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

by **Syllke Skyglow** on May 6th, 2012, 11:56 am

Aniska had turned to finish clearing the table, as Mara cooperatively went to fetch the kettle. As the boy was pouring its simmering contents into the basin of melted snow water, she set two platters and a bowl down on the counter top. She had just picked one up in order to put its leftover contents into a container that could better hold it for storage and use the next day, when first Mara asked his question, and then, almost right on its heels, the accident happened.

She was slowed in her reactions by the surprise of it all, and so she had only turned to look at him, as he crammed his fingers into his mouth and bit down on them. Aniska was no healer, but she was already moving towards him, when Mara skittered away to fetch the dropped kettle, once again forgetting in his upset state to take care and getting another burn, though he jerked his hand away much more quickly this time. He fumbled for his sleeve and got the offending vessel back on the shelf, but it was clear that he was hurt, both physically and with embarrassment.

Aniska had held back from interfering for it had all happened so quickly and Mara seemed so intent upon rectifying his tiny fumble that she did not want to press in. But as he repeated his apology – twice – she went to his side, taking his hand gently but firmly in hers, and pulling it forward to give it the briefest examination. The pads of several of the fingertips, the inner surfaces of those long, thing fingers, and a small bit of the top part of the palm were angrily red. Calmly, she led Mara to the far end of the counter, by the fireplace, to a large tub of melted snow water which sat on the floor. It had been from this larger container that the basin of water on the counter top had been drawn. Gently she dunked his hand in the still cool water, as they knelt together on the floor. Her arm then wrapped about his painfully thin shoulders and she pulled him close, as a mother would with an injured child. She rested her cheek very briefly against the fuzzy side of his head, and said softly, “We don’t have to talk of this tonight, if you don’t feel ready, Mara. I didn’t know your mother intimately, not as very good friends, no. But what I have to share, I will, when you wish it.” She gave him a little squeeze of reassurance. “It is hard, to grow up without a mother. It must bring both pain and happiness to you to think of her.”

by **Mara** on May 6th, 2012, 5:09 pm

The seeping char permeated past the first layer of his fingertip’s snaking ridges. It bore into the tissue at full tilt raising angry blood to the surface and a few pockets of swelled rawhide. The digits were extracted from his clamping gob with well-founded care. He surrendered to the grip to allow himself to be examined and dragged along after Aniska in a stupor.

He monitored his overheated extremity until it was bathed in the defrosted snow and pain receded to the depth of his cushions, cowering from the soothing chill. Color remained drawn to the surface in the harsh frost, but he seemed relieved and out of immediate pain.

Mara deteriorated into the encompassing hold a flaccid and spoiled tatter. It was consolation well required and he hungrily scooped it to his parched chops, as he appeared to with most who he found favor with; though a theory of only two occurrences could hardly call itself a theory at all. Their affection was a gift he did not expend when a moment arose when he was unguarded enough to accept.

He nodded his reply against her rounded cheek and exhaled a caged huff. It was a ‘yes’ answered to all the above. His questions had fallen heavily with the metal container, and remained scattered somewhere across the floor. He no longer had the heart to endure their dialogue and the care of their clinch was a longing that suffered all too tangible. Even so it was comforting to know she could have some information to offer and he would be drawn back at another time with rehabilitated curiosity.

Their affectionate moment was fugacious as his neck arched away to shy from her hold. "Thank you." he withdrew his hand from chilled water and shook it so that drips glided from his fingertips and sprinkled the basin's edge.

Now more collected, he looked over the expanse of his palm, noting a hem of whitened blisters foreboding their rise. A spare cloth was extracted from his pocket and wrapped loosely around the blistering skin to avoid it grating anything for the rest of the night. He was thankful that it was not so harsh that he would find it more difficult to fumble with his regular obligations at work.

"I'll still help you finish the dishes." he offered straightening himself to a suitable height and offered her a ghost of a kinked smile.

