Let Me Be

[Ambrose Kain]

"Eh?" Ambrose blinked at him, then, following his gaze, let out a yelp of surprise. Apparently he'd sustained more injuries than he initially realized; beneath the ripped fabric, there was a deep, long gash down the front of his right leg. It hadn't hurt at first, but now it was beginning to sting, and the sting was sharpening. "...Help? Help how?" Ambrose murmured, figuring Laszlo meant he would find something to bind it with. He considered telling him there was no need, but it was starting to hurt, and doubtless a place that dirty was a breeding ground for infection. Besides, it might feel kind of nice to have the symenestra baby him a little. "Well, alright..." Slowly lowering himself into the chair Laszlo had just vacated--he didn't want to risk the collapse of another chair so soon--Ambrose leaned forward and started to roll up the hem. He did so carefully, but couldn't help brushing against the fresh wound, eliciting a tight gasp. "Can't remember...the last time...I got worse than a paper cut," he said as he worked, still chuckling faintly. "Nor sick...not since I was a child. After I went through...the most hellish sickness imaginable, hardly anything...seemed to stick afterward. Guess once you make it through a house on fire, doesn't really matter if you get singed."*

[Laszlo]

Flashing Ambrose a gentle grin, Laszlo hiked back his cloak as he knelt down at his feet, keen eyes inspecting the wound as it was revealed. To his own, uneducated scrutiny, the wound looked clean enough. He couldn't see any sign of offending shards of glass or splintered wood. Taking a corner of his cloak with one hand, he reached behind Ambrose' calf to steady his leg with his other. "Sorry, my hands are cold," he mumbled as he placed icy fingertips against Ambrose' warm skin. How sinister that clawed, gray hand could look against healthy human pallor.

Using the bundle of wool fabric in his hand, Laszlo carefully mopped up the excess crimson, trying to be careful not to bump the wound itself. His hands were unpracticed, however, and at least twice he had to issue a quick apology.

"I died of sickness, once." Laszlo released his cloak, then returned his hand to the top of Ambrose' laceration. With two fingertips, he traced down its thin contour, staining his fingertips with the human's blood, its acrid scent stinging his nostrils. It couldn't have felt very comfortable, but the result was immediate: the gash was still there, but the mouth of the wound had been sealed with a fresh crust of dried blood. "I've died of many things, but a dire illness and a murder are the two most clear in my memory. You must be a more robust person than me to have lived through it."

Laszlo retracted his hands, cleaning his stained fingertips on his own clothing. "That's all I can do, for now. It will still hurt, and it will bleed again if you bump it, but I quickened the healing by about a day. I can do it again tomorrow. You'll probably have a scar."

[Ambrose Kain]

Whatever he'd been expecting, that wasn't it. Ambrose couldn't even figure out what had transpired at first, except that a scab had formed in record time. Ambrose didn't like scabs--they were ugly, and itched like hell. But he knew they were necessary for the body to heal itself. His leg still ached, too, but no longer with the sharp pain of a fresh wound. It was duller, though it flared when he shifted his leg somewhat, stretching it out. "Thank you," he murmured, a little mystified. Watching Laszlo's hand pull back, he reached forward suddenly and tugged on it with his own. He wanted to warm that chilly hand with the warmth of his own skin; he didn't know why. "That's...kind of horrible," he mumbled, in response to Laszlo's story. "So you remember your deaths? Sometimes?" His brows drew together, his perpetual smile finally traded for a sympathetic moue. "Is it as traumatic as it sounds?" If so, no wonder the ethaefal were so detached. It would be unnecessary hell to have to go through the terrible agony of dying every time those memories resurfaced.*

[Laszlo]

As his hand was unexpectedly snagged by another, Laszlo looked quickly upward in surprise. In Ambrose' warm, pink fingers, Laszlo's own skin was startlingly pale in contrast, and those clawed, bony fingers looked unusually harmless held captive by a slightly smaller hand. For a brief moment, as Laszlo hesitated, his dim violets beheld their clasped reflectively, before he looked down with a grimace. The resistance of his arm slackened as he closed his fingers around Ambrose'.

"It's not as bad as you think," Laszlo murmured as he used his free hand to carefully unroll Ambrose' pant leg back over his exposed calf, conscious to avoid brushing the wound again. "Just dreams I have sometimes. I usually dream of my past lives, latent memories I can't recall when I'm awake. Those deaths are no more a reality for me than your past deaths are for you." The intention of a forced smile tugged unsuccessfully at the corner of his mouth. "The only difference is that my divine existence was born of my last death."

After pushing his cloak up and over his shoulder to expose his thin frame, Laszlo laid a set of sharpened black claws upon his lower abdomen, on a spot slightly left of the navel. "The Symenestra who once wore this face was called Vethis Orthilia. He lived, and died, in Kalinor. A woman impaled him here, with a snapped broom handle." The claws fell away as he leaned back to face Ambrose again. With a shrug, the cloak fell back down again to conceal his willowy frame. "He died cursing her, though he blamed himself. His wife was holding him in her arms when he gave his last breath."

[Ambrose Kain]

Blessed and cursed with a vivid imagination, Ambrose swallowed, all too easily able to picture a broken broom handle puncturing that pale flesh. "That's so sad," he murmured, then grimaced at the triteness of his own remark. "And you say...'he'...as if he were a different person. Was he not the vessel for your soul? For your past being?" Head tilted a little like a dog's, he tried to piece it together. "I mean, if I should somehow remember a past life of mine and you asked me to describe it to you, I'd most likely say 'I did such and such' not 'the man I used to be did such and such.' Ah, but it's probably something completely different for you..."

Maybe it would be better if he just stopped trying altogether to fit himself into the ethaefal's shoes. Laