I'll miss our little talks.

[Laszlo]

Summer 57th, 512 "Just this?" Leaning on the doorstep banister just outside Sakana Dai's alchemy lab, Laszlo turned a paper envelope over in his hand and curiously inspected the design stamped in jade sealing wax. Nothing was written on the other side, not so much as the name of an addressee. The seal alone probably conveyed enough information about the letter's business and its involved parties. "Just that." Sakana withdrew from the shadows of his laboratory and pulled the door shut behind him. After a rattling of keys, the door was soundly locked. Laszlo looked up from the letter to examine his employer, who looked remarkably well-dressed for a casual afternoon. His attire helped to lend Laszlo some idea of why Sakana was shutting down early. "Do you have an appointment somewhere?" The younger Ethaefal tucked the letter into his vest pocket, turning and leaving the doorstep after Sakana passed him. As usual, the rhythm between them was discordant and awkward. It was difficult to decide whether they were divine brothers or working associates. Neither seemed entirely appropriate. Though the day was mostly overcast, Syna's sons still caught the sunlight like shards of skyglass, the both of them just a little too vibrant and well illuminated to be creatures that had come from earth. They shared similar coloring and height, but the unique curves of their glasslike horns helped marked the differences between them. Laszlo's attire, too, was forever out of place, in Alvadas, Kalinor, and now Lhavit. Sakana had at some point conformed to the largely monochromatic trends respective to different Lhavitian city districts. "I do." No other explanation was given. The alchemist was already heading south along the road, deeper into the Sharai peak and further from the heart of the city. "Please deliver that to the Twilight Tower. I'll see you tomorrow evening, Laszlo. Good night." "Good night." Left off-balance by Sakana's brevity, Laszlo lingered and watched him for several seconds, feeling the weight of an obligatory, existentialist moment, but eventually turned and headed north toward the bridge. Sartu was a good walk from here. He'd be Symenestra by the time he returned home for the night. Usually buried in his thoughts while he made these scenic trips through the shining diamond of Kalea, Laszlo had been too distracted to notice the pale figure propped against an unlit lanternpost just before the skyglass bridge. It only occurred to the golden brunet after the he'd already stepped onto the glimmering structure that he didn't usually see other Symenestra in Lhavit. Suddenly he stopped and turned on his heel, eyebrows raised in chagrin as he looked upon Duvalyon Hellebore in all his terrible glory. "Oh, Duvalyon. How long have you been there?" Laszlo looked over his shoulder. Of course, Duvalyon had the right to go just about wherever he wanted, but what was he doing here? This wasn't random.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon made a gesture of acknowledgment when Laszlo was still at a distance. The widow had learned it was never wise to surprise lone Azo. When the Ethaefal neared, Duvalyon straightened and unfolded his arms. But Laszlo kept walking. The Symenestra flinched slightly and curiously watched as he almost reached the bridge. Duvalyon cleared his throat. It was enough to make Laszlo spin on his heels, and haltingly absorb the Syemenestra's presence. "Not long," Duvalyon answered, though his expression was still asking how in the name of Syna had he missed him. The medic was dressed a little finer than normal with a pack slung from his shoulder. Seeing him in the middle of the day was enough to inspire confusion, but seeing him at ease brought a note of panic. "You're a quick study," he commented dryly, "I'd like to see what would happen if I actually tried to sneak up on you." Without explaining his presence, he began walking Laszlo's original path. "After you deliver that, we're going to go to temple then eat." Duvalyon told instead of asked either because he couldn't fathom Laszlo disagreeing, or he couldn't withstand the shame if the Ethaefal declined. The Symenestra was slung between the natural social instincts of a young man and the ascetic lifestyle of a hermit scholar. It was possible that Duvalyon liked to leave his work and the house, but all evidence pointed to hatred of being outdoors. Today though, he walked like someone average, instead of a quiet creature that sought to be overlooked. Normal looked foreign on Duvalyon. When the sun was bright, someone like him was supposed to stick to shaded corners and tread quietly.