Mara’s thoughts had retreated to Syllke. He was not sure what craving was greater, to sit and listen to his endless chatter until all thought had ceased but of the Vantha boy, or to simply return to his hold and collapse into the rippling tide of his linen sheets. Either way he could deduct a fault in each, but his negative results continued to rise so that he favored Syllke over the anticipating cot. This was usually the case in his self-negotiations. Where his room was warm and inviting, Syllke was warmer and more inviting, perhaps those were also his adverse grades when the right phase arose.

by **Syllke Skyglow** on May 7th, 2012, 12:59 pm

Aniska felt the boy melt into her hug, for a moment. But only for a moment – for he quickly withdrew, putting some distance between them – both physically and emotionally, she guessed. She understood, and she let him go, of course, hoping that at least he now knew he could come to her, should he feel strong enough to hear the answers to his questions. As Mara examined his burns and then wrapped his hand carefully, Aniska stood and looked down on his half and half hair style, wondering if this was some deliberate statement about his ancestry, or simply a fashion choice. Mara then rose as well and offered to resume helping with the dishes, a thin smile lifting the corners of his mouth ever so slightly. She smiled back, warmly, and said, “Why don’t you . . . “ But that was as far as she got.

Syllke fairly burst back in the kitchen, his cheeks red and snow in his hair. “It’s snowing,” he exclaimed, unnecessarily, as he paced to the wood box beside the fireplace, his arms laden with split wood. With a loud clatter, he let the pile drop in, and then set about rearranging it. Having left his boots by the outside door in the entranceway, his feet were clad in socks only. But his coat was also wet with already melted snow and drips fell on the floor all about him as he moved to complete his chore as rapidly as he could.

“Syllke,” Aniska called softly to get his attention. “Mara has burnt his hand. Why don’t you take his place and help with the dishes?”

Syllke’s head had jerked about at this unexpected news and of course he came straight over to inspect his friend’s hand and ask a hundred questions. There was nothing to see but the bandage, so he had to be convinced that Mara’s hand wasn’t going to fall right off before he quit pestering to see it for himself. In the end though, with a few teasing remarks about Mara now knowing that fire made things hot, and more remarks that showed more truly the concern that he was feeling for his friend, Syllke took off his coat and the three of them got down to the unfinished business of the dishes. Though Mara was pressed to simply sit and relax, he insisted to help, but his bandage was obviously a hindrance. So the three settled on an assembly line approach that turned out to work quite well, with Aniska washing, Syllke drying, and Mara being left to put the dried dishes away. They would have been done in no time, had Syllke been content with simply telling Mara the actual places that the dishes went, instead of deliberately misdirecting half the time so that Mara had to search out the correct place. Aniska giggled and tried to be helpful, but after the third time of such nonsense, Mara quite listening to Syllke and went faster just figuring it out for himself. In the end, he probably had quite a better knowledge of Syllke’s kitchen than he would have ever wanted.

With their task completed, the two took themselves off to Syllke’s bedroom once more, ostensibly to resume their examination of the skeletal remains Syllke had found. But once the door was closed, Syllke reached for Mara and pulled him close, kissing him affectionately and with some interspersed questions to ascertain if he was truly OK. With his arms loosely about Mara’s waist, Syllke made the observation, “I’m sorry my mom dragged you into doing the dishes in the first place. Parents are such a pain. You must be glad you don’t have someone telling you what to do all the time.” The Vantha shook his head in vexation. “I can’t wait to leave Avanthal, and get away from them. Living with your family can be such a drag.”

by **Mara** on May 7th, 2012, 6:19 pm

To be allotted a back seat to Dra-Marvasa Whitevine and Syllke Skyglow revealed a dynamic that offered attestation to the long-standing adage, opposites attract. They had come to appreciate more infinitely their diversities and commend them for what they were, intertwining in and out of the maze that would allow them to coexist. Had the mixed blood medic not comprehended the artiste, he may have been more exasperated by his persistent farce, but he was not he took it with ease and frequently allowed his eyes trace the ceiling to navigate over the remarks. Syllke was simply being Syllke, and Mara greeted it with ample helpings of tolerance.

Once Mara had charted the vastness of their scullery and each dish was in its appropriate habitation, they retreated to the artist's room, with a cursory farewell to his gentle mother. His hands were fidgeting within the depths of his pockets when he was caught by the arm and baited into a mind deadening peck. He allowed the Vantha a tick of fussing before his enquiries were swatted away and were given no hospitable return.

