[Labyrinth] A Walk to Remember [Lysander, Seodai]

[Tabarnac]

81st Summer, 511 A.V. The Chaplain of Aquiras, old Zahari, had chosen two lucky youngsters, one a traveler from afar, the other a native who had never left, to join him for a midnight tour of the Labyrinth. Sitkanis had walked it with him once, clad in his nocturnal glory, and the old man had answered his questions, though they had led only to more questions. Such was the way of things. Walking the Labyrinth could be a sort of meditation, the mind working through things with each twist and turn whether one was consciously aware of it or not. An acolyte, young and strong, supported him when it seemed he might stumble. "That Veldrys," he was saying, apropos of nothing, "he knows how to brew a concoction, let me tell you what. I thought I wouldn't walk the Labyrinth again with my hip, but here I am." His laughter had much of the wheeze to it. "So how are things on the farm, young Seo? No more Zith raids, I hope, not since the beginning of summer... And Lysander, are you enjoying our hospitality here? It's not the Ukalas, I'll grant you, but it's home."

[Lysander]

Lysander had spent a significant amount of time within the tiny community of the Denvali now; nearly an entire season had passed, and as summer had begun to give in to the cool, crisp winds of fall—so did Lysander, himself. Black hair had been peppered with streaks of blonde and the jade curl of glassy horn bled out into shades of pearlescent yellow-gold. The commoner clothing that wrapped his strong frame was recognizable to anyone that had witnessed much of his Drykas ‘brother’ during the day. Before leaving the house, Sitkanis had doted over his companion’s fortune in the only way he knew how: “Don’t say anything stupid; be on your best behavior—because I’ll find out if you aren’t.” Words of wisdom, if there ever were any, “you won’t like what happens when I find out.” Threats were most effective when left open-ended; Lysander had remained the picture of a silent gentleman until a question was posed to him. “I love Denval,” his chin dipped from a scan of the sky above the Labyrinth’s stone walls and his slack mouth tightened into a genial smile. “It’s my home now, just as much as the Ukalas was.” Questions burned on the Ethaefal’s tongue; he wanted to know what the man wanted of him—this Chaplain of Aquiras, as Sitkanis had later gone on to explain. Lysander could only assume what that meant, though all clues pointed to ‘important’. Gold-wrapped pupils strayed from the figure of the elderly man to that of the other that walked beside him, scanning his countenance for any pretense of familiarity.

[Seodai]

Seodai was seldom entirely comfortable if he was anywhere except the farm and, as a rule, he generally avoided such interactions as much as he could manage. This was not one of those times, however. Who could deny old Zahari an audience, especially with an Uncle practically shoving him out the door? Certainly not quiet Seodai, who drank everything about the encounter in with those bright eyes of his and a contemplative expression. It wasn't only the unwarranted attention of the Chaplain, the summons that made the encounter so fascinating. It was the Labyrinth in the moonlight, the startling beauty of the figure beside of him, the sensation of mysticism that surrounded their little stroll. Seo, with his hands clasped loosely behind his back, shifted his gaze in a cyclic way. Zahari first, the acolyte in passing, and then the gold-accented man beside of him. Having never seen an Ethaefal at such proximity, at least not when he had been aware of it (Sitkanis had, after all, visited him in the middle of the day), Seodai was almost as fascinated with the companion Zahari had chosen for him on this walk as he was with the walk itself. It was like walking beside a piece of art, Seodai mused, just as Lysander glanced towards him, only to find him staring. Even his eyes hinted at gold. Lovely. Seodai forced his gaze, and attention, back to where they were more appropriate. "Bala blesses our work, Chaplain. The farm seems better every year. And no, no more Zith..." His response felt decidedly less profound than the stranger's, but perhaps that was just Seodai suffering his own awkwardness.

