Promise You Won't Be Mad

[Laszlo]

Spring 44th, 512 AV Appromixately nineteenth or twentieth bell. Already losing track down here. Too easily, Laszlo had forgotten about the strand roads of Kalinor. Somehow, he'd grown used to the shifting, lying streets of the City of Illusions. Even if they never took him to the same destination twice, at least he was (usually) walking on solid ground. Traversing these ropes, relying more on his clawed, adhesive fingers than his feet for a change, it wasn't frightening. Something innate in Laszlo's Symenestra instincts had little fear of heights. Moving like this, though, was exceedingly unnerving. It somehow came to him naturally, and yet he'd be humiliated if Abalia or Seven could see him. On the other hand, it was a relief to feel one with the nature of a place. An Ethaefal didn't belong anywhere earthly, but his amethyst eyes were built to pierce this darkness. Laszlo could easily make out the familiar teardrop shape of Duvalyon's home, even at this distance, giving him plenty of time to build a healthy sense of dread as he wondered what the physician would say to him when he arrived. Surely he'd gotten Laszlo's letter, sent earlier in Winter. Duvalyon probably had a response prepared for him. Or a refusal. Perhaps he'd just laugh. Sooner than he would have liked, Laszlo came upon the side of the structure, so different from the clay and mortar of Alvadas' buildings. Already sure that anyone inside could hear Laszlo shuffling against the exterior wall, he sat almost vertically near the opening and waited quietly, gathering his nerve. Laszlo had forgotten what the sound of Duvalyon's voice was like, but he remembered it was deeper than his own by an octave or two. "Duvalyon, are you home?" he called tentatively, deciding to lift back the fabric that protected the home's entrance. "It's Laszlo. I'm… back, again. I guess. Can we talk?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

When Laszlo lifted the fabric, he only saw the empty sitting room. Voices crept up to his ears, diffused by the curtains that made rooms of the orb shaped home. They were warmer and dearer than he had any right to hear, the shared confidences of family. As he waited on the precipice the sounds began to form phrases in Symenos, but they were mismatched against the voice he recognized. "Careful, Melia, careful..." "I think I've got it," the feminine voice stretched with the strain of concentration, then bloomed laughingly, "You're worse than grandmother." "Then grandmother doesn't care about you like I do." A long pause and slight jangling of earthen ware. "Just-- just let me do it," it was more worry than frustration, a foreign tune for that smooth voice. One could tell she was evading him by her broken phrases, "You-- are--an--old--biddy, Duv." A quick exhale and she ended triumphant, "There!" "A petching miracle," It was the dry, put-upon tone Laszlo would recognize. "You shouldn't curse. I'll get the rest from the other room." Under Laszlo's feet a young female Symenestra floated over the floor. She wore a green dress and a softly lit expression. A shift in position gave Laszlo away. She looked up, startled, then glowed with a happy look and curtsied. Something about her was catching, like she was spring unfurled. "Greetings!" She didn't look away from Laszlo as she called out to her brother. "Duv, someone's here to see you!" Despite it not being her nest she made gestures of welcome, bidding Laszlo come down. "What?" Duvalyon answered as he pulled aside the curtain. The warm cadence of the living left him immediately. It flowed out of his expression like blood, until there was a composition of quietude and gravity. The segments of his life were not meant to intertwine, so the transition was quick. "Go home, Melia." It had the metallic command of the medic and the sternness of the brother. Melia knew to say nothing and forgo the usual ritual of their parting ways. she curtsied at Laszlo again, then left. "My sister," he explained after her departure. Nothing more was said on the subject on his part. He gestured to the table and chairs, the only true pieces of furniture in the room. The table was cluttered with books, as expected and torn pieces of wadj. There were a few jars of suspicious color and viscosity, a half burnt candle and what might have been a human finger bone. Despite being in Symenestra form, Duvalyon suspected Laszlo preferred to carry himself like an Ethaefal. The medic obliged and sat in the opposite chair. "I received your letter."

