Begun Again [Seven]

[Victor Lark]

Summer 4, 511

Water. There was so much of it. It had been a staple of his childhood, never out of reach or out of stock, but in the recent past it had remained painfully elusive. For fifty days, he had collected and rationed and prayed to gods whose names he did not know. He had learned the hard way how to survive on occasional rains and stagnant pools. And here was a massive tub of it, steaming and clean, and not even for drinking. He did not realize he was staring until the Soothing Waters attendant took his trunk with a smile. “Hello there,” he said, “What can I help you with?”

Victor mumbled something even he did not recognize. He was confused. He thought he was walking into a place to buy a meal, or a room for sleeping.

He had approached a man at the start of the great stone road, who was standing around in armor and seemed to know his place. “I need... I’m looking for...” he stuttered, but could not find the words.

“At the end of the road, turn left. Big double doors. Can’t miss it.”

Now, the pleasant odor of warm water and soaps occupied his nose and his short attention. He probably should have been offended that he had been led to a bathhouse instead of a tavern or inn, but he was not any less grateful. His grip remained firm on the handle of his trunk as the man tried to take it away from him. He was unaware of the city’s honest reputation and it was his habit to distrust the service, but he knew enough to be civil. With the politest smile he could muster, Victor said, “It is water-proof. I would rather keep it.”

An obliging hand directed him elsewhere. He remembered pulling some coin from the bulky pouch at his side and the soft touch of a skinny young girl who helped him to the side of the pool. She tried to help him undress but he would not let her; his usually nimble fingers stumbled vainly over the buttons and the next thing he knew, the pleasant burn of the bath had enveloped him. There was nothing but the water in those moments, not the chatter of fellow bathers in his vicinity or the tinkle of a soap tray as it was set by his head. His eyelids were heavy but still he gazed forward, ignoring the churning hunger in his stomach, trying to appreciate the overwhelming comfort which he had not felt for so long.

To a mind outside his own, Victor was a short and scrawny thing. His skin did not seem accustomed with its proximity to his ribcage. He was pale for his race, except his face and hands, which were noticeably and unattractively sun-kissed. He briefly tainted the water with a layer of dark filth as he entered it. For a few chimes he stared, peculiarly unmoving, but finally he ducked under the water and allowed his aching pores their relief. When he emerged again, he rubbed the weariness from his face and shook the hair from his eyes. Then his hand found the soap. The next moments were filled with the vigorous scrubbing of his palms and fingers, his expression flat save for smallest trace weary resolve.

[Seven Xu]

Seven would excel at meditation if he could stop that mile-a-minute mind of his.

That was really the only thing stopping him, he decided, offering his stinking clothing to a slight female attendant in trade for a towel. Tipping was customary, and Seven's fingers rifled through a small pouch of Mizas and paid the woman for his soap, bath time, and towels. Tasking shields required concentration. The soft white towel was wrapped taught around his low, narrow hips and an unusually dirty half-blood glared into the tiny mirror the borrowed locker offered. Two weeks, give or take a day, had passed since his last encounter with the bath house. An awkward ordeal that was, filled with too many new acquaintances and mortifying situations. It had effectively turned Seven off of the idea of public bathing until he could bear the smell of his own sweat clinging to oily skin no more.

Razor blade found Seven's jawline and he flicked it lightly against dry skin as his scarlet stare bore into the haggard reflection in the mirror. The blade lobbed off stray white hair that sparsely grew from his chin before catching that beneath his nose. A shoulder check, then one arm lifted for the blade to catch what little grew there. Seven repeated this careful process on his opposite side, before setting down the razor and rubbing weary eyes. One last vain mirror-check and Seven's mind pulled him back into the murky depths of half-consciousness.

A week had passed since he and Kendall said their goodbyes. There was one person in the entire city of Syliras he had truly bonded with, had a meaningful friendship with, and he was gone. Poof. Lithe fingers clung to the towel around his waist and his left hand gripped a perfumed soap that felt waxy in the humidity of the bath house. Seven's vacant stare located a portion of the opaque blue bath pool that seemed largely unoccupied, and that's where he headed, bare feet silent against the cold, wet floor. At least Kendall was traveling in a group - though that did little to prevent the disturbing memories of his own experiences at the coast of the Suvan from bubbling up to the forefront of his mind. They aren't going to see pirates in the wildlands. Seven scowled and shook the thought.