[Tabarnac]

In another age, in another lifetime, Zahari might have been taken up into the Ukalas by Aquiras Himself, another sort of Ethaefal unfallen. Surely he would have been marked by the god of travel as even young Seo had been by the goddess of autumn. But no, he was unmarked, just an old man with faith, which was lesson commonly found with those who knew their patron deity as a person. This chaplain of travel could only move inward, and therein dwelt wisdom. Though not the sort to catch the eye of Eyris, unless She merely respected the domain of Her fallen brother. "I'm glad you do, young one," he said to the child of the Moon, who was older in years, though younger in demeanor. The juxtaposition didn't seem to bother him. "We like to think ourselves the most hospitable people in the world. Eh, Seo?" His smile made his face even more a mess of wrinkles, but rather than being revolting, his age defined him more clearly, as if the years had not added more and more to him, but taken away until all that was left was a more distilled spirit than he had been at birth. There was beauty in the degradations that age had made upon him, and while Seo's youthful beauty was an accident of nature, Lysander's the gift of a god, his wizened beauty was a work of art. "Well and good, well and good," he said, an inspired grandfather type, all kindness and lenience. "Can't have those winged buggers mucking things up for us. Good thing your uncle is such a sharpshooter." As they turned a corner in rough stone walls, the acolyte stepped a bit ahead and the old man's temper flared. He smacked the acolyte's strong forearm, but without any true heat or malice. "Time enough for a walk. No need to yank!" "Yes, sir," said the quiet young man. Turn a corner, change a mood, think a thought, say a word. The Labyrinth affected people whether they were aware of it or not. "I thought it might be nice for the two of you to meet as well as accompany me for a stroll. Seo hasn't been anywhere, and Lysander has been to the Moon and beyond. Somehow I think you'll find things in common in any event." He chuckled, benevolent and knowing.

[Lysander]

Lysander’s honeyed glance was exchanged with crystalline blues that forced his stay on the stranger’s face to be brief. As fleeting as it was, he couldn’t help but commit the sharp features of his consequential companion to memory and offer a blithe smile to a pretty face. Whether the sentiment was picked up or not was left a mystery to the young Ethaefal, and it washed away beneath the fostering light of his Father. The walk through the Labyrinth was not without significance to Lysander; it had been the first place Sitkanis had brought him after his fall. He’d been lucky his body hadn’t disintegrated between the bite of jagged rock so close to shore, and even luckier that one of his own had happened to stumble across him first. Lysander’s first trek through the Labyrinth had yielded a particularly disturbing revelation, and the prospect of another episode loomed in the back of his mind. The young man almost made a point to guide his thoughts in one direction. “Ah,” a clouded response yielded little of the elderly man’s apparent enthusiasm in bringing the pair together. Lysander immediately regretted his fall into aloofness, and attempted to save himself before those wizened lines drew sour. “I look forward to it.” Again, he dared cant his head in Seo’s direction with a self-preserving smile in an attempt to capture those piercing azures again—a far more pleasant distraction. If he could manage to arrest the attentions of his counterpart, a pair of dirty blond eyebrows would raise beneath streaks of long bangs fettered by the season’s change. “Seo, was it?” Lysander repeated the name slowly, tasting it, before the smile tilted into a grin of approval. Beneath the glaze of gold played the mind of a young teenager, oftentimes that childish eagerness painted itself too brightly across his adult face, as if something threatened to burst out of him. Several more questions danced on a tongue that pushed against the inside of one cheek, but the oppressive influence of an older brother stretched further than Lysander would ever care to admit.

[Seodai]

