[Flashback] Internal (Laszlo)

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Flashback: Day 76 Spring 510 AV When he was distracted, one could see the tell tale signs of youth Duvalyon kept so cleverly hidden with brusque assurance and implacable glances. If in a rare mood, Duvalyon would laugh and say it wasn't the years that mattered but the weight of them. An Ochya had arrived to pick them up in one of Kalinor's clever baskets. For all its reputation, Kalinor was a fairly peaceful place, so the local guard had the leisure for errands. He stared at Laszlo for more than was polite, then tried to save face by giving him a casual greeting. The guard made small talk with Duvalyon as they traveled. Shockingly, Laszlo's solemn host fell into it effortlessly. He was able to ask about the Ochya's family members by name, attaching them to nuanced pieces of information: a well done tapestry by a sister, a brother's visit to Lhavit... Despite the face he wore indoors, Duvalyon bore signs of social graces. "...what's your expertise at the Purging?" "I have only emphasis at this point, not expertise. Mostly surrogates with the occasional piecing back together." "Sounds like messy work." "Occasionally, but medicine has given me a perpetual excuse to escape engagements." Duvalyon continued dryly, "I've successfully avoided my mother for eras." The Ochya laughed, "A smart answer! But we all know you are good to your blood, Duvalyon." "Evidently you haven't been speaking with them," this was hemmed in a wry smile. Family was too important a thing to talk of seriously in the morning. The pitter-patter, blessedly done, Duvalyon now stared into the cavern. As they drew nearer his thoughts darkened and grew more complex. He was ticking through difficulties and necessities. By the time they had arrived, he was thoroughly a medic and nearer forty than twenty. Their reception at the Purging was a combination of curiosity and avoidance. The latter didn't want to tempt Duvalyon's acidic tongue, and the former were trying to hide their child-like thrall regarding the Ethaefal. "If I had known you'd make me suddenly popular among my fellow medics, I'd left you at home," Duvalyon quipped sidelong at Laszlo as they walked down the hall. "I don't believe in socializing here. I have this unique idea that one should conduct medicine while in an infirmary." Slipping into an alcove for the staff, Duvalyon vigorously washed his claws, hands and up to the elbow in a basin, expecting Laszlo to follow suit. "There will be a batch of surrogates waiting for us. I’ll check their progress first, then work with any emergencies that arrive in the meanwhile." He dried his hands on a piece of surprisingly ornate fabric, "Questions?"

[Laszlo]