[Laszlo]

"Uh… Hi," Laszlo had managed back at the pretty young Symenestra, evidently related to Duvalyon, though he struggled to fathom how. They were like opposite sides of a coin. Still, she bade him inside, so Laszlo rolled into the opening and effortlessly dropped to the floor, landing nimbly as his long legs obliged him. It wasn't Duvalyon's invitation, which he felt slightly guilty for, but he was eager to come inside. The Ethaefal took a quiet moment, standing aside to let the Hellebores work themselves out. Melia and Laszlo crossed eyes one last time before she left. When the room quieted, and subsequently darkened with Duvalyon's suddenly unreadable facial expression, Laszlo swallowed dryly. He made his way past the medic's curious collection of jars and tchotchkes, sparing them nostalgic glances of warm familiarity. For once, he recognized minutiae not from a life before this one, but the one he was still living. He not only remembered these sickly jars and the physicians taste in decoration, but also what point of his life they symbolized, scenes in his head between him and Duvalyon and Dor that still replayed when he daydreamed. He knew this place. Laszlo was actually building a past of his own; the realization filled him with an emotion he could not identify. It might have been a happy one, were it not so meaningless in the larger scope of recent events. Abalia returned to the forefront of his mind, as she always did, and as such his eyes were weighted to the surface of the table when he sat down before Duvalyon. "Good," he replied after some hesitation. His voice felt reluctant to leave his throat, leaving his lips silently ajar as they waited for words. Laszlo's jaw worked, a little, until he finally gave up on coming up with anything important to say. "I barely… I barely remember what I wrote. But I…" Laszlo chanced a glance upward, meeting deep burgundy eyes that were still waiting for him. His heart seized momentarily and he looked away again, taking his chin in his hand. The Ethaefal would look somewhat different than Duvalyon remembered. There was little change in his Symenestra appearance; the hair was still mildly long, though presently tied back in an almost effeminate fashion. Graphite strands fell around his face nevertheless, giving him something of a bedraggled look that perhaps rescued his masculinity. It was his dayside form that had changed the most, but he wouldn't be making an appearance for another fifteen or sixteen bells. Laszlo carried with him though a palpable exhaustion, not only from travel but a restlessness that glittered in his gemlike, lavender eyes. It was more than just the traces of mountain dust and soot that still clung to his face. "I've really petched this up, haven't I?" Laszlo thought out loud with a sudden, dry laugh. He smiled for an instant, and then with a wince, it was gone. "Two years in this world and I think I've dug more holes for myself, and other people, than a graveyard sexton. I can almost remember dying, more than once, and yet it's so difficult for me to believe that living a life should be this hard. So fraught with… with… I don't even know what." Leaning to the side, Laszlo perched his elbow on the arm of his chair, keeping his eyes askew as thin, clawed fingers felt over his dark silver hair. "You'd think Syna could have given me a manual when she ejected me from the sky. I…" Laszlo's mind went to Siofra, the Lethborn Ethaefal who had ended up with a dagger in her lung, with him standing at the other end. He wanted to tell Duvalyon about it, to see what he thought of one celestial killing another, but there was no graceful way to bring it up. Anyway, he feared the physician's indifference. There was something grounding, however, about fearing another man's judgment. Laszlo walked with world without the least shred of care for what anyone thought of him, knowing they couldn't begin to comprehend his existence. But Duvalyon was different. "It was Spring when I first arrived here two years ago. I keep wishing that I'll turn around and it'll still be that year. I've just imagined all of this." Finally Laszlo brought himself to look at Duvalyon directly. "I can't do it alone anymore. Heh, clearly," he added, with another incomplete laugh.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"What's done is done." It was a clean reply, spoken quietly. It would not let itself be entangled in derision, sympathy or rationalization. Much like the medic aspect of Duvalyon, it existed in a space of pragmatism and action. It would be torture to make a man relive his regrets. "And neither of us are Treavers," he added with a rueful smile, as if he had once wished for the same power. Duvalyon opened his mouth to embark into a dissertation on what could and could not be done for Abalia. It was a calculated reply, percolating since he read the last word on the page of Laszlo's letter. In one late night spell, Duvalyon had considered bringing an anatomy sketch, but even he realized that was impersonal. Instead of this orderly proposal, something else leaped out in the moment, a possible aftertaste of being around his sister. "We are not created to exist alone." Duvalyon paused, and for a thread thick moment his eyes flickered downward. He resumed the conversation in his even, unflappable hum. "Laszlo, I must be clear. I have more use than most medics in this situation, but if I had the skill to save surrogates, my race would not live in dread of its conclusion. And…" What followed was the difficult part of the conversation, not the hopeless medical prognosis but the shattering of the Ethaefal's personal expectations. Instead of growing more humane, the Symenestra allowed the full force of his alien quality pervade. "…I told you once before that Azo are wise to fear my kind. My nature does not dispose me to certain sympathies. You cannot look to me for them." Instead of tightening and evaporating like Laszlo's as the horrible subject ripened, Duvalyon's voice was fluid and mirror smooth. "What you have done in error I have arranged purposefully." Duvalyon did not temper his explanation, "It is even a point of pride." He was thorough in his warning, "I am the eldest. I have conducted three harvests and will carry on more." The most disconcerting part was his lack of inflection. Guilt did not prick him, and if it did, it was only over the idea that he disappointed someone he had woven into his life's web. "Do you understand?" This marked the nearest to human feeling Duvalyon had crept. There was insistent concern in this question. Laszlo needed to understand the nature of what he was welcoming into his sphere. "I will help you Laszlo. If you still ask me to," because it was Laszlo and Duvalyon was ever honorable to those in his life's chain, "But do not expect my motivations to match your own."