He was so lanky. So pale. Human enough to avoid stares and expletives regarding the loathsome Widow race, but decidedly unappealing in his femininity. Seven detested the fraction of time it took between removing the towel and exposing himself to the public and slipping into the water, but the hug of the warm bath calmed his self-depreciating thoughts and was adequate consolation. The twisted scowl faded in favor of a satisfied smile. It had been far too long since he could enjoy a peaceful bath - washing out of a basin in a tiny dank apartment held little to the steaming, body-encompassing bliss that belonged to such an aptly named establishment. Soothing.

Something dark emerged from the water an arm's length away and forced Seven to swallow a surprised gasp. When the mop of dark hair was pushed back it revealed sharp features accented by dark almond-shaped eyes. Seven quelled the look of shock in his wide eyes and pressed the bar of perfumed soap to his pale chest. It didn't come as a surprise to Seven that he hadn't noticed the man until now, more often than not Seven would shut out the world around him completely paying little mind to people and objects around him. Startling instances, such as a young man suddenly appearing in the water next to him, effectively pulled him out of his trance.

Seven felt those dark eyes on him. There was no ignoring them. At first glance the stranger could easily pass as a Lhavitian. While most common Sylirans were blissfully ignorant to the race in which he shared his blood, a Lhavitian would spot his subtle Symenestra traits immediately.

Pale lips hung open, and after a moment tightened into an adequately polite smile as Seven's head cocked in the man's direction. The embarrassment of an assumed invasion of privacy caught in Seven's throat, and fortunately, never made an appearance on his pale cheeks. "Hello."

[Victor Lark]

Between the fingers of his new lavender foam glove, Victor saw a face. His hand lowered slowly, unconsciously, revealing his own accidental beard many days in the making. If he could see it, he would have been disgusted for not removing it sooner, a thin black thing that tapered to a ridiculous point and made him look like a Nitrozian’s bastard. For now, he did not notice it. He was staring again, brow wrinkled as he tried to concentrate on the peculiarity of the pale boy’s face. In his corner of the world, the Symenestra were only monsters of stories. He would not recognize even a full-blooded one if it bit him. And while he was a stranger to anything but the most typical of human features, neither had xenophobia ever suited his unending curiosities. No, there he beheld something alien and beautiful, and was fascinated in ignorance.

The face said a word. Victor closed his eyes for a long moment to clear his head. When they opened again, he mirrored the pale lips’ expression: a wide grin grew smoothly over his face, sparkling with charm. “Hello,” he replied.

He turned his body towards the half-blood, opening himself to conversation as he replaced the soap on its tray and rested his elbow on the ledge. The dark-haired boy did not have the energy to be anything but candid (thought some might claim it was not much of a change from his usual demeanor) so he leaned forward, nearly drunk with fatigue. Their eyes would remain locked unless those red irises took the initiative to break the gaze, and still Victor would stare inquisitively at them. He dared to reach out to that white temple and lift the hair there to get a better look. His expression was still wrought with a smile as he asked, “Why do your eyes look like they do?”

As soon as he said it, he withdrew—not because of any embarrassment or sudden polite realization, but because that girl had approached again. She was in the process of gathering up the pile of clothes he had left beside his trunk, for cleaning. He mistook her courteous silence for vile sneakiness. “What are you doing?” he asked suspiciously. His hand flew to grab her wrist, flinging water over the already slippery tiles.

[Seven Xu]

Seven had half a mind to pull away from the stranger as tanned fingers brushed sweet-smelling soap across his porcelain cheek in their inspection. The digits were warmed by the swirling water that surrounded them, and defiant to his instincts, the curious half-blood stood his ground, even turning to face the dark-eyed man. Seven felt the warmth of a blush brought on by the sudden physical contact of the other stain his face with hues of pink. The stranger's voice was silky, decidedly masculine, and when their gazes locked Seven found it impossible to break the unblinking stare. That is, until the man questioned the oddities that were his scarlet irises.

"Well, I ..." Seven stammered, that polite smile fading as he stumbled to find a suitable answer. In theory it wasn't a complicated response, but it was a response that more often than not bred more followup questions.