For much of the trip to the infirmary, Laszlo had remained courteously quiet, preoccupied with an effort to pretend he wasn't almost completely blind in the darkened caverns of Kalinor. He'd been too polite to mention to Duvalyon that he'd have preferred to run this errand with him in his vespertine phase, much more suited to the low lighting. The Symenestra physician had already offered his home and wine to the Ethaefal, not to mention treated his wounds and not asked for a single thing in return. How could Laszlo begin to complain? He didn't mind being ever the passenger, following behind the doctor like a loyal dog. He felt like a passenger already, riding through a dream and waiting to wake up again in his true place beside Syna. Eavesdropping on conversation had been mildly educational as Laszlo stared out at the lights of Kalinor, which hovered near the cavern ceiling like oversized stars over a sea at twilight. The world was so full of people doing things, which all seemed so far away from him. None of it had anything to do with him personally, and he couldn't remotely relate to any of the chatter. The people discussed were merely names, their lives merely words. The stares Laszlo received both from the guard and at the infirmary were mildly unnerving yet simultaneously comforting. Going from the nonplussed glimmer in their large eyes, many of the Symenestra here presumably seemed to understand what Laszlo was—at least on a basic level, he speculated. Outside of Kalinor, Laszlo's horns had been noticed in passing, as important to humans as the color of his skin or the shape of his eyes. The perfection of his face was what had drawn stares, which were usually either bashful or sultry. On the grand scale, the Ethaefal took from this and began to respect the Symenestra for the educated, intuitive creatures they were. For the first time, Laszlo was not so ashamed as he had been of the monster he became after sunset. It took Laszlo a little more than a moment to work out the subtle humor in Duvalyon's words. There was always a certain ambiguity to the way he spoke. Although he wasn't entirely serious, he wasn't entirely joking, either. It spoke of a certain self awareness in the Symenestra, one that requested his conversational partners be at least intelligent enough to glean and understand what was left unspoken. "We could always come in the evening instead, when I'll look no different from the rest of you." The Ethaefal followed Duvalyon into the alcove, staring pensively at the basin until the doctor posed him a question, when his yellow gaze flickered upward. "Yes," Laszlo replied quickly, worried Duvalyon would mistake any hesitation for polite silence and hurry onward. He turned back to the basin, washing up his hands and arms in the same manner the doctor had. An indicative glance at him had been enough for the Ethaefal to realize he was expected to do as he had. After flicking off droplets of water from the tips of his fingers, he reached for the same cloth. Though unpleasantly cold and damp, it was softer than he expected. "Forgive my ignorance, but I'm failing to understand something. The knowledge I was born with was not remarkably vast, and I'm not sure what you mean by your use of the word 'surrogate'. You've mentioned it twice now. There's something I’m missing, isn't there?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon stopped all movement, suddenly blockaded by Laszlo's crucial and complicated question. All this time he had assumed the Ethafael had knowledge of this culture defining custom. Duvalyon had the sneaking suspicion this was what it would feel like to explain sex to a child for the first time. Luckily, Duvalyon was wearing his medic face: factual and to the point. "At birth Symenestra release a potent dose of venom. It is contained both in the child and in the layers of sacs surrounding it. The venom is unregulated and powerful. It kills the mother." Duvalyon delivered the mechanics of undoing of his race as if detailing the ingredients and origin of a soup. "To preserve our people, surrogate women from other races are acquired by first born Symenestra to carry our relatives' and wive's children." Adding a personal twist to the ascetic explanation, Duvalyon offered, "My mother was Benshira. As long as the sire is Symenestra, the child is fully Symenestra." This seemed adequate for the moment. The philosophical and moral explication couldn't be effectively presented without knowing the audience's precise objections. "Most of my work here at the Purging revolves around working with the pregnant surrogates." Duvalyon paused on the thought before adding, "Such work requires a certain personality and capability." He let Laszlo interpret that however he willed. What was required may have been precision, intelligence or an inability to be moved in the face of their suffering. In a rare bit of understanding, Duvalyon quietly asked, "Are you comfortable assisting me in this?"

[Laszlo]

