopped in mid-air and the look on his face was hilarious. His mouth dropped into an “O” of protest and his face fell into lines of traumatized horror. “No- Mom . . . seriously. Please!” His voice was truly pleading and filled with all the acute embarrassment of a teenager who, helplessly, watches, knowing that his parent is going to humiliate him in front of a friend. But all the wheedling and unhappy looks in the world were not going to sway the woman, and this he knew, too well. Aniska Skyglow might have been very soft-spoken, but what she said, she meant, and she meant to be obeyed. “They are in the chest at the foot of my bed,” she said as if he had raised no objection whatsoever. “Go!” she added, when he shot her one last look of futile intercession. Without looking at Mara, without uttering another word and with shoulders slumped, much like a whipped pup, Syllke slunk from his chair and left the kitchen slowly and flat footed. The others began to pass about the various dishes and plates on the table, and Aniska turned to smile at Mara, saying, “Please, don’t be shy. Eat.” Then she turned her attention back to her own plate, with the same placid, sweet demeanor that she seemed to typically imbue her actions with. In the space of about three minutes, Syllke reappeared in the curtained doorway, something clutched in one hand, but almost hidden behind his thigh. He had, in fact, seriously contemplated acting as if he couldn’t find the blasted things. But he knew that his mother would know he was lying, and hiding them would have seriously gotten him in trouble. For the life of him - he had railed silently, totally exasperated – he could not see why in the world his mother would choose this moment to show off his baby shoes to Mara! Parents were just so weird! The whole rest of it – that she somehow knew Mara’s mom – what was that all about? As far as he could remember, he had only told her Mara’s name the last time the healer had been at their house, for a very brief visit, and no more. How could she have guessed his real name? None of it made any sense, to the overwrought boy. In the end, he had gotten up from the bed where he had sat, contemplating his options – which were none, really – rummaged about in the chest, fished out the little boot-shoes made of moose hide, and returned with them, his cheeks flaming with the silliness of it all. As he scooted into the kitchen and over to the table, he sort of slid the mukluks onto the table by his mother’s elbow, in the forlorn hope that somehow that would be the end of it. Fat chance. Syllke took his seat beside Mara and refused to look at his friend, assuming Mara would be as equally uninterested in ogling Syllke’s baby footwear as Syllke was. Of course, Syllke didn’t even have to look at them to know what they looked like. Over the course of his childhood, years after they had graced his tiny, chubby little feet, he had been shown them, he had played with them – at one point they have even been put back into service as footgear for a stuffed animal toy (a rabbit, as he was terrified of bears). Finally, they had been of no further interest as make shift play things and they had been put safely away with other family treasures – most of a similarly humble and sentimental value. But of course, his mother would not have sent him to fetch them, if she had meant to simply hide them back away. So as Syllke stared fixedly at his plate, Aniska, took the two little shoes up with thumb and forefinger and held them up, for Mara’s inspection. Then she waved them in front of Syllke, and said only, “Syllke . . . “ Still without looking at Mara, Syllke silently and glumly took the damn things and, without looking at them, either, plopped them down besides Mara’s plate. “I don’t know if you remember, Dra-Marvasa,” Aniska said, with her quiet smile. “You were so young, just beginning to walk. But you had a pair just like this. Did your mother save them for you?” Her smile became warm, lighting up her whole, still pretty face, once again making the similarity between herself and her son remarkable. “She was so proud when she made them for you.” The tiny booties sat so innocently on the table top, a bit worn but still in good shape. Soft, tan moosehide curled up into the beaver fur trim, and the pattern of miniscule blue beads made a paw print pattern on the top. Aniska’s words had brought a sharp look of surprise from her son, and his head had finally popped up, to look a million questions at her. But the woman gently shook her head, urging her curious child to silence, while Mara took in the sight beside his plate.

[Mara]

Mara was thoroughly amused with Syllke's behavior as he scampered around by a meek word. He had never witnessed him so subservient and it was rather pleasing in all honesty. His hands still pressing about his lap, he watched as he departed to receive what he was sent for, never browsing back toward Mara's himself, for he would have seen the film of a smile that had just faded.

Whether this was normal for families he would not distinguish the difference, but he experienced it in good health all the more when allowed to look upon the embarrassment upon his friends face. He relished in it for more than one reason. He was being cruel, but one of the reasons remained that he prized discovering the many changed margins that were Syllke, and embarrassment was an especially precious one to him. He was tempted to weave an arm out and make up for his harsh judgments with a kiss.