His fingers slithered their way out of the cavernous fabric, grazing knuckles along the hems his cohort’s pelvis, to drop anchor partly secure fists against Syllke's chest. His back curved into their espoused grasp as fingers flowed past the pleat of his lower back. Captivated by their proximity, he attended to each expression with the commencement of their talk with quiet resignation. That hastily altered as the artist continued.

He extracted from him, pressing the flats of his palms against his trunk to create distance between them, his spine now distending their embrace so that it threatened to rip apart. His undisturbed features scrunched into uneven dells as if he had munched into dough soaked in vinegar. "Don't be so thick, Syllke" his voice snapped against his own ears in its sudden assault. "I didn't mind helping out." He shook his head as absconding from the noose of his suddenly intrusive hands and severing their closeness. With such airy steps a board hardly croaked its disturbance under his mass, but the sense of his harshened air could be seen in his sunken shoulders. A loop around and an embellished plummet seated him upon Syllke's bed, with hands cradled in his lap. "You should be grateful for them." He boosted his chin toward the door as if his arguments were not enough to distinguish his implication. Bleaching irises collapsed so that his line of vision skimmed the chamber at the stature of his knees.

His brows ridged "Do you know what I would give to have even one person that cared enough to 'tell me what to do'? What makes you think the world beyond your comfy little hold is going to be so great?" he knew he was being severe. He could sense it in the venom of each syllable. The exasperation that had been swept into the crevices shifted with hurt feelings and misplaced connotations leaving filth swirling in each reaction. The discord grew within him like a plague and he leaned over his lap as if gathering a forkful of air, after running through Syllke's statements one by one through his mind. He was not baseless, but looking for an unproblematic out. It was something he had avoided undertaking before, a resistance that had been fixed long ago and now tripped by Syllke's unassuming proclamations.

"Can't you see what you’re taking advantage of here?" He stood flinching as an overwrought claw dug into his singed palm. "I'm sure you'll be pleased to leave Avanthal in its entirety, only a couple years to go, right?” By this time he felt the significances of his confrontations, but could not stop. Avanthal in its entirety he realized had counted in himself. The wrench in his chest caused him to realize something, something he nearly divulged in the passion of his intolerance. This amity he felt for Syllke was more than friendship, more than just a guileless fascination. He favored him, more than he could find for any other that he cared for. In fact he could find in this moment no one who held so much sway. The only word he could put to this feeling was one he preserved as an obscene term and rejected it. It was a terrifying thought, and he was ready to cut and run.

He dragged his heavy hands to his chest and noticed himself polishing at the now knotted looking bandage, relishing in the relief it gave his torrid insides. "This was a mistake." the comment was more for his own discoveries, but he gazed into the Vantha's disheveled expression and he could only think he desired a sabbatical from this untimely recognition.

by **Syllke Skyglow** on May 7th, 2012, 9:18 pm

Mara’s reaction to his careless words caught Syllke completely off guard, and he didn’t even try to maintain some sort of grasp on the healer as he slid from Syllke’s embrace and plopped down on the bed. He could only stare in confused bemusement, having really no idea where the words -and more importantly, the tone - were coming from. Any day of the week, Mara might have called Syllke thick, and the artist would have blown it off, knowing it was just an affectionate tease. But this time, it really sounded as if Mara meant it. And the problem was, Mara was right. He was right about almost everything that he was saying and thinking – Syllke was thick – clueless – when it came to knowing what he had been blessed with. A boy raised knowing nothing but tolerant but wise love – how could he realize what many others went through? What Mara himself had lived with, every day for so many years? And Mara’s tone was so . . . acerbic – not only cutting but almost angry. Bitter. Like Syllke had just murdered a cute puppy. Was his sin so great, Syllke wondered, hurt and confused by Mara’s ire. He wasn’t even sure what his transgression had been? Parents were weird. And having them always on his back was tiresome. And yes, he did have plans to leave, though he hadn’t ever really discussed them with anyone, including Mara. They were still nebulous, but – what was the big deal here?

Syllke’s eyes dropped to where Mara was scratching at his burnt palm, and the Vantha took a step forward, intending to at least take Mara’s hands and gently pull them apart. Ready to once again just let things slide. But his friend’s last words stopped him in his track.