With his mouth slightly agape, Laszlo paid a measured stare to Duvalyon's tired and carefully blank features. Despite the moment of hesitation, the physician delivered the morbid truth in a smooth, even tone, without emotion or emphasis. Because it was stated with such apparent nonchalance, it took the Ethaefal a moment to realize how serious an implication Duvalyon was making. If every Symenestra killed his or her mother, then… Widow, the fisherman had called him. An eyebrow furrowed as he tilted his head. So the race was doomed? It was such a grand and tragic thing to consider. All Symenestra must have been aware of this. Even with the use of "surrogates" as Duvalyon had said, it didn't seem like the tide could easily be turned. It made sense then, why the few who Laszlo had met that knew of Symenestra were so apprehensive about them. Women of other, compatible races were used, then, to carry their children. He could only imagine the prospect would be frightening to anyone with a daughter or a wife or a mother. Or any member of the fairer sex. Gods. Laszlo didn't know what an 'amniotic sac' was but he gleaned its rather unsavory definition from the context. "Yes." The Ethaefal adjusted his posture and stood a little straighter. "I think so. I don't think I fully understand the magnitude of what you just told me, but I understand survival. I know why a wolf slaughters a deer." Inclining his head toward the corridor, Laszlo started onward slowly enough to allow Duvalyon to fall into stride next to him and lead the way. Suddenly he uttered a noise as a profound thought suddenly occurred to him. He turned to the Symenestra. "So… Dor… is she…?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Making Laszlo understand had been easier than Duvalyon had foreseen. The medic attributed this in part to the Ethaefal's early exposure to Symenestra. Due to the sky bound race's unique arrival, this time was akin to childhood, where ideas could take root quickly and with less resistance. Despite not owning a drop of their blood, Laszlo had the humans' talent for adaptation. They were able to walk briskly and peacefully on towards the day's first tasks. Until Laszlo uttered something truly disastrous. Duvalyon stopped and faced Laszlo with a feline smoothness. His next gesture could have easily been sliding a stiletto between the Ethaefal's ribs. It would have all flowed together with his silent features and the sudden luminosity of his burgundy eyes. There was a brief adjustment, like a gear clicking to its next ridge, and Duvalyon looked down to dispel his temper. He was overcoming his offense, choosing to be gracious towards the visitor Viratas had delivered to him. "I can see how that would be a logical conclusion for an outsider." His lowered voice had a subtle hum beneath it. "But, no," his eyes were implacable, "Never." Duvalyon began to turn away, but paused to finish the thought. "Surrogates are others, claimed, captured then taken to the Nest. Dor is my charge, my responsibility. I have taught her and provided for her since birth. She has known no other home and no other table but mine. To then use her for those purposes --" The Symenestra stopped, fearful his meager heart had shown itself. Covering it with humor, he finished in a dry and infinitely more distant tone. "Plus, I abhor redheads." A lie, but he wasn't going to let on. Duvalyon moved onward, resuming the same attitude towards the Ethaefal as before. Though Laszlo might not think he needed it, the Symenestra had bestowed his forgiveness. Duvalyon had a surprising indulgence for strays. "Here we are." Duvalyon stopped in front of a solid door, a rare object in Kalinor's interiors. He used a key beside the door to unlock it before crisply walking into a room where a dark haired woman clung to her pillow. Her stomach was swollen with child and everything about her appearance showed attention and care. Everything but the barrenness of her expression. Saying nothing, Duvalyon shut the door behind them and proceeded to retrieve a ledger placed out of the surrogates reach in a niche in the wall. He scanned it as he moved to the woman's bedside. Since Laszlo entered the room, she had not turned her gaze from him. Her empty expression pulsed with a sad curiosity, wondering how he could just watch. "Give me your hand," Duvalyon murmured warmly to the woman. He considered what she might desire to thicken the honey in his voice. "It will make you feel better." She complied slowly, an easy conquest, requiring only the finest golden thread of hypnotism. This woman had lost hope and with it, all the vigor it could give. The Symenestra handled her gently, pressing his fingers on her wrist. "We have to be careful. The blood can be too quick or too slow when they're with child." Laszlo would realize Duvalyon was now speaking to him. "It's the first thing we monitor every visit."

[Laszlo]

