Pinned

[Laszlo]

Spring 85th, 512 Two bells. It wasn't fair of You, Syna. My goddess, my mother, my savior, my friend. Did I wrong You? I must have gravely disappointed You in some way to have earned a life like this one. Stinking air fills my lungs and hot, electric blood washes beneath my skin. Eternal youth is mine, but I still feel myself growing older. I'm immortal, but not. My once unwanted flesh is both a curse and a gift. These things were painful at first, but I've become the masochist who craves it. It's not Life which I hate. Although I began with no tethers but gravity, I have grown to love this world enough that I don't want to leave it. Life is not torture. It isn't easy, but even half-crazed vagrants trapped within diseased, decaying bodies find reasons to continue. I forgive You, for releasing me back into Mizahar. But why, Syna, why did You make me a Widow? You gave me a murderer's shape. I had no choice but to embrace it. You made me a killer. "Laszlo. Pay attention." That isn't my name. "What?" "Hold her down." The words, he belately realized, were not in Common. Silken threaded utterances were heard and understood as readily as his own native tongue—because it was his native tongue. Duvalyon was speaking, a deep, practiced voice that crafted every syllable like a delicate glass sculpture, beautiful, pristine, shining. There he knelt, at the end of the bed and its thin mattress, his pale face bowed between a pair of pink, human knees. It was a grotesque image, one that he had resigned himself to without any noticeable hesitation despite his usual poise and grace. Even he could make something like this look clean and orderly. "Yes. Sorry. I forgot." Laszlo's hands pressed down upon a set of dainty, naked shoulders. She struggled, but he was much stronger. A hand freed from her rattling fetters and shot toward his face, but he caught her thin wrist and held it with the barest effort. This piece of the Place of Purging spilled out behind the doctor, a misshapen room of hollowed rock, appointed with drapes of colorful hanging silk to compensate for the rugged texture of the uneven walls. Black stone shelves held locked boxes, soft cloth toys, and a washbasin. The cold glimmer of a brass chamberpot echoed the light of the opalgloams across the room. "Useless," Duvalyon remarked dryly. Laszlo wondered if the doctor joked only to help remove the grimness of his task. The Ethaefal could smell what he was working with from here; he couldn't imagine what the Symenestra was forced to endure. "Laz…" Laszlo looked down, catching the soft brown portals of Abalia's large, wanting eyes. There was tenderness that passed between them—a blind love from the surrogate and a deep, remorseful pity from her murderer. Still, she struggled, her wrist turning in Laszlo's clawed hand. He squeezed harder. She whimpered. This didn't feel right. "Abalia… I'm sorry." "Laz… how could you do this…?" The Ethaefal sucked in a sharp breath, flicking a glance up to Duvalyon for reassurance. There was none. He was a professional. Laszlo's hands shook as he looked down to the human again, still dutifully holding her down as he was told. "Laz…?" "Abby…" "Laszlo… how could you do this? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?!" --- "Nnh…" Laszlo's blue room plunged into his vision, jostling him into remembering exactly where he was. Lhavit held him lovingly in a bed of lights and life, dancing under the glow of Leth's nightly vigil. It crept in through the single window, a glittering array of lanterns and glimmering skyglass, bringing with it muffled sounds of activity and faint voices. For a while, Laszlo watched the lights in his window and listened to them talking, letting it fill his head and forcing his dream to bleed away into the dark. The Ethaefal rolled on his mattress, too hot beneath a thick quilt that embraced him alongside the dark haired Alvad. His keen Symenestran eyes at first studied the strands of her hair, watching them individually reflect Lhavit's lights ke gold wires. On its own, his arm reached out and compressed her body against his. The most beautiful, accidental note drifted from her sleeping lips as he pressed his face into her soft brunette waves.