Salvation came in the form of a thin bath attendant. The warm, groping fingers left a wet streak on Seven's face as they shifted their attention to the girl. She let out a startled cry as she was grabbed, dropping the worn clothing in a pile at her feet. "L-laundry services," Her dainty wrist slipped out of the man's wet grip as she took a startled step back. When she was safely out of the gaunt man's accusing grasp her surprised expression hardened sternly. "You cannot bring these things into the bath. We have locker rooms for your belongings, if somebody trips-"

"We are almost done here." A flash of sharp canines beneath his upper lip caught the eyes of anyone that bothered to make note of Seven's mouth as he spoke. His soft voice halted the attendant's disparaging remarks and if for no other reason to extinguish a growing conflict he found himself shifting closer still to the stranger as his chest pressed to the side of the pool, elbows pressing against the wet stone floor as his fingers grasped confidently for the trunk. There was a rising concern in the back of Seven's mind that this man would lash out at him as well for touching his belongings but he did not retract. "He is new in town," Seven had no reason to know whether or not that was a fact, but confidence was key in any good lie. "I brought him here. As you can see, he is tired and in need of relaxation. The clothing and trunk were an oversight on my part, and I will take the blame for breaking the rules." A smile accented Seven's soothing voice. "We will be out of your hair as quickly as we arrived, trunk and all. Take the clothing, and be sure to charge me for his laundry. Include the tip if you must, but leave the trunk."

The attendant eyed the pair for a moment. The pale one was a terrible liar, but his bloody leer sent a chill down her spine. A short nod, and she grabbed the floor-soaked garments. "Be sure that it does not happen again." A terse word of warning softened by a polite bow before she turned on a heel and left them.

If anything, Seven was relieved the subject of conversation was no longer on his eyes. When the attendant left them, he slipped beneath the calm of the pool, allowing the warmth to encompass his silvery tresses and, when he surfaced, they clung desperately against his pale cheeks. A hand lifted to brush back bangs from his eyes. "So." Seven cleared his throat, apprehensively settling down a few inches closer then he originally had been. His back straight, it pressed against the pale stone the entire communal pool seemed to be constructed from. In a vain attempt to shift conversation from his inhuman features, he tilted his head sideways to face his company. "What is your name?"

[Victor Lark]

His dark eyes burned with contempt, poring into hers even as she tried to explain her actions. Her lips moved quickly, silently, unheeded by his angry ears. They only opened to hear the voice of the man beside him. Much to Victor’s delight, he defended the foreigner’s unwarranted distrust. His gaze changed instantly to mocking acquiescence, his brow frowning but his eyes shining with new amusement. When he became bored with the conflict, his flippant countenance yielded to old curiosities. So engrossed was he in those unusual teeth, he did not even notice the pale arms grasp his belongings. If the girl glanced at him then, she might have thought him a dimwit.

If he had not already devoted himself to investigating the details of this man, he was hooked by the clumsy charade. The Ravokan could respect a liar, good or no. As such, he did not hesitate to remain as his things departed, happily playing along. The welfare of the clothes had become a matter of the future; the presently submerged stranger was of greater concern.

He was impatient for the blonde head to surface. His hand reached idly for the soap again, but he had not grabbed it before the man was already up and speaking to him. His arm settled there, sore. Though they already sat close enough to be friends, he could not help leaning close still, trying to catch another glance at his fangs or discover some new, strange thing about his appearance. If Seven had particularly keen senses, he might feel Victor’s breath through the rising steam of the bath. “You are too kind to me, stranger,” he said, his voice saccharine and low. It was as much a thanks as he would ever give.

Where the other man sat straight and faced forward, Victor’s back was hunched and his body turned almost perpendicular. He could not resist the urge to reach out and feel that porcelain skin again, brushing his shoulder almost tentatively with the fingers that had once perched on the side of the pool. The small action was as much a satisfaction of his own intrigue as it was a test, a chapter in his endless game of reactions and boundaries. He found the skin soft, not like the hardened, calloused, tanned appendage that marred it with a touch. “My name is Victor,” he answered then. There was a brief pause of consideration before he added, “Lark.

“And who are you?” The question was only half a request for a name. “I am not from around here, as you have guessed. I have never seen the likes of you before. Tell me why your smile looks different than mine. Are you Kelvic?”