Though Laszlo tried to watch Duvalyon, listening to him explain and offer her the empty warmth of his voice, he could feel the tug of soulless eyes pulling at his own. What the Ethaefal knew of the doctor contrasted so sharply with that false kindness. It made Laszlo uncomfortable to hear Duvalyon lie, perhaps even more so than the woman's predicament, which he barely understood. Unthinking, she had obeyed him, her hand hanging dead on her wrist as she gave it to him. Inevitably, Laszlo's golden eyes slid toward the woman's face, gaunt and nearly colorless (though next to Duvalyon that was more difficult to notice). There was no life at all in her defeated, deep brown gaze. Her chapped lips were parted as she stared at the Ethaefal, a tall and handsome stranger who didn't belong in this dark, foreboding cavern city. The way she stared at him, it looked as if she wanted to ask a question, but knew there was no point in it. Laszlo's expression mirrored nothing, but he found himself staring back her. He must have looked cold, as already he was distancing himself from her tragic, inevitable fate, regarding her like an art exhibit on display. He almost completely dismissed the notion that she was a person at all. It wasn't that much of a leap when one considered that Laszlo thought little of the mortals of Mizahar to start with. He was better than they were, and more damned than anyone could comprehend. And yet… this woman's misery was different from his. She was alone, forsaken, a prisoner, with only a gruesome execution to look forward to—at the behest of her own child. It was bizarre to consider that, simply because of his own anatomy, he was immune to what was happening to her. Some part of Laszlo's heart knew he should have sympathized with her, and to some extent, he did. Even Duvalyon seemed to regard her with polite respect, allowing her some semblance of quiet dignity, although in this state she really didn't have any. He felt numb about all of this, knowing it was powerful but not able to comprehend it all at once.Laszlo would need time later to digest all of this before he could decide how he felt about it. After a long moment's hesitation, Laszlo approached closer to the bed to get a better look at what Duvalyon was doing. The Caretaker of the Damned. It seemed to fit with his demeanor. Perhaps it was the very reason he kept himself so poised and deliberate. Laszlo's molten amber eyes glimmered as he examined Duvalyon's clawed fingers on the girl's wrist. "I see." He didn't, really, but he would shelve the information and refer back to it later when he understood more of what Duvalyon was doing. "How is this one's?" he asked, feeling cautious about using a pronoun. He wasn't sure how appropriate it was to humanize her. His eyes were pulled back to hers again, having grown restless from seeing them in his peripheral vision, always watching him. The dark gold of his eyebrows lowered in a hesitant glare, for some reason finding himself bitter, almost angry at her. What gave her the right to look so petching hopeless? When she died, her hell would be over and she would know peace, and never remember this. Death would be her deliverance, and her pain would stop. Didn't she know how fortunate she was? What did she want from him? Empathy? Words of comfort? The frustration mounted, and against his better judgment, he spoke his mind: "Keep faith in your gods, human. You still have your soul. Your strife will end, but your existence will continue. You are not alone so long as you do not forsake the Divine in your heart."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon rearranged the woman's wrist back across her body and made a note in the ledger. "Hers is unremarkable." He scrawled something else without looking up. The mask of compassion had been swiftly dropped and his natural look of impervious disinterest returned. Though Laszlo could not see it, his impromptu speech made Duvalyon blanch. The woman was at first dazed, shocked that someone was speaking to her, especially this creature wafting the perfume of divinity. She then gave a terrible death's head grin, incongruous with the sudden tears moving down her face. This awful dichotomy was all Laszlo saw before she pressed her face into the pillow. Her body shook, either wracked with tears of mad hope or incensed grief. The Symenestra closed the ledger loudly with one hand. It was enough to snap attention to himself. His mouth was a line and his eyes were metallic with warning. Returning the ledger to the niche, he calmly walked out of the room. He was silent until the lock clicked into place and Laszlo was beside him. "It is not our place." His voice was that low vibrato of bridled emotions again. Emotions reigned in then mortared over with an eery smoothness. Returning the key to its place, Duvalyon leaned subconsciously toward the door, as if weary. The trace of fatigue vanished as he turned towards the next room and next task. He curtly instructed an aid in the hallway in quick Symenos, making an economic gesture towards where they left the crying woman. Everything about him was either sharp or silken, it was a disorienting marriage of traits. Their only commonality was an active mind, one that worked to charm or compel. After turning the lock on a new door, he flicked a quick command to Laszlo. "Brace yourself." The moment the door opened, Laszlo heard what had been muffled. A woman, red with fury was roaring at them from the bed. The savage sound was interspersed with shrieks as her voice sundered with rage. Amidst it were the most vitriolic phrases a mouth could form. They would make venerable denizens of Hai pause. Some were especially crafted around Duvalyon, showing an amount of forethought and familiarity. One arm was tied to the bed, the other had wriggled free. She was using it to heave a wooden chamber pot towards Duvalyon. The medic sidestepped the projectile, obviously accustomed to this attack. "Never flies as far as they hope," he observed flatly. He smiled at the woman, who had nothing left to fling but insults at this point. "Morning, milady. I'm charmed as usual." While he retrieved the ledger, other Symenestra came into the room, blankets in their hands. They wielded them like nets, until the bucking woman was covered and partially subdued. Her wildly grasping arm was snatched mid struggle by Duvalyon. "Laszlo," he said casually, "If you please, hold this still."

[Laszlo]