[Laszlo]

It wasn't what Laszlo had wanted to hear, and though he hadn't known what to expect, he wasn't surprised. For a moment he held his breath as he contained his urge to react, forehead pressed into the sides of his fingers. When the air finally escaped him, Laszlo smiled involuntarily to release some of his pent up emotion. Duvalyon was the same as ever; he hadn't changed one iota. It was bittersweet, knowing that even if Duvalyon couldn't help him after Laszlo had come all this way, he was still the same man from his memories. This must be why, Laszlo thought to himself, people cling to the things that never change. Even the mortals who held fast to this world needed ways to maintain their sanity. Before Laszlo sat a murderer. He had known this even as he trudged for days on end through the Unforgiving Mountains, all to find a killer to help save a life. This fact did not bother him. The Symenestra did what they had to do out of duty, out of family, to help ensure their race's survival. It was understandable that Duvalyon couldn't see outside his narrow scope of things, being what he was. Abalia was human, after all. Humans were not going extinct. Even if they were, he wondered if the Symenestra would ever bother to pity them. Duvalyon may have killed women in the same way that Laszlo was killing Abalia, and indeed had watched and helped countless other surrogates meet the same gruesome death that awaited her. There was one thing that the medic did not consider, or perhaps he chose not to: Duvalyon never loved any of them. What brings you to Alvadas? Laszlo had asked a female Symenestra at the Crooked Playhouse not so long ago. Their matching violet eyes held each other for a long, silent moment. She understood Laszlo's unasked question. I'm here on business, she had replied flatly, and then added, I am not the eldest. "I understand what you are, Duvalyon," Laszlo said softly. Now that the Ethaefal had seen death, and the many faces of a murderer, perhaps now he understood that more clearly than he could have a year ago. Perhaps Laszlo was still too naïve to understand anything. "I'm well acquainted with what your position asks of you." Laszlo's hand fell, and he lifted his head, feeling his gall rising. "But Abalia is not a surrogate. I will not just give up and let her die. She is not one of your specimens at the Purging. She is the single most important thing in my life. You claim to be immune to sympathy, but you can't honestly tell me you would have stood idly by if this were happening to Dor." But it hadn't, would be Duvalyon's easy counterpoint. It would be a cheap shot, if the physician chose to use it. It was then that Laszlo noticed that his sharp nails had dug into the wood of the chair's arm. His hand slackened, a little. "So, yes, please. I am asking you to help. I'm begging. I know there are methods, at least, to save a Symenestra mother's life. There must be something I can do for Abby."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon released the cord of tension between them. Laszlo professed understanding; there was nothing left on the shoulders of the Symenestra's selective conscience. During Laszlo's impassioned counter, Duvalyon said nothing. There was a flash of temper at the Kelvic's name. It quelled as quickly as it rose, breaking no further than the corners of his mouth and eyes. The house had been expunged of every trace of her. Saying the name aloud was pouring blood and earth on a pristine bed. No this was not Dor, because Duvalyon had split himself open to make sure it was not. Laszlo was still a child, though. Fumbling through his nature and capabilities. With a child's heartless gaiety the Ethaefal picked up things then cast them aside, unaware the descent could shatter what he once held. And here he was begging for an absolution Duvalyon did not have the power to give. The earnestness of Laszlo's fear and love made the medic's skin prickle. He had no salve or cure, even in the face of such ardent want. Nature was often merciless and no amount of medicine could tie her grasping hands. "I will do what I am able", a steady answer followed by a glib comment, "No need to punish my chair." He brushed his fingers towards the armrest, "It's merely a spectator." What he was able to do was precious little, even if he was willing to perform more. The crisis Laszlo faced was the ongoing conundrum of the race he had forgotten. "But not here," the Symenestra shook his head, "Not in Kalinor. It is not conducive to the ending you prefer." Even as he articulated the words, Duvalyon regretted their necessity. Kalinor was all the peace a Symenestra would know. Most other cities were garish and base, made for dense men and thick crowds. Since the great djed storm, the cities would be even filthier and packed with refugees. For the first few days outside he would be half blind, and when they reached their destination it would be the tedious routine of scrutiny and hatred. He couldn't fault the sunlit races, but he didn't relish the experience. Regardless, Duvalyon hid his distaste under his tongue and feigned nonchalance at the thought of travel.