[Seven Xu]

That warm, probing touch found itself on his pale skin again almost as immediately as Seven had settled. While the gesture was certainly not something the halfblood was accustomed to, he made no effort to shy away from the rough fingers that groped curiously at his shoulder. However, that defiant blush on his cheeks would not be stifled. Thin fingers wrapped around a waxy bar of soap that smelled of fragrant sandalwood and Seven tasked himself with scrubbing off what grime hadn't been removed by simply being immersed in the warm water.

Lark. Like the bird? The amusing thought never reached his parted lips before Victor continued with his questions. The distraction provided by the attendant had done little to quell the dark-haired man's curiosity. Seven's stare followed Victor's dark eyes, making an effort to pay little attention to the exploratory fingers that trailed along his collar bone before making a rough trail back towards the deep crimson ink tattoo that sat above his shoulder blade.

"My name is Seven," Pale hands rose above the water and seven fingers went up in the air as if to punctuate his response, his closed palm still clinging to his soap. A hesitation, mimicking Victor's introduction. "Just Seven." A name as peculiar as his appearance, but like the oddities that graced his fragile form it seemed to fit him perfectly.

Victor didn't look much larger than him, tired skin clinging to a frame that hadn't seen a good meal in a long time. A shock of facial hair that, Seven imagined, would look as heinous as his own if he let it grow any amount. Despite Victor's harrowing outer appearance there was an element of charm as he spoke in a tone as warm as the breath that broke over his neck and disallowed the pink to recede from Seven's cheeks.

"I'm not Kelvic, no." Seven shook his head. A thin, apprehensive smile curled his lips. A Symenestra's fangs were an indication of their predatory nature - a warning to others that a venomous bite was never far away. This was not the case for the blond. Seven's were short. They did not extend. The venom they did hold was far from detrimental to anything larger than an apple. And when he smiled, they charmingly poked at his fleshy bottom lip. "Just a halfblood. Sy-" A moment's hesitation. "... Symenestra."

The soap, effective in cleansing soft skin of impurities now made a layer of shimmering, bubbling armor across his chest. The bathhouse insisted a level of intimacy that Seven found foreign, uncomfortable. He dreaded having to stand; those fleeting moments where his thin frame would be left exposed in its entirety, before being able to wrap himself in the comforting hug of privacy the thick towel offered. In a vain attempt to catch Victor's gaze in his own, Seven turned to face him. Hands slid beneath the surface of the churning water that stirred with his movement and he leaned forward with a polite smile and a prayer that admission of his blood would not deter the man.

"Where did you come from, Victor Lark?'

[Victor Lark]

“Ravok.”

The word tasted sour, but he let it drip like honey as he said it. Victor had many memories from that place, mostly fond ones. Images of dark waters and greenless roads passed through his mind’s eye, inhabited by men in cloaks with silver tongues. There, he had been raised to fear and mock foreigners. He supposed he should be glad that the reception in Syliras was... warmer.

His gaze did not part from Seven’s, even as the half-blood had moved to match his posture like a white and red mirror of Victor’s rough, sunken form. His hand had since dropped into the water, having drawn a short line down the soft arm from where it had had encountered his tattoo. Unlike his latest acquaintance, Victor did not flinch or hesitate at their increasing closeness. He had never been averse to intimacy—quite the opposite, in fact. The color of Seven’s cheeks was like a book in another language, captivating the human beyond the quirks of his heritage. It betrayed uneasiness despite apparent composure, and it made Victor ache to know the secret thoughts behind the flushed face.

He took the reaction for embarrassment, and set out to discover the reason for it. “Not many Symenestra there,” he prodded, “Mostly humans. Is your other half human?” He vaguely recalled some story about kidnapped maidens and wall-climbing monsters, eyes temporarily drifting to one side. He much preferred doing and seeing to thinking and imagining, but his mind had begun to wander almost deliberately from the comfort of reality. His lashes spasmed over his eyes a few times before he continued, “Is it true what they say—”

But the excitement of it all had gotten the better of him. Warm blackness overcame both his view of the real world and that of his fleeting dreams. He fell forward outside of his own accord for a moment, finding only enough strength to suddenly reach up and grip Seven’s shoulder in a desperate attempt to keep himself steady. He pushed away from the man and lifted his hand to his temple, which was furrowed harshly with distress. His other hand gripped the side of the pool with white knuckles.