It didn't help. Laszlo had suspected it wouldn't, but an innate and still undefeated well of hope within the Ethaefal had compelled him to try. He knew the words were a mistake before they left his mouth, and the woman's mad, animalistic reaction had made that clear. Laszlo had made the mistake of seeing her as a person, but her suffering had destroyed that part of her. She was gone. The lifelessness in her eyes had already told the truth that Laszlo had at first refused make himself believe. There was nothing left in her. She was just a moving body, waiting to die as the rest of her already had. His golden eyes fell downward in self-reproach, and closed entirely with a visible flinch as Duvalyon closed the ledger. The doctor was severely displeased and had every right to be. Laszlo stood in shame and remorse as a stiff and purposed set of footsteps moved around him and pointedly left the room. The blond creature hesitated in place, reflecting on his mistake as the guilt and humiliation weighed him down, so powerful that it was almost seemed to become a physical force of gravity. It took him a moment to reconcile and move on, giving the woman one last parting star. He said nothing, and then he left her. Duvalyon shut the door. An apology bloomed on Laszlo's tongue but he held it in. It would not be enough, and it would be too much. The Symenestra understood this with more intimacy and dread than the young Ethaefal possibly could have. A simple 'I'm sorry' would have been an insult. Laszlo glanced down at one of his hands, his skin a golden peach in contrast to the pallid beings around him. His nails were short and trimmed, a peculiar pattern of semicircles lying beneath their transparency. He didn't belong here in this Place of Purging. The other half of him, however… "That was a mistake. I didn't—" When he paused to look up, Duvalyon had already seemed to have forgotten about the room. He was past it now, focused once more his work. Laszlo emulated the same inner process and obediently followed. The next one was different, still full of rage and vigor. She was dead yet, like the previous patient. Laszlo took a moment to collect his breath, fighting back whatever had begun welling up in the back of his throat, and proceeded to her bedside. Duvalyon was less reserved with this one, and even appeared to mock her. Laszlo wasn't sure why but it was somehow easier to bear this woman's hatred and fury than to see someone so completely broken. He complied more readily with the physician's next command, his broad hand closing around the girl's slender arm. When she tried to pull it free, directing her venomous spew of resentment toward the tall, more solidly built Ethaefal, he turned and braced her shoulder back with his other hand. Compared to the slender, ashen demons in the room, he stood out profanely. Laszlo looked too kind to be involved in this. Two golden eyes watched her through a distance, remembering the rage exhibited by the human girl's father in Syliras. This was the fate he had been trying to protect her from. The woman thrashed, but he shifted his weight and squeezed her arm, keeping her still. She was already beginning to wear herself out. "You don't get bored, do you?" The question was directed at Duvalyon, though he kept his eyes on the woman. His fingertips inched down her shoulder as she rolled her head toward him and tried to bite at his hand. It must have been like this every day for him. This was standard procedure. Routine. And they knew it. Laszlo would have said more, something more profound perhaps, but kept quiet for the others who would click their tongues at him. He just watched the woman, feeling personally relieved that Dor would not go through this. His perfect brow furrowed and his gilded eyes found the floor as it immediately occurred to him. "She doesn't know," he spoke out loud, perhaps only to himself, or to no one. It might have been impossible to know he wasn't referring to the surrogate, but for the fact that Laszlo wasn't even looking at her. He said no more, knowing it had already been too much. Again. Dor was a charmingly quirky thing, but many parts of her mental operation seemed stunted and simple. How could Duvalyon even begin to explain this to her? Even if she was shown, he speculated that it wouldn't be within her comprehension. It is not our place. But then what separated these women from Dor? She wasn't Symenestra. The dim light flickered across his glossy horns as Laszlo gave his head a quick shake. Appearing to snap out of it, at least for the moment, Laszlo refocused himself on Duvalyon. "Sorry," he said levelly, drawing a breath. "I'm listening."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Deadpan, Duvalyon answered Laszlo’s quip.. “It has its moments.” He spoke to the others in watery Symenos, directing them about the woman. Duvalyon was formidable in Common, who knew how deftly he could wield his mother tongue. Laszlo’s observation, sudden and disconnected, was flicked with another cautionary glance. The Ethaefal might have recalled the first conversation they had about Dor and Duvalyon’s murderously serious admonitions. Pleased that Laszlo was effectively holding the surrogate’s only free limb, Duvalyon came nearer the bed. The woman couldn’t see well, but she knew the medic had passed from one section of her gaze. She tried to thrash again and spat a charming description of him that involved offal and orifices. A slip of a smile moved across his lips. “You wound me, Azo.” One of the Symenestra handed Duvalyon another restraint. It looked like silk and tufts of wool. With a grateful nod to Laszlo, the medic guided both the Ethaefal’s and surrogate’s arm downward. Displaying an uncommon familiarity with restraints, Duvalyon tied the woman’s wild arm to a metal loop drilled into the side of the bed. “If she didn’t enjoy that,” Duvalyon muttered, “It’s only going to get worse.” After adjusting the surrogate’s restraints on all limbs, the other Symenestra dismissed themselves. Duvalyon was washing his hands again in a basin. He sighed shortly, preparing for the onslaught. “Hold her down. I’m going to check her womb for abnormalities.” This bit of common was met with another shriek. Duvalyon was growing increasingly impassive. The more she panicked, the more detached he became. He pulled a stool to the end of the bed and placed one hand on her abdomen and the other between her legs. The inspection was quick and clinical, but the surrogate’s reaction was tears and gnashing her teeth. For once, she was wise enough to hold her hips still. After scrubbing his hands again, Duvalyon silently made notations in her ledger and returned it to its place. “We’re done here,” he announced. Three more surrogates were appraised. They better resembled the first: far along in their pregnancy and drained of hope. Duvalyon’s inspections were less invasive, but still strangely intimate. He held their wrists and gently pressed their bellies, paying careful attention to every part of them but their faces. After completing his final surrogate inspection, Duvalyon was stopped in the hallway by an older Symenestra. He shared some of Duvalyon’s sharper features, but had a greater rigidness to his gait and gesture. He spoke in low tones, but his tone had a scald to it. His reddish eyes intermittently passed over Duvalyon’s shoulder to scrutinize Laszlo. Duvalyon subtly shifted his position, shielding Laszlo from the elder’s disapproving looks. The younger Symenestra’s answers were silken and brief, designed to either mollify or infuriate. It was difficult to tell. Regardless, the elder moved on, returning the way he came. Feeling brazen, Duvalyon flashed Laszlo a smile that encroached on wicked. “It’s pleasing to know I can still disappoint my parents.”