[Laszlo]

"I was just lost in thought," Laszlo replied defensively, still recovering from mild surprise. Duvalyon began to move down the bridge, and Laszlo fell into step next to him. The Symenestra was neatly dressed as well, leaving the Ethaefal to wonder whether he had missed something eventful, a gala maybe. But Duvalyon would never go to a gala. "That happens to me, lately." He absorbed Duvalyon's proposed itinerary without protest, though the look on his face was still one of bewilderment. Laszlo's lack of rebuttal conveyed his compliance. It wasn't as if he had any other plans. Abalia was out enjoying the city on her own terms, as she sometimes did. The street-smart Alvad did always seem to prefer the openness of a place rather than being cooped up inside. Privately, Laszlo lamented at the thought. Just another reason she was perfect for him. As the autumn grew nearer, he was becoming more aware of all the small things about her he'd never really noticed, but always adored. "Very well," Laszlo said, after appearing to think on it. He was still distracted by Duvalyon's unusually natural demeanor, aside from the fact that there was nothing natural about a creature like him in broad daylight. He wouldn't ordinarily seek Laszlo out, much less invite him to dinner. He speculated that this must have been about something else, and began to grow nervous. While he inwardly measured time and tried to calcucate whether he'd actually be hungry by the time he left the Temple of Syna, he gave Duvalyon another up-and-down look, his eyebrows furrowing. "You're acting a little strange. I'd almost say you seem in high spirits. Did you meet a girl?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon looked sidelong at the Ethaefal and said, "I didn't know you were funny, Laszlo." The Symenestra kept his eyes forward, but never let them settle on anyone in the sparse parade. It was the trick of making himself seen, while convincing others of his disinterest. "Which part is strange? The eating or the visiting a temple?" he asked with a slight crook to one brow. "Unless you're referring to bringing you," he continued in his gravelly deadpan, "As the humans say, beggars can't be choosy." A mother with children was a ways ahead of them on the bridge. She was hastily corralling her brood into a single file line behind her and emphatically linking them to one another. Duvalyon casually shifted so Laszlo would be between him and the small family. They passed in a hurry, the children openly staring, but Duvalyon only gave their greedy eyes the back of his head. Something in the distance had seemingly drawn his interest. There were other, more pragmatic reasons to keep the Ethaefal at his elbow. If only to make a gilded barrier between himself and the perception of malevolence. Come evening they would be a dreaded pair, but for now, Duvalyon could benefit from another race's good reputation. Lhavit did love its heaven tossed children. "Excessive," he commented shortly after, "Don't even like brunettes." The rest of the walk to Laszlo's destination was conducted in something that was almost companionable silence. They had lived in close proximity for seasons. It was easy to say nothing for spans. At least Duvalyon wasn't brooding, he was simply quiet.

[Laszlo]

"I suppose I should be honored, then," Laszlo resigned smartly, though his subdued smile conveyed the truth of his appreciation. It was nice, actually, to be invited by Duvalyon to an outing. Much of Laszlo's time was spent in private, or public, with Abalia. His social life had been for the most part centered only around her, understandably, as these were her final months of life. Laszlo had no made time for other friends, or even acquaintances. People met and names learned back in late Spring had been temporarily left by the wayside. They could wait. Abalia couldn't. Laszlo had put a priority on making this the most enjoyable chapter of her life, even if that involved shopping for things like prams and toys and bassinets. Do you think the baby will like this? Good thing she enjoyed making the Ethaefal uncomfortable. Whatever tenuous friendship existed between Duvalyon and Laszlo remained mostly undefined, like an unspoken agreement. At worst, Duvalyon was a lurking vulture, here on the behalf of his race and waiting for a woman to die. At best, he was family, patient and ever-present, always vigilant but never intrusive. Though Duvalyon would not allow Laszlo to back out of their arrangement, the Ethaefal would have been lost without the Symenestra's resolute grasp on reality. It was rare when Duvalyon was the one in need of companionship, but it was easy to forget that he was as mortal as anyone else. And he was isolated, here in Lhavit. His options for company were depressingly narrow. Still, this sort of