[Laszlo]

"Oh." Laszlo lifted his hand away from the chair, or tried to. He was successful in the second attempt, needing to pry the tips of his nails from the oaken arm. A little chagrined chuckle rolled from his throat as he used a thumb to dust off his black, thick claws and renew their shine. Despite the embarrassment, he was glad to have Duvalyon's subtle sense of humor to cut the tension. "Sorry." The Symenestra doctor had agreed more quickly than Laszlo had anticipated, and suddenly he felt guilty for bringing up Dor. Duvalyon had contained his reaction, but it was more his lack of acknowledgement that cautioned Laszlo to abandon that line of thought. He obediently did so, turning his focus reeling in his emotions and abandoning his expectations for more of an argument. Seven wouldn't have been so easy to persuade. Even Ifran might have done all he could to deflect the conversation elsewhere. Duvalyon was a different breed of person than the friends Laszlo had made in Alvadas. Of course he was. He was Symenestra, and a follower of Viratas. Despite their flagrant disregard for the other races of the world, Laszlo was fond of his not-kindred. He was suddenly reminded of why he had stayed in Kalinor so long the last time. What Duvalyon said next caused his violet eyes to flick quickly upward. "Not here?" Laszlo asked out of incredulity. Was he understanding rightly? "I mean… of course I agree. You're right. But… are you saying you'd leave Kalinor?" The Ethaefal corrected his posture and straightened in his chair, as if that would somehow improve his ability to discern Duvalyon's implicit way of communicating. He became aware of the emptiness in his stomach, and remembered that he would have to eat for the duration of his stay underground. Not whether to be pleased or disgusted at the prospect, he ignored it for now. "I never meant to ask that much of you. You really don't have to leave on my behalf. I only meant to beg your wisdom and professional opinion. I don't even know where we're going next. I need to see someone about a map."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"Lhavit," Duvalyon announced,"We're going to Lhavit." It was the closest sunlit city and Symenestra were not killed on sight. "We can leave after I make arrangements at the Purging and get some supplies. Tomorrow at the earliest. Though you may be inclined to wait. You and your-" he almost said surrogate, "Companion can stay here, if necessary." With a smirk he continued his rapid shaping of the matter. "I doubt she'll care for my hospitality but her and I will get to know one another inevitably." With that, the matter was at an end. Duvalyon pushed himself way from the table, eager to leave the uncomfortable chair. Damn stiff things were only useful for eating, and writing, if that. "If anyone asks, she belongs to you. Treat her like your horse, not your wife. Avoid notice. You may recall this is a small city with few strangers." Duvalyon felt more comfortable standing. It did wonders for his mood. He was rounding the table, to go into the other "room", but stopped a moment. His fingertips touched the table lightly, his left-hand making a tent. "It's interesting," he began with a slightly curious look directed more at his hand than Laszlo, "That you begin with the assumption I wouldn't help you to that extent." Duavalyon left this puzzle on the table for Laszlo to consider as the Symenestra got something for them to drink from the other room.