"Seodai, yes," the young farmer agreed, with a little bob of his head that sent his golden locks tumbling into his eyes. His hair was a bit shaggy, a bit too long. Uncle Theo had just pointed out two days prior that it was about time for a cut again. Seodai was hesitant because the older woman who had always trimmed their hair for them was becoming a bit feeble and, logically, had passed the little business on to her daughter. Her daughter was young, and beautiful, and Seo always tripped over his words around her. She, on the other hand, was the conversational sort and so it always became painfully aware that he had two left feet when it came to socialization and, well, why would anyone subject themselves tot hat on purpose? At present Seodai wasn't thinking of the very earthy human girl who caused him so much woe with her scissors. No, his gaze had lifted at the Chaplain's casual mention of the moon and then, dancing along the beautiful blue-silver rays so gently cast by that august body, ruling the night sky with such nobility, Seo had turned again to look at the child of the moonlight, so breathtakingly close to him. Once, when Seodai had been only nine, Uncle Theo had managed to grow a most unusual flower. Seo couldn't even remember what his uncle had called it, now, but it's petals had looked like moonlight to the young boy, so irridescent and shimmering were they in the darkness. Gently, but firmly asserting that this was one of the few, rare things Seodai was to keep his small hands away from, Theo had lodged the plant in its small pot on a high shelf, presumably clear of the tempted youth eyeing it. In one of his precious few acts of rebellion, Seodai had crept away from the dinner table and returned to the greenhouse that night, climbed a series of stools and shelves, until at last he could touch the plant. Of course, as was typical in such situations, he destroyed it. The support beneath his slim legs had wobbled and, with a cry, Seodai found himself laying on the greenhouse floor, terra cotta, dirt, and broken petals all about him. The shimmering plant lost it's glow within seconds of being torn asunder so, and Seo had merely sat and wept in the destruction he had caused. Not only because he had disappointed Uncle, whom he loved more than any other living soul, but because he had somehow ruined the prettiest thing he had ever seen. Seodai had no fear of breaking this Lysander, stalking along beside him and smiling as if he knew a very amusing secret, but he harbored much of the same fascination. He wanted to touch that skin that looked like marble, to finger that oddly colored hair, the smooth shimmer of those curled horns. Lysander seemed like living wonder to the simple Denvali farmer, and young Seo couldn't decide precisely how one spoke to such a surreal creature. He wasn't good at speaking to the most normal of folk. It almost seemed unfair of the Chaplain, to thrust him together thusly, with a being who inspired such wonder simply by existing that Seodai could hardly think around it. "Lysander," he added on, after that long moment of silent, hearty staring. Poorly worded, perhaps. He was mirroring the behaviour of Lysander, or trying, because the last thing he wanted was to offend. Lysander, his puzzling companion in this, or the Chaplain, whom he respected a great deal. "Ah.. it's nice. Your name." And, having said as much, Seodai was struck mute. After all, what could a farmer such as he, even if he was beloved of Bala, have to say to... well, someone like that?

[Tabarnac]

Zahari merely smiled at the young ones' halting introductions, recalling his own youth, so many years ago, the wife he had survived, the children and grandchildren. This acolyte was a great-grandson of his blood, though he considered the entirety of Denval his children, his flock, those he guided along their journeys when they asked for his advice. But as his strength and vigor began to fail him, he learned how to change small things to divert the flow of a river. "...it's incredible," he said, agreeing with his acolyte, a fragment of conversation drifting back to those who followed. He moved on ahead and was glad they didn't feel the need to hurry him along. Veldrys' concoction might have been quite salutatory, but he was still an old man and the potion didn't loosen his joints. The starry panoply of Leth's court was laid out for them, pinpricks and larger celestial fires burning on the skybowl. The watery moonlight was enough to see their way, and his helper kept him from stumbling, but he knew this place like the back of his veined hand, skin gone papery thin. He could walk it blind and deaf. "Sometimes," he said to his grandson in a reverent hush, "I meditate upon the Labyrinth itself, seeing the paths as veins, myself as blood, and the center, the meditation garden... that is the heart of Aquiras Himself. You see, everything fits together eventually. That is what I have learned in my years, my boy. Tear a leaf from a tree here and a gale wind bears down on far off Zeltiva, so interconnected is the world. Even trapped here, one's influence reaches out into everything. But one can't stagnate for fear of harming others... The god of travel knows that movement is the key, but the physical only foreshadows the true movement, the ascension of the soul. You will be good for Denval. You have a kind heart..." Gradually they came to the calm of the meditation garden, and his helper eased him onto a stone bench. He smiled up at his followers, ears turned to hear what they were discussing.