effort put out to find Laszlo in the midst of a transaction made him optimistic that perhaps their association with one another was more than just a matter of circumstance. Surely Laszlo's diminished opinion of himself made him cynical of what people saw in him. The Ethaefal dispassionately watched the mother herd her children away from the Symenestra, aware that he was being used as a handsome shield. It was difficult not to be bitter when Laszlo still received the same treatment as Duvalyon in the evening. Even if the mother was wise to be wary, there was more pity had for the medic. Duvalyon's dry remark was countered with a low chuckle on Laszlo's part. He considered coming back with a witty rejoinder, but everything that came to mind was tasteless. The moment passed and the silence followed them all the way to the Sartu Peak. Lhavit passed underfoot surprisingly quickly, and meanwhile the sky reddened, carrying candy clouds and a cooling draft that promised the approach of a chilly nightfall. The looming shadow of the Twilight Tower diminished even Duvalyon's foreboding effect on the immediate area. A polite knock on the door was answered quickly by the shuffling of iron locks. The door opened halfway, granting a small glimpse into a wide room lit by colored glass lanterns. Laszlo pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it to the partial image of a well-dressed woman, draped a silk robe with large, heavy sleeves. "From Sakana." "Thank you." Laszlo nodded politely and turned back to Duvalyon as the door shut behind him. "To the Temple of the Moon?" he guessed, considering the shrines to their respective deities lied on opposite sides of the city. The Ethaefal visited the Sun Temple daily. It had been some time since he'd paid any respect to his Goddess' consort. "I don't see the point of living in a tower," Laszlo mulled out loud as they began crossing the city again. "I understand the grandeur, just not the practicality. It's as if the object is to fit as many staircases within a structure as humanly possible." More serious topics clung to the back of Laszlo's mind as they approached the Shinyama peak, where the focal point aside from the Pavilion was Leth's temple. He always wanted to mention Abalia, but those conversations never went to pleasant places. One of the more present thoughts on his mind, aside from her imminent death, was the prospect of becoming a father. It was still difficult to believe that a being could exist made of his own flesh and blood. There were several areas Laszlo wanted to inquire about, including the child's name, where to acquire clothing, what to feed it—and when exactly Duvalyon would leave. These answers, however, would come at their own time. There was no need for Laszlo to live in the future when the precious present was so fleeting. "Has your sister written to you? You've been away from Kalinor for a while. I'm sure she's worried." Laszlo hesitated on the steps of the temple, shadows growing longer as the Kalean horizon slowly engulfed Syna's light. "Do you plan to bring back gifts for your niece and nephew? I met a woodcarver, an acquaintance of Abby's, who makes little toy okomo." Even when she wasn't trying, Abalia still seemed to steal her way into Laszlo's attempts at conversation.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"Staircases are pointless," Duvalyon distractedly contributed to Laszlo's commentary on towers. While Duvalyon could pass fairly well with human customs and tones, there were profound chasms in his instinctive understanding. Yes, he knew staircases served a point for most Azo, but his natural state was at odds with all Azo construction. The Symenestra lived in a constant contortion outside of the racially homogenous Kalinor. The food, the light, the streets, the language, the crowds, the features: all were adverse to what he called familiar. Even his social standing had been diminished. It was not a simple transition like a Vantha shifting to warmer climes, Mercifully, he was well trained to maintain the appearance of ease, so neither of them had to watch him totter through customs. "My sister?" Duvalyon repeated, "A few letters. Kalinor sees few traders, and she is a woman grown with her own family." He nodded with Laszlo's description of the carved Okomos and accidentally divulged his avuncular habits, "I'll need three. Niece, nephew and cousin's child. I've already got a few things for them. They're used to presents from me after trips." A funny picture: Duvalyon selecting trinkets for children while towing a surrogate. "I'd be shunned for a season if I didn't come through." He frowned, "They still haven't forgiven me for the time I brought them all abacuses." A little defensive, he added, "They're impressive if you know how to use them." Duvalyon let the