”This was a mistake.”

Instead of flopping open like a caught fish, as it was wont to do, Syllke’s mouth clamped shut. Tight lipped, he stared at Mara, his face first blanching, and then red suffused his cheeks. For if Mara was only just this moment realizing what role Syllke had grown to fill in his existence, Syllke had had a similar epiphany countless days ago – though the two sentiments took different forms. Where Mara might have been astounded by this self-discovery, the same feeling of deep affection had blanketed itself over and around Syllke as naturally as a warm, familiar old jacket. It hadn’t startled or surprised him – it just felt . . . good – natural – a perfect fit. He welcomed it, even if he didn’t shout it to the stars, yet. And no, he had not let a word slip to Mara because always – always – he knew he had to be so careful of Mara’s feelings, of his shyness and hesitancy and the feeling that the healer would flit away at the least hint of anything profound, anything public, anything that put him at risk for hurt. But still, Syllke had held the feeling that suffused his heart close and treasured it, hoping one day it would the right day to open the cage door and give it its freedom.

Mara’s words shot a bolt through that hope just as if it had been a bird taking flight, and it plummeted to the ground at Syllke’s feet.

”This was a mistake.”

Syllke looked at Mara for a long moment, having no clue what to say, what to do – to make this right. Then finally, something snapped inside and he knew – he didn’t want to make it right. He didn’t want to comfort Mara, or console him, or soothe him into a good mood again. He was tired of feeling like he was walking on thin ice, always skirting about the edge of things because it was too difficult for Mara to talk about them, or think about them, or feel them. Syllke was just too simple a person – he was fairly uncomplicated, straightforward, wearing his heart, and his good humor, on his sleeve. He was patient, but he was not subtle, or layered, like this boy who had such a firm hold on his heart was. Syllke didn’t understand Mara, and looking at Mara now, scraping against his own injured skin, Syllke didn’t think he ever would understand him – and he wasn’t sure he wanted to try. It was a bit tiring.

Syllke nodded, silently. Then finally he spoke.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. A mistake. So . . . you know where the door is.” He stepped to the end of his bed, where Mara’s jacket was tossed aside, and picked it up. He held it for a second, then threw it at Mara’s chest.

“See you around, yeh?” The tone in which he said that, tinged with hurt feelings and annoyance, made it clear that it was certainly no invitation to return anytime soon.

by **Mara** on May 7th, 2012, 11:20 pm

Mara's sights fled from his as he began to address him. No arguments, just antipathy laced words crammed back down his deserving gullet. Understandably he had accomplished his intention and aggrieved the Vantha. Barbs drove their corroded ends between each rib and he suspected he may suffocate as his sentence was pronounced from lips he had only moments before devoured gluttonously.

He bowed his agreement still wrestling with the casing of his wound so that blistered skin was pumiced away into pouches of raw exposed pink. His grief morphed into bewilderment as the wadded clothing was flung at his torso and a sleeve clouted his face. He looked up at Syllke sheepishly, for the first time feeling the wrath of his own exploits and like a reprimanded adolescent he nodded again. "...yeah."

His steps felt as thick as limbs being captured and slurped down into a bottom unexpectedly made of quicksand. Once he had made it passed Syllke his steps hastened and he tripped past the door, too overcome to slip his jacket over his apprehensive shoulders.

Not a single word was spoken as he made his way to the door, entranced with each foot scampering in front of the other until each pace was crunching in newly lain sleet.

Mara streaked the back of his hand across his face as the snow fell in thick melted tears across his glowing and breathless appearance. A single finger ran over a closed lid and he did not stop his hassled bound in hopes that he could outrun the thrashing in his chest.

He missed him already. He was distant enough now to confess it and feel the encumbrance of it. He could not go back, and he felt he this may be the last time they met in blameless spirits. He cursed himself for not compelling a longer moment to press his lips against the others. They held the lingering warm against the cold of their former receiving.

He did not want to return home, but night had fallen and the last of Avanthal's citizens were proceeding back to their holds. When he touched the entrance of his own hold he noticed something familiar. A grey woven jacket curled up against the hedge adjacent to the entrance that would allow the huddled body it covered inside.