[Lysander]

“Seodai.” The man’s full name finally tumbled out of a grinning maw. Several times; a curious glance would dip back into the sea of blues. And several times, he found that he’d been caught. Detriment sullied marble cheeks with the lightest hue of ruddy pink; it seemed that Seodai kept constant vigil of him, and for whatever reason, Lysander was unable to maintain an extended mutual stare. There had been one exchange that lasted a few steps. The Chaplain’s attention had turned to the acolyte, wrapped in a conversation Lysander only managed to grasp at parts of—mumbles and fragments of larger thoughts broken down and stripped of meaning. “I named myself,” Lysander had admitted with some air of pride while his golden eyes laughed, “I don’t know what it means, but I like the way it sounds.” A foot dipped to avoid a jagged rock and extended one of Lysander’s steps, ending it in a pointed slap against the ground. Only then did he think to fill the air between himself and Seodai with something other than the shuffle of four obedient feet. “Your farm,” he began, feeling the prickle of heat rising on his neck, “it sounds exciting. What with Zith attacks and all; you must have some stories to tell.” The light-hearted comment wafted on pale fingers that had reached out to dive between the folds of linen on Seodai’s sleeve. Whether he unconsciously mirrored the Chaplain and his acolyte or simply wanted to provoke further reaction in those unending blues he would not admit—either way, the Ethaefal seemed to hold little regard for any concept of personal space. The hand that had not occupied itself in the crook of the farmer’s elbow reached up to brush a swath of particularly light hair from his eyes. Lysander wasn’t keen on his fall coloration; the gold of horn and hair merged with that of his eye and made him look all together too bland. Warm tendrils of marble-white adjusted their grip on the flesh beneath body-warm clothing and a dirty blond head dipped close enough for a careless horn to graze through honey curls, had Seodai taken initiative to close the gap. It seemed unfair that a man such as Lysander had been so far and had so little to tell of it; while Seodai, a homebody, could have amazed the young Ethaefal with stories of a life lived and remembered. When they found themselves within the tranquil depths of the Labyrinth and the Chaplain had assumed a well-earned seat on a stone bench, Lysander’s hand retreated from Seodai to fall limp at his side. The question of ‘why’ still nagged at the back of his throat. Part of him prayed that the farmer would be the one to ask the Chaplain before his own curiosity loosened his tongue.

[Seodai]

Seodai remembered better, stronger days for old Zahari. Of course, no matter how far back he went into his memory bank, Zahari had always been just that: old. But there were levels of old, he was learning, and the Chaplain was only now entering the feeble stage, whereas before he had been gray, wrinkled, but strong enough to chase boys away from sacred places when their intent was all wrong. Seo, who couldn't seem to stop staring at the figure beside him, had forced himself to stare at the back of Aquiras' servant. Every time those golden eyes fixed on his he felt a bit flush, and as if he should explain his blatant ogling. But his tongue failed him, as it so often did, and Seodai had resolved to maintain his composure despite this trial. The Ethaefal, unwittingly, destroyed that resolve and composure when he reached that lovely, pale hand out to grip at Seo's flesh. In a world filled with gods one might imagine that Seodai would be better at grappling with this situation, but he was not. His experiences were largely limited to the farm and tiny Denval beyond, and he had never been face to face with something as beautiful before. And so the cool pressure of those unthreatening fingers caught his attention immediately, his blue eyes darting back to the half playful face of this Lysander. They were widened, perhaps a bit shocked even, dropping down to the place where one long digit extended beyond the reach of his sleeve and pressed directly against his warm, sun-kissed skin. It was fascinating, the contrast. It was quite accidental that Seodai did close the distance between them, the result of a clumsy stumble. He, apparently, couldn't process this new development, stare, and walk at the same time. Seo thought it best to pull away, to put distance between them that might allow him to think more clearly again.He was terrified of offending Zahari, though, and perhaps even more frightened of offending this other-worldly creature beside of him. And so before he had mustered the resolve to do just that, Lysander had taken more, pushed further. "Ah," Seo breathed in a half gasp as the lightest brush through his messy locks sent a chill down his spine. He could feel, for a fleeting second, the Ethaefal's breath against the column of his throat. The proximity was dizzying for a youth who had hardly touched a soul in his life, save for family and the healers who kept him alive, despite the hidden threat in his own blood. Mercifully, they reached the center. Zahari sat, Lysander retreated, and Seo blushed. He dropped his bright eyes to the earth beneath them, attempting to ground himself. He was certain the angelesque figure had spoken, that he should respond, but he couldn't think, could hear anything apart from the pounding of his own heart. He swallowed thickly, shuffled, and frantically tried to remember what it was that he had been asked. "Not really," he said, low and mumbled at first. Realizing how weak he sounded and attempting to imbue his speech with the confidence Theo encouraged in him, Seodai lifted his chin and tried again. The difference in effort was astonishing. The farmboy even smiled, a lovely expression on his nervous visage. "There's dirt, animals, food. Things like the Zith are not so common, and not as exciting as it may sound. And they always ruin a good night's sleep," he tacked on, a pitiful excuse to jest. He was, after all, clearly a child of sunlight - as much was visible in his tanned skin, the golden streaks in his already light hair, the slight softness of sleepiness around his eyes. In truth, Seodai had never known a night as beautiful as this one before. Perhaps he never paused to notice or, more likely, perhaps the pale Lysander contributed to his impression of it. After all, had Seodai looked away from the other young face long enough to even notice the starry sky, yet? "It's repetitive, simple," he said with a gentle shrug of one shoulder. But oh, how he loved it.