conversation drift into nothing, recalling that Laszlo wouldn't have anyone who waited for gifts or his return. To a follower of Viratas, it was a sobering loss. They reached the temple of Leth before it had attained its full evening splendor. Summer days stretched long and graced Syna more than her wild lover. Duvalyon absorbed the whole domed structure from a distance. The first sight of it made his hand rise to the back of his neck, one of his few nervous tics. His head then lowered with resolve, and he continued steadily along the incline to the highest point of the peak. "I should have made a shrine in the home," he murmured to himself in Symenos. Leth was a favored god, but he was not Duvalyon's chief divinity. Today, he simply needed a sacred space to make his prayers hallowed. Almost forgetting Laszlo, Duvalyon entered the temple, making a subtle cultural gesture of respect and fealty just beyond the door. Another discordant fact to remember: the Symenestra was a religious man. He withdrew from the Ethaefal to pay silent homage over the pool. After a meditative silence he spoke a few lines in Symenos Laszlo would recognize as a common prayer to Viratas, but the prayer was joined to a quiet recitation of what might have been a passage of the Viratassa. It had the cadence of something sacred and worn to familiarity by years. The ritual seemed complete. Duvalyon even began a step back from the luminous water, but he then slowly fumbled through a few final lines. It was Shiber, and the words were exhaled in a condensed phrase that sounded more rapid apology than prayer. Perhaps the god of thought would bear some of Duvalyon's to the other divinities. When they finally left the temple, the Symenestra was calmer, as if the difficult portion of his errand had been overcome. "The tea house?" he offered.

[Laszlo]

It had been a relief to hear the snippet about Duvalyon's family. Though Laszlo lacked any connections of his own, he could find some vicarious comfort in someone else's. It was also pleasant to think that, despite the ugliness Laszlo had seen in the past year, there could still be peace and contentment somewhere else in the world. Knowing it was under Duvalyon's protection, too, was heartening. "You still can," Laszlo replied in Common, wondering if Duvalyon had meant his remark about a shrine as an aside, and had forgotten that the Ethaefal knew Symenos. He was gazing off toward the Pavilion quietly, looking more detached from the moment than he truly was. "Though Abalia may appreciate it more if it were discreet." The Symenestra proceeded into the temple. Laszlo lingered reluctantly outside, glancing once over his shoulder, before eventually pushing himself to follow. The glistening, early evening atmosphere of the skyglass city was left behind as he stepped into the cool, easy lighting of Leth's temple. Here might have been the only place in Lhavit where Duvalyon looked less inappropriate, whereas Laszlo's own coloring slightly clashed with the setting. The Symenestra was a stark contrast of extreme lights and darks, pale skin and black hair, not unlike a moonlit sky. The Ethaefal was a collection of gold hues that blended in less gracefully with the décor. Laszlo grew ill at ease in the Temple of the Moon, contrary to what he'd been expecting. The idleness of the gods, he realized, troubled him more deeply than he had thought, and this extended even to Leth. It was vain to hope that any benevolent entity would intervene in Abalia's undeserved fate, but it was also difficult to forgive them for their inaction. Only Syna was spared Laszlo's bitterness. He knew these were irrational thoughts, and that the gods had nothing to do with Abalia's predicament. Laszlo was less frustrated with the gods themselves than with his own smallness and feeble mortality. But remaining rational was a continuous effort which had become exhausting, and only so much satisfaction could be gained from self-loathing alone. Still, the Ethaefal made an earnest attempt at humility and made a quick furtive prayer to Leth. After some hesitation, he mentioned the names of Siofra, Arrow, and Suria, imploring the wild god to look after his children. Laszlo was ready to leave before Duvalyon, so he lingered near the exit, passively watching the Symenestra while allowing him his privacy. This was not a side of him that Laszlo was allowed to witness very often. There was something particularly solemn about Duvalyon's rituals, as if there was a specific motivation behind it. It wasn't Laszlo's business to pry, so out of respect he eventually looked away. Words were spoken in a language he did not recognize, but the Ethaefal discouraged himself from being curious. Outside, Laszlo had to smile when Duvalyon proposed their last destination. How many times had they crossed the city