[Laszlo]

"Lhavit?" It was the name of Seven Xu's home city, but beyond that, the name didn't mean anything to him. How far is it? was Laszlo's first inward reaction. The question of why came second, but was entirely moot. The Ethaefal knew he couldn't stay in Kalinor with Abalia, if he wanted to ensure her survival; Duvalyon knew that too. What did it matter, where they went, as long as it was away from here? Alvadas had already been considered, but traveling across the mountains was long and arduous. Still, that wasn't the point. Even though it was Abalia's home, Laszlo had grown to hate the city since leaving. The both of them had allies there, but none who were all that dependable. But that was the nature of the City of Illusions. He'd return there only if absolutely necessary. Laszlo leaned back in his chair, completely nonplussed, watching the spot on the table that Duvalyon had touched. The Symenestra's words sat with him, echoing in his head. This was really happening, then? Duvalyon was really helping them? Going with them? Just like that? "Are you serious?" the Ethaefal said cautiously, when Duvalyon returned. His slender hand pushed back thin tendrils of graphite to rub at the back of his neck. His eyes didn't leave the table. "Honestly. Tell me now, if you're joking. I'm not even a Symenestra, and you'll do this for me? I always thought I was more of a burden to you, than a friend." A smile teased as his thin lips as his amethyst eyes shifted, chasing at a memory in his peripheral vision. "I have scars from the last time I tried calling anyone that." Laszlo felt at his left side thoughtfully, remembering Siofra's dagger. Only days later, Victor had mangled his hand to finish an argument. That had taken weeks to heal. Laszlo squeezed his side softly, his thoughts shifting tracks. "I'll take your advice, and avoid notice, although I'm not entirely sure Abalia wouldn't knock me to the ground if I treated her like that, regardless of reason." There was warm laughter at the thought, but it quickly soured as he remembered their predicament. "And thank you. It will be better if I take her here. We need a few days to rest from our travel through the Unforgiving. The mountains are aptly named. And," Laszlo lifted his head to look at Duvalyon, but less to make eye contact and more to make a quick sweep of the Symenestra's lean form, "I suspect Abalia will be more than happy to meet you." This was added with, perhaps, a flare of protectiveness. Abalia was outwardly fond of Symenestra, their thin, graceful bodies, the feeling of danger they could exude, their black, claw-like nails. Indeed, it had been what had lured her into Laszlo's life to begin with. Mere months before they had met, a true Widow had tried to make Abalia his surrogate, thinking her correctly to be easy prey. He had ultimately lost patience and gave up when she refused to abandon her friend in Alvadas. There was something to be said, for that. "How long does it take to reach Lhavit?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"Friend" the word made Duvalyon pause. His behavior towards Laszlo was both less and more. He let the word sit in his thoughts and let the shape of it define his eventual reply. "Yes, I am serious," he answered a bit flatly, like an exasperated parent. From a standing position, the Symenestra poured matching cups of a ruddy liquid. "Friend is an odd word for me," he observed suddenly. "By the sound of things," his burgundy eyes drifted across the scars on Laszlo's hand, "The very fact I haven't filled you with venom would place me in your innermost circle." A wry smile tilted his mouth, briefly reminding Laszlo of the medic's macabre sense of humor. He corked the bottle, making note of how much longer it would last. "Think of me like family. It is not necessary to know the depth and breadth of my tastes and habits." Despite a reluctance to adopt that linear posture again, he sat at the table. "But I will labor on your behalf with no more persuasion than the existence of a connection or duty." Laszlo had not had a real family for some time, but Duvalyon would hope he had some primal memory of the dynamic. How ease and friendship could waver or depart but loyalty and conviction remain. "And I don't want your friend to be pleased to meet me." That was what got her in trouble in the first place, he thought a bit cruelly. "It doesn't matter to me. All I want is her compliance when I tell her to do something." Duvalyon had a talent for sliding between noble overtures and offensive disinterest. "I am accustomed to using pain as a form of persuasion with my other patients, so my manners are lacking when it comes to husbandry. I look to you to assure her of my intent as I may not always have the patience for it." The Symenestra pressed on, absorbing any space for Laszlo to express outrage over his callousness. "It will take around twenty days to reach Lhavit. Perhaps more, perhaps less depending on the party." Duvalyon took a sip of the liquid. His expression altered, as if he was trying to calculate something. "Do you know how long she has been with child?"