A moment passed, and Victor opened his eyes. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, distractedly regarding his own bar of soap again. He followed Seven’s lead and moved it casually over his chest, his face turned in conversation but his body leaning against the wall out of necessity. The same charm in his eyes was regained with effort, but it was glazed with momentary weakness. “What... what was I saying?”

[Seven Xu]

Ravok. The word invoked memories of a young mage offering a spot in their traveling party to such a place – only to have to pretend to be a slave because his features reflected dirty blood. While Seven was a passive soul, one that avoided conflict with every fabric of his being; he had a sense of honor and would never demean himself by impersonating a subservient slave. Syliras was a cramped, stinking, overpopulated town with most of its denizens being pure-blooded human. But, if you kept your head low and your smile sincere, it was a perfectly accepting place; free of the blatant and unprovoked racism towards anything fair enough to resemble a Symenestra Lhavit had to offer.

A comment devolved into a surprised chirp that escaped Seven’s lips as Victor slumped forward and grasped at his pale shoulders again for support before almost immediately pulling away. There was a blessing in the lapse of consciousness that halted the conversation, as Seven knew exactly what Victor was going to ask. At least he was going to ask him rather than immediately assuming the worst case scenario as so many before him had. Discomfort twisted his features.

An utter of dismissal was accompanied by a pale hand rising out of the murky green-blue water. “Nothing.” Warm fingers graced Victor’s gaunt arm in concern and the glistening white of venomous fang pushed against soft pink flesh when a smile softened his face. Mindful of possibly offending his new acquaintance, Seven chose his words carefully.

“You look hungry.”

A splash of warm water dissolved any remaining soap on his fair skin before thin digits left Victor’s shoulder in search of his towel. Retrieving the soft article, Seven continued to speak in a controlled tone – a voice unmarred by the nervous thumping of his heart or tell-tale remains of a blush that burned on his face. Why he felt so captivated by a vagrant Ravokian was beyond him.

“I usually carry some form of fruit on me,” he offered, recalling the lightly bruised apple he nabbed before leaving his apartment in the morning. “If you want, I could get it for you. We would not have to walk far; I don’t want you to pass out.”

The towel was rubbed through his silvery hair, ruffling it back to a pristine white. A moment’s hesitation was brought on by a conscious distaste for public nudity, and then the young man stood and wrapped the towel tight around his narrow hips, exiting the water. A hand twitched towards the trunk he had somehow missed in his initial survey of the poolside, but stopped, the thought of Victor reaching out to scream at the attendant for touching his belongings still fresh in his mind.

“Your clothing should be in my locker.” The last statement was less a means to quell Victor’s paranoia and more a request to leave the bathhouse.

[Victor Lark]

Victor frowned at the answer, spending a moment to rake his recent memory for the thing which Seven refused to share. He was not allowed much time to reflect before the man changed the subject on him, one that obviously concerned him more. Victor laughed. That was his role, to adjust and disorient with a too-quick tongue. But at that point, any pace was faster than he could handle, despite honest intentions. He obliged in a way that would have frustrated him if he had been in Seven’s place and intentionally befuddling another: he nodded slowly, contemplating the situation with little response.

When he finally decided to rise from the water, he was still not quite as clean as he might have liked to be. He left the soap where it sat and grabbed the towel that lay beside it, unwittingly echoing Seven’s movements as he took it to his dripping hair. He, however, dried himself standing and exposed. He clutched the corners of the towel in a loose bundle at his side and bent to take his trunk. It was glazed with a waterproof seal, save for a few already deteriorating scratches from inopportune trees and unminding beasts. Victor clutched its handle rigidly, as per his delirium.

“Fruit,” he repeated, mumbling. His perpetual smile reflected the typical courtesy of refusal, “I would walk further, for a steak and a tall glass of ale.”

After weeks of near starvation, he craved a city meal. His stomach ached at the thought of it. If he had the arm to do it, he would have leaned on the body that seemed stronger than it was, but instead he resorted to stumbling close as they exited the hall for the locker room.