now? Surely, if every convenient locale in Lhavit were situated on the same peak, that would have made it too easy. "Fine with me." A better choice, actually. Laszlo would have selected a place that served liquor. It was while crossing the bridge back to the Zintia when Laszlo's shift occurred. After his form became briefly enveloped in light, he went through the routine of adjusting his cuffs and collar to better fit a lighter frame. Usually at night, he would untie his hair and allow it to drape his shoulders, but tonight Laszlo instead chose to keep it up. His thin, clawed fingers went about the task of unfastening his tie and readjusting it, pulling the rest of his silvery hair taut. With his hair pulled back, Laszlo looked a bit older than when it was down. The look was sleeker and less charming that Duvalyon's usual hairstyle, suggesting either a lack of interest in vanity or simply a lack in fashion sense. The latter seemed more likely. "About thirty-three, if you ever wondered," Laszlo offered as the teahouse came into view. By now Duvalyon was likely used to considering the adult Symenetra as a young Ethaefal, but the physical age disparity between them was still mildly noticeable. Aware that a pair of Symenestra would be an unwelcome sight in every part of Lhavit, Laszlo feared they might have been refused entry to any place of business. Despite Lhavit's reputation for cultural tolerance, an understandable exception could have been made for Symenestra. Hypnotism might have become an option in such a case, but fortunately there was no need. Either the teahouse waiter was a tolerant man, or some of the city residents were becoming more aware of Laszlo's evening form, if only through Duvalyon's association. Laszlo opted out of an entrée and merely ordered a cup of tea for himself. Holding his warm mug in both hands, he sipped at it cautiously. "I have lunch here relatively often," Laszlo observed, looking down at his tea. "Never alone, mind you. Usually it's just conversation while I watch the other person eat." As if the identity of the "other person" was a great mystery. Laszlo was trying to avoid mentioning Abalia in every third sentence. "Occasionally I'll try to have a bite of something solid to dispel the awkwardness, but then I'm startled by the texture."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"Texture?" Duvalyon said flatly, "There's liquid, slightly thicker liquid and...jam." He obviously had little sympathy for Laszlo's culinary troubles, and had learned to be circumspect about his own. He rarely ate in front of the Ethaefal, and it was never anything that needed venom. The Symenestra's food arrived, soup, no surprise there, and a pot of Benshiran style tea he was very specific about requesting. It wasn't the real thing but it was close enough for tradition's sake. "Thirty-three," he observed from nowhere. Duvalyon's seemingly random conversation was a theme of the evening. "As of sunset today, that would make you precisely ten years 'older' than me." Drifting from the immediate, he idly scratched the table as his thoughts shifted to what the day represented. It was the anniversary of his first murder, committed without understanding, but his infant mindset did not alter the result. The day was also a reminder of the pervasive peril to his race, and how they bartered for a future with the lives of others. Abalia and Laszlo understood the tragedy of it keenly, and in less then a season's time, Laszlo might witness the grisly desecration of the mother. After a few years in the Purging, Duvalyon had almost grown accustomed to the women with their insides spilling to the floor like wine. He tried some soup, mid thought. A true medic, the recollection couldn't sour his appetite. There were also the memories of this day spent with family and friends who saw nothing but good in it. They would celebrate the excuse to come together, and point to the birth of one of their own as a hard won miracle. One of them was all of them. Melia would make too much of his favorite thing, his mother would tell the same three storied from his childhood, his cousin would bring enough alcohol to kill a horse, his brother would be tolerable, and his father might grunt something about being glad Duvalyon had taken up the family profession. If he was lucky, the next day's hangover would be mild. But today he was in Lhavit without any of them. The false Symenestra across the table was the nearest he had to his own in the city. If that wasn't depressing, Duvalyon thought wryly, he didn't know what was. Ah well, he felt too old for indulging in self pity. There was no space for it in the role he sought to fill, and he had lost the taste for attention years ago. "I like ritual. Predictability. This stupid outing is part of the attempt to maintain it."