[Laszlo]

The anguish in the woman's face was deeply troubling, but Laszlo fought the urge to empathize. What was the point in trying to feel her pain? This world was theirs, as far as he was concerned. He was only visiting, disconnected from its problems and its trials. All that should have mattered was what happened to him, and perhaps for the sake of his emotional sanity, the people around him. What ends would be achieved by agonizing with the prisoners? Not only was he personally incapable of understanding their torment, but it would be a fruitless effort. They would die, regardless of what he did or felt, and it would further the survival of the Symenestra race. Laszlo grimaced, tearing his golden eyes away from the woman and studying Duvalyon instead. Considering what he was doing, it was only marginally less disturbing. Logically, his reasoning for ignoring the depravity of this seemed sound, but hearts seldom listened to reason. How did the Symenestra reconcile, then? Hm. Generations of practice, probably. After they left, the tall Ethaefal kept an obedient pace beside, and slightly behind, the laconic doctor. An older man accosted them, so Laszlo fell dutifully silent, pretending not to blatantly eavesdrop on the conversation and failing miserably. Feeling brave, he met the older doctor's scarlet gaze with his own, politely quiet but unflappable, rebelling against his aura of authority. When he left, Laszlo swallowed what there was to swallow from a dehydrated mouth. Duvalyon shot Laszlo a look that forced the Ethaefal to smile back, though he didn't quite know why. "Ah, I thought I noticed a resemblance." He wetted his lips and looked down, reflecting over the women he'd seen today and wondering what Duvalyon expected from him. This, probably. A struggle to process it all. An uneasy acceptance or a violent rejection. His mouth hung open for a few tense moments, feeling obligated to say something. The wall suddenly nudged into his back, surprising him. A shudder that went through his knees reminded him of a feeling he had been ignoring. This roulette of varyingly tortured women had provided an easy distraction. Now, it was affecting his balance. Laszlo took a breath. "I think I need to sit down. Are you going to have lunch?" He still hadn't asked what that substance was that Duvalyon often ate, but it had not smelled pleasant. It looked like fruit, but he was almost positive it wasn't. "I think I've been out of the sun too long. Everything feels a little… fuzzy." He swept back his hair and pushed from the wall, slipping both hands into his pockets and following as Duvalyon led them elsewhere. Hopefully somewhere with seating. "I'm a little confused, though. How can your kind bear children with the women of different races? I didn't even know that was possible to start with. Wouldn't it result in something half-blooded? And… wouldn't a Symenestra woman be immune to her own child's venom? I haven't the faintest about how it all works, but you'd think if it originated from her…"