The invasive warmth and humidity did nothing to quell his condition. Through the passing darkness at the corners of his eyes, Victor caught sight of a mirror, and the face in it fell to chagrin at what he saw. He rushed to it, dropping both his trunk and his towel in order to seize the sink. He lifted his jaw to inspect it for a moment, then crouched at the box and snapped it open. At the top of the pile, a snooping eye would see a spare of clothes that were even dirtier than that which occupied Seven’s locker; a pair of large, heavy walking boots; and a barely used cloak of soft green velvet, which was temporarily serving as a cushion for a glass wine bottle. He fished around and produced his own razor, also pulling to the top a short scabbard with a dagger in it. The hinges moved smoothly as the box slammed and clicked to a close, and the weary man splashed his face with warm water from the sink.

The long hairs were reluctant to be removed, but with some persistence and pain they fell to the sink. Victor took longer than he would have otherwise, perhaps, but ultimately only a single bead of red adorned his jaw. He was still leaning against the sink as he inspected his work with heavy lids. His face looked much cleaner, years younger, and, in his mind’s own vanity, far more attractive.

He turned to Seven then, indifferent to his own nudity. His expression lifted again as he leaned on the wall beside the man’s locker and held out a hand to take his clothes, unconsciously searching for the aforementioned fruit. His stomach growled. “You are from around here, right? If you can lead me to a place with some good food, I’ll buy you your own meal.” With a chuckle and a grin, he added, “I won’t pass out, I promise.” Alas, that promise was not quite his to make.

[Seven Xu]

When Victor stood, Seven did little to hold back a delighted smile before turning his back to him. They were similar in height as well as build, despite the darker man’s unintentionally lackadaisical posture and sun-kissed skin hugging his frame too tight from malnutrition. The halfblood was tired of being towered over by the majority of Syliras’ male population; Victor’s equally modest stature was a welcome change.

Taking the lead, Seven obediently kept his gaze forward as he approached his locker, careful not to wander to his nude companion or any others around him. The entire charade was too personal for his tastes, but when one immersed themselves in such a culture, it was only right to 'do as Sylirans do'. Bony fingers fussed with the hoary locker door before pulling it open. A neatly folded pile of clothing still warm from the afternoon sun was found inside, topped deliberately by a smaller pouch, drawstring left loose and open where the attendant had removed her payment for the laundry, plus tip. Such a fortified city required little afterthought of leaving ones belongings in the open – citizens were too attached to their lives to prematurely end them for petty theft.

Seven's thin fingers stumbled across the mix of clothing, loosening his towel and allowing it to fall to his feet. His attire showcased its overuse in tired, rotting thread coming loose in several places. Despite his less than noble apparel, Seven felt a sense of comfort wash over him when warm cotton touched his clean skin. When crimson irises found Victor again at his side, the unfamiliar garments were handed over and his lips twitched into a smile a bit wider than he intended. “I cannot pass up a free meal.” While willpower allowed his voice to remain calm, it did not extend to control the burning in his cheeks. The bristly dark mask had melted away and revealed that Victor’s face was shockingly beautiful. Pink lips were pulled tight in a grin and dark almond eyes completed the charming visage. The change was enough to catch Seven off-guard and he had to force himself to rip his penetrating gaze away from his companion.

“Here.” Seven reached far into his canvas satchel for the apple Victor was promised before he closed the shapeless bag and slung it over one shoulder. He allowed his eyes a second helping of Victor’s sharp-featured face as he closed the locker door. They would not drift lower than the defined curve of his collar bone, and, if discovered to be staring for an uncomfortable amount of time, would dart away innocently.

“The Rearing Stallion often serves whatever they happen to make that day in mass amount, although it is the cheapest option.” Seven explained, deciding it was best to keep his attention on the topic at hand rather than letting his thoughts wander from curiosity to longing, “I believe the Golden Dragon serves food. The place is ridden with whores as well, if that interests you.” The halfblood’s voice trailed off for a moment. The comment seemed to probe at Victor for a response; an apprehensive question of intentions hidden in a suggestion. “And then there’s the White Swan. Their meals are elegant and often made up of multiple courses. In my time here, the only place I have experienced has been The Rearing Stallion, and that was only to drink.”

As Seven explained their options, the pair now dressed, had exited Soothing Waters and found themselves in the bustling Gate District. Seven was leading Victor towards the torch-lighted beacon of free-standing buildings wherein travelers could rest weary bodies and fill empty stomachs. Seven turned to gauge Victor's response, the thin smile still gracing his porcelain features.

“It is up to you.”