[Laszlo]

Laszlo lifted his eyes from their study of Duvalyon's soup and examined the Symenestra, visibly nonplussed at this new information. The Ethaefal's expression may have softened by a fraction before he politely glanced away again, looking down at his teacup and resting his cheek on the back of his fingers. With his free hand, Laszlo lifted a silver spoon and idly stirred his tea, as if he wasn't quite sure what else to do with it. That explained a few things. In retrospect, he felt a little guilty for calling Duvalyon strange earlier. "Saves me from asking about the Benshira tea," Laszlo observed, watching as damp, warm tendrils of steam curled around his pale hand. Though he reckoned he was an auxiliary choice for Duvalyon's personal ritual, he was still honestly a bit flattered to be included. "You're younger than I would have guessed. Not that you look older, you just…" He did look a little older. "You seem to know what you're doing." For a brief moment, Laszlo considered asking more about Duvalyon's preoccupation with his birth mother's race. It didn't seem like the type of thing that would have any significance to him, despite the care and courtesy he had extended toward Abalia, who to him was a willing surrogate. Ultimately, the Ethaefal dismissed it. The medic was allowed to have his secrets and personal fixations. "Curious to think that eventually, you'll have to catch up with me. This half, anyway." Laszlo set down the spoon and lifted his cup, sipping at his fragrant tea. The cup lingered near his face as he allowed the porcelain's heat to seep into his fingertips. He hesitated. "Duvalyon." Laszlo straightened his posture, setting down his teacup and cradling it with both hands. A pointed, black claw played at the cup's edge. "You do know there is no way I could ever show you how tremendously grateful I am. Truly. For everything you've done. You've been away from Kalinor for a long time, and all for some half-brained azo. And I know… that the way I've acted… I've hardly made this easy. I'm sorry that you were made a part of it." It would have been simpler for Duvalyon if they had never met. The Ethaefal pulled in a slow breath, quelling a surge of frustration at the thought. He should have realized so much sooner that Fallen or not, he was as much a part of the world as anyone else was from the day he dropped into the Suvan Sea. It was thinking he was apart from the mortal world that caused all of this. Every drop of water makes ripples in a pond, no matter the source. The next set of words caught in Laszlo's throat. He wanted to tell the Symenestra that he had saved the Ethaefal's life, something he'd told others on occasion, but never Duvalyon. Perhaps another time. And under the goading influence of copious amounts of liquor. "I'm glad to be invited to this stupid outing, in any case. I don't suppose you'd allow me to pay for your food and drink." Something else needed to be said. A segue, an exit strategy, to move the conversation swiftly forward. "What is that anyway? It smells sweet. Yatani?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"No, can't say I will," Duvalyon replied crisply to Laszlo's offer to pay. He tended to be adamant about financial matters between them. Something was corrosive about accepting mizas from friends, especially ones you viewed as your responsibility. Their unique dynamic had worked thus far. He would give wide berth to anything that might disrupt it. Duvalyon stirred the soup a little and chuckled at his ignorance. "I have no clue what's in this. Could be. I had it before and liked it. Someone else ordered it for me." He ate a little more in casual silence, as if nothing Laszlo had said registered prior to his attempt to cover the bill. "Laszlo," he was between drinks of tea, "Firstly, I do know what I'm doing," for the most part at least, "My record of accomplishments resembles that of an older man. And secondly..." He was about to continue his lecture, but paused on a word. Contrary thoughts were swiftly moving behind his burgundy irises. His postured deflated as he gave up on his condescending persona. What remained was still formidable, but looked more like a fellow creature of blood and bone. "You're welcome." He took another swallow of tea and added in a more characteristic tone, "Stop petching apologizing. It makes my skin itch." Duvalyon thought of other people who had looked at him with gratitude. There were more than what gathered in Lhavit and of darker shades. His history was justified in his mind, but it was rarely kind. A smirk moved his features toward self-deprecation. "I don't wear altruism well." The Symenestra was eager to move them both from the topic. Days and eras later, he would be encouraged by the Ethaefal's gratitude, but he was not particularly adept at accepting it. "How is your work?"