A willowed arm floated towards the collapsed form to touch him upon the shoulder. "Father..." his tone as gentle as the flapping wings of an insect, careful not to disturb the nearby wind. As his fingers made contact a swinging hand hurled back and collided transversely with his bent figure. He grabbed at his struck chin as the other face turned to greet him and the small nick that had manifested upon the bridge of his pursed lips.

"I'm no one’s father anymore. My son is dead." he moaned looking dejected and nearly as whitish as Mara himself.

An overpowered sigh grazed his falling bangs where he usually may have argued or persisted. "I know. Let me help you inside Atric."

The man gave him an incredulous stare at his rejoinder, but shrugged and agreed, temporarily satisfied by his reply. He took Mara's outstretched hand and was led inside to flop down across the seat of the living room.

"Can I get you anything?" he offered from the kitchen.

"Tch, trying to make yourself useful." his scoff reached deafened lobes. "Another drink if you’re offering then."

The mixed blood took out a glass and poured the tributary of auburn and rancid smelling liquid into the glass. The bottle still hung from his strangling grasp as he delivered the beverage to his father without discussion.

He retreated to his room and fastened the door behind him, bottle in tow. His window was pitched open, despite knowing he could have gone out the front door, he just wanted to slip in and out with little worry anyone else detecting. His feet trampled through the snow, and generous drink was thrown back to splash against his tonsils and was guzzled down into his aching stomach.

"Congratulations, you are now completely alone." he raised the bottle as if making a toast to the moon and lifted the pick-me-up back to his suddenly parched hole.

by **Syllke Skyglow** on May 8th, 2012, 1:37 am

He wasn’t going to stop Mara. He wouldn’t. Though some inner voice screamed inside his head to pull Mara back into the room, into his arms, a lower, steadier voice said Why bother? He doesn’t want you, Syllke. What part of ‘this was a mistake’ don’t you understand? You ARE thick. And so he stood, as still as stone, willing himself to the same hardness, as Mara left. He listened, but the healer’s step was so light, once outside the bedroom, Syllke lost all sense of him. He waited, one minute, two, three. Mara would be long gone by now, he thought. He threw himself on his bed, on his stomach, reaching for his pillow and burying his face in it. If any of his family had seen Mara leave, it must have been an unremarkable exit, for no-one came to inquire where the boy had gone, not even his mother. Chest heaving, Syllke willed his trembling eyelids to obey him, and hold back the traitorous salty drops that threatened to mark him still a child, for he was a child, to think that adults had no cause to cry. He tried to think how wrong Mara had been, to speak like that, without reason. But he could only now think back and recall how Mara had reacted to the little boots – his confession that he knew so little of his own mother. Syllke thought of that very first day that he had met Mara, and the querulous voice raised in what might have been anger – the sound of something hitting a door or a wall or the floor – the way Mara had looked when he came out of that room. He thought of the few things he did know about Mara – the things that he knew were part of the pain that simmered always behind those silently observing eyes. Those beautiful eyes . . .

Syllke pulled the pillow over his head, pressing his face into the blanket, trying to block out . . . the light, his thoughts, this feeling of near despair. What if he had really torn it? What if he had really, really fucked up and made Mara so pissed that he would never speak to him again? What if – it didn’t matter and Mara had already forgotten all about him, because it had all meant nothing to the healer in the first place?

Could it really have meant nothing? Was he really so stupid that he had taken everything completely the wrong way? Even when they kissed . . . like that . . . and . . .

Syllke sighed. Mara . . . was . . . confusing. Even when he wasn’t around, he confused the hell out of the young artist. His fingers stretched out, tracing an idle pattern on the blanket, his eyes opening to watch them swirl pointlessly. They dropped to the floor, closer to the fireplace, where they had sat to look at the bones. It all seemed so stupid now. Everything seemed stupid. He was stupid, to have thought . . . anything, about Mara. About anything being between them. It had felt right. But he was wrong. Dead wrong.

by **Valkyrie** on October 10th, 2012, 8:45 pm

Syllke Skyglow :

Mara :

You Will Be Collected if Worthy

If you have any questions or concerns regarding your grade, please send me a PM and we can figure it out.