[Lysander]

A gasp was a pinprick in Lysander’s ear and a shudder contagious, skin rippling with hair turned upright at Seodai’s breathy protest. The Ethaefal had thought to apologize to those shock-widened seas; to right whatever wrong his pale fingers had ravaged across skin that had turned so many ruddy hues, but the words never found his lips. An experiment in boundaries had gone awry; as many times as Lysander had overstepped the imaginary line of personal comfort with others, the young farmer’s stuttering aversion to such a meagre gesture had actually produced a smidgen of guilt in his honey-glazed leer. It didn’t last long, however. Nothing ever did, with Lysander. “Animals?” All other descriptions of Seodai’s farm melted away in favour of one word—the dirt, the Zith, the nights of lost sleep—that all paled in comparison to the dew-eyed stares of livestock. “What kinds of animals do you keep? My brother,” those fingers were winding back around the elbow he’d released a chime earlier, continuing an unconscious test his conscious mind had tried to halt, “he has a horse—no, not a horse. A pony. I’ve always wanted to learn how to ride it.” ‘Always’, to Lysander, had been the stretch of one summer. “I wish I had a job,” gold smiled into piercing maelstroms of blue again; the sentiment bordered between a compliment and a genuine wish for stimulation beyond aimlessly wandering the streets of Denval like that of a lost Kelvic. Fingers explored the span of a farm-worked forearm until they twined with another set of digits, much rougher to touch than the hands of a man that had never so much as held a pitchfork in his short life. In their abrasiveness lay gentle warmth that Lysander immediately likened to the late morning sun on a well-swept hardwood floor. Ultimately it was a grasp for support; he took a wavering step backward and regarded the upturned navy bowl, peppered with the glimmering light of the cosmos. How anyone could stand to sleep through every breathtaking night his Father stood vigil was beyond him—but a pair of pale lids swatting away a bleary film of growing exhaustion was evidence that this child of the Moon was not as innocent as his mind’s wandering accusations suggested. A chime dragged on for three bells before Lysander’s attention turned back to that of the Chaplain, who had been content to listen to the farm boy and the Ethaefal to exchange their insignificant small talk. How simple they must have looked to a man whose face drew lines through decades of knowledge. “Ser, why have we come here?” the question that festered in both boys’ minds finally manifested in Lysander’s laughing tenor, as dauntless as he was beautiful. The thick, sweet smell of growing herbs seemed to be the only other occupant of the dead night air, in a place where silence was coveted.