His daydreams were interrupted when he was encouraged to eat. Feeling rather like Syllke suddenly at the overly gentle coaxing he reached for his spoon to dip it into the first bowl and take a bite.

He would have smiled when Syllke returned with the pair of shrunken boots if it were not for the sting of numbing to his mouth as he tossed the liquefied inferno over his tongue and around his jowls. He looked at her attentively as she pulled them out to display and instructed Syllke to place them beside Mara. He set his spoon down and considered them over. They were charming, tiny fur brimmed boots with a hand crafted design. He looked from them to Syllke, trying to imagine him small enough to fit into such tiny wrappings, when he now stood nearly an inch over Mara.

He looked up to Aniska with surprise. Remember them? No, he did not recall ever seeing them before. He slowly digested what she had to say and looked back to the petite and tantalizing fabric. She made these. Her handiwork went into something just like this. His hand lifted to cover his mouth as he tried to remember more of her, but was drawn at a loss. He remembered too little, and all that was left was a muddle of insignificant banter and her demise. These were the things he wanted to know. How she had crafted small fabric baby shoes and loved him enough to show him adoration.

Moisture pricked the back of his eyes and he bit down hard upon his numb tongue to hold them back. His father had thrown them out, or put them away somewhere Mara would not get to. For to his father they were no longer Mara's belongings to cherish, because he was not truly Mara. It was times like these when the full weight of those accusations crumbled him.

Mara kept his head bowed, his eyes firmly fixed upon the object presented to him. He was ready to head for the door and take a moment alone when he required himself to clear his thoughts. He pulled his features back into their neatly woven mask and cleared his throat, pushing a warm hand over his slightly flushed face before looking up again. "My mother, Senesea...I don't remember things like this about her. Did you know her well?"

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke had turned his head to watch Mara, as he looked at the tiny shoes, his eyes watching the ones that had grown so familiar, but could also be, and often were, completely shuttered. They were downturned, surveying the mukluks, and Syllke could not see one way or the other if Mara’s orbs were revealing anything of what he was thinking, or feeling. He thought he saw the precious lines of that face seem to fall a bit, as Mara surveyed the shoes. Syllke knew enough about the young healer to guess that he did not know of any such similar boots that had adorned his own baby feet. If his parents and grandparents hadn’t been looking on, he would have placed his hand over Mara’s, but he didn’t – not from shyness, or any thought that his family would care about what he did. He was pretty sure Mara would, though, for the other boy was like a shy, wild creature that one sudden move would send skittering away, behind those walls he kept so close to. So, though he saw the slight pink creep into those delicately crafted cheeks, Syllke kept his hands to himself and maintained a respectful silence, for once. Aniska too was watching this oddly coifed and adorned boy, many thoughts running through her mind, mostly of a sad nature. But still she smiled her gentle smile, waiting for Mara to speak. Though she did not know him as her son did, she too had a similar thought – of how it looked for a moment as he would just rise and run, and her heart went out to him. But she sat quietly, eating a forkful of food, nodding slightly when he revealed that the little wonders his mother had crafted from him, so long ago, weren’t in his conscious memory. To his question she said, “I don’t know if anyone here, in the city, knew her well, except your father, of course. She was a quiet woman – reserved. Very refined, very . . . elegant. She was lovely, but . . . private.” She smiled again, a smile meant just for this lost son who so obviously was shaken by this unexpected talk of his mother. Aniska saw the longing in the boy’s face, the starving look of one who sought knowledge, of a treasure long since passed from his fingers. And behind that, the pain of that loss. She saw how difficult it would be, though, to hear of his mother . . . to speak of her. And she was sensitive to the fact, unlike her son apparently, that this might be a topic better left for a more private moment, though they were only six around the table. Still, she nodded at his bowl, saying with a tiny, tinkling laugh, “You did well with that. I never knew how your mother could stand to eat such hot things. But, she loved them. Eat, Dra-Marvasa, and later, we will talk.” She smiled encouragingly, and put a dainty bite of food into her own mouth Syllke sat with his lips rolled under and pressed tightly together, to keep from talking. He too wanted to ask a thousand questions, but he understood, this wasn’t the time. But he shot Mara a look and then smirked, saying, “Yeah, eat up – it’s all yours. No need to save any for me!”

[Mara]

Mara bobbed his agreement in an overstated behavior, swerving back to his dish. He was covering his disappointment. Despite that he could have conjectured that she was this way. It seemed by the end she had difficulty addressing even him, like she was holding back a multitude of things that were threatening to spill out. A staunchly fabricated division of his very core would always belong to her. She left a watermark that could not be burnished away. The questions were all one-sided. He should have begrudged her for allotting him with so little. Dying only of a broken heart and forsaking his to ascertain what it presaged to ruin so meticulously. He barely even knew what it necessitated to be a Symenestra, besides what was palpable and what was rumor. He was just as mislaid as every other complainant that focused a finger in his face with new spun witticism. Did he consume blood? He had answered yes on more than one occasion just to require them leave him be. Was he going to carry women off to Kalinor, the home of the Widows, and slaughter her with his nursling? Unlikely, but he did not know if he would in fact murder a woman by impregnating her. He was never taught any of it. He was no more a Widow than his descriptions allowed him to be, than his mitigated toxin and sporadic view of fangs could offer. He was both, a human and a Symenestra, and neither all in one beleaguered form.

He nodded to his food and took up his spoon. He recalled the very first time he had eaten something so scorching. His eyes had emptied forth chubby dollops of salty tears and it sent pain from the brims of his irritated spout and cascading through the beaten track of his innards. Once the fever had passed and he could partake of the numbing it marooned prickling throughout, he had indulged himself in it. Now he was seasoned to it, he knew how to circumduct it about his mouth and savor the scald.

He administered a cast of a half-hearted simper, an arc of collapsed concrete, and went about downing the melted provisions. The meal was filled with conversation that he was readily made a part of. He tried to cooperate as much as conceivable. The prospect of engaging more than just Syllke was a challenging one. They all seemed so at ease and accommodating of him as Syllke's companion.

His imagination besought to find what an intimate dinner at his home would look like. The depiction was of him and his father cumbersomely idled about the kitchen. Mara settled at the bar and his father sloping against the counter a few feet from him. Any attempt to speak would become floundering weight sinking into the pit that sat between them. If Syllke was in attendance they would be on perhaps better behavior, avoiding speaking more than of examinations into Syllke's wellbeing. All this pended on his father’s sobriety. Any other time and the situation would never be so civil. Atric would simply be unable or unwilling to hold his own tongue.

Mara swallowed down the last of the warming broth. He already felt fulfilled. It was a liberal helping and he typically did not need much anyways. Still he dipped into the second bowl. It was a sweetened bisque of melon that stroked and cooled his burning insides. He was compelled to continue for a few more mouthfuls before his middle complained to his continuance.

The meal did not last much longer, and soon they were lifting their dishes from the table to return them to the kitchen and have them cleaned off. Mara of course volunteered himself to assist in whatever way he could.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Aniska had noted him without seeming to, which was easy enough as the young healer tended to keep his eyes downturned, unless directly spoken to. From time to time, she would catch his eye and always there would be a look of friendly warmth there for him. Her mind was cast back - almost sixteen years ago, and she wondered, as parents often do, where the time had flown, since she was pregnant with her own son and sitting in the living room of this other boy's mother, as they worked on the two pair of booties together. It seemed like only yesterday that she could see so clearly this boy standing by his mother's knee, clutching at the fabric of her skirt, wobbling, before he would fall back down into a sitting position and crawl away. But always he would be back in short order, pulling himself upright, strengthening his little legs, getting ready to take that huge first step on his own. Senesea had despaired that she would get the tiny slippers done before that day. Aniska could see her one time acquaintance as she looked down at the little face turned up to hers, both so proud - Dra-Marvasa of himself and his growing mobility and independence, and Senesea of her little son's adorable loveliness, for he had been a handsome child - an exotic blend of both parents' best features. Aniska looked upon the almost grown teenager fondly but saddened by his gaunt, neglected appearance, though in this too, he did look very like his mother, as she seemed to simply just . . . fade into non-existence. Syllke, oblivious of course to his mother's musings, had eventually worked past his own surprise at this unexpected revelation and began to tuck into his dinner in earnest. There was an easy flow of familial dialogue, bandied about amongst the five. And Syllke did not even have to think consciously to include Mara in all of it – he did so naturally, as one born with a gift of drawing others into all they attempt. Syllke had the gift of gab too, it seemed, though perhaps that came from his father, or grandfather. The old man had many an amusing thing to say and a good story or two, always skillfully interwoven right into the fabric of the conversation. All in all, the meal passed as a success, and the guest did not appear outwardly to be feeling horribly uncomfortable or awkwardly misplaced into this cozy milieu. Finally, it seemed all had eaten their fill and chair legs were scraping the floor, as the diners pushed back and relaxed a few moments before beginning the task of cleaning up. Syllke had been the first to rise, closely followed by Mara, who had eaten the least of all of them. The young artist was just taking up his dish, saying “Let’s go back to my room . . . “ when a look from his mother made him pause, and then make a little grimace. “I think the wood box was supposed to be filled, Syllke – before dinner.” Aniska raised one fine eyebrow at her son, who frowned. “But can’t it . . . “ was all he got out, before his dad put a hand on his back as he too rose and took up his own plate. “Syllke . . . “ It was clear that these two parents were kind, loving – and firm, and that the boy knew when there was no use in arguing. With a look of resignation, Syllke looked swiftly at Mara, as a possible ally in hauling in enough wood to last through to morning. But Aniska derailed that hope quickly enough. She looked to Mara, and asked in her pleasant way, “Perhaps I could ask Dra-Marvasa to help me with the dishes, hm?” She smiled at him, then turned her eyes to Syllke, “While you fill the woodbox, yes?” There must have been some unspoken communication between mother and child for Syllke did not argue. He didn’t look happy about the arrangement, but he said nothing, just nodding his understanding. With an exasperated look at his friend, which summed up all the frustrations teenagers feel for the ridiculous, unreasonable actions of adults, he shrugged a sorry, mate to Mara, and then left the kitchen to get his coat. Aniska had already turned to the older woman, saying, “I think you can have a night off from the washing up Itsa’ha. Why don’t you go have a seat by the fire and rest?” The old granny nodded gratefully and took herself off in the wake of her husband and son, passing through the curtain into the main common room of their family space. Aniska had taken up several dishes and brought them to the counter, setting them down. She looked towards the fireplace and nodded. “There is hot water in that kettle, on the hook, Dra-Marvasa. Take the cloth and wrap it about the handle – I’m sure your hands are not as heat-proof as your mouth is.” Again, the almost musical little laugh spilled forth into the warm, food-fragrant air. “If you bring it here, I have a tub of water we can add it to, for the washing.” She smiled, eyes bright like a bird’s as she looked at him. “And we can talk, as we clean up, yes?”

[Mara]

A quiescent fondness swept over Marvasa like warm water over frozen preserves. "Of course." He plucked the cloth from its hibernation upon the cool and earthy thicket upon which it lay. With gliding gait the kettle was met and a clothed hand seized its copper hilt.

Mara was somewhat remorseful for Syllke and their sudden farewell. Usually the wanting of plunging into the depths of their relations, whatever that entailed, would be more than enough for him to object. What kept him from it was that he was eager to be in the company of Aniska. Syllke was such a reflection of her that it was not possible to miss. His warmth and his smile were fair gifts to collect from a mother. He wondered if he resembled Senesea past his arachnid features. A visual of her smile was fleeting and hazed. His father’s even more so than his own. What resemblances to his family did he possess, and were they worth having?

"You can call me Mara." a murmur as he resumed helping pour the broiling water into the cooled basin. Dra-Marvasa was what his father called him and a name he used with such formality it had lost its sincerity. Syllke was one among few he had given his sanction to use such a name, and it sounded the most appealing from his slickened tongue.

The splash across the surface of the conflicting liquid raised a column of insipid steam, rinsing his skin in sparse perspiration. He was hesitant, unsure of how to instigate a conversation with her. She seemed to wait patiently for him to gain the courage to begin. "How-" he began as the intruding stream began to vanish. "How, did you meet her?"

The flow died away in resounding droplets creating great hoops across the now lukewarm surface, as if hushing to listen to her answer.

Consumed in his distraction a delicate palm reached to cradle the metal container that had just set over the flames licking tongue. "Ahh" his hand jerked back, opposite grip releasing its catch to drop in an echoed clank across the floor as the brass container skipped away and rolled into a near corner.

He gripped his palm strictly as if hoping the pressure would ease the seeping bite. Mara's medical training must had fled him upon the brink of such an imperative discussion and he stood there with trembling digits pressed between his teeth to dig dents into the reddening flesh. Pain transference was something that seemed perfectly logical in his distorted concentration. "I'm sorry." his voice seemed panicked as he went for the forgotten container put out of sight across the tile. He reached for it with unhindered apparitions only to recoil with a reminding sear "Shyke!" He lowered his sleeve and retrieved it to set it upon the counter. "Sorry, sorry." a quivering pant exhaled past his lips as he puffed onto the injured hide. Mara was shamed, so flustered by such communicating he had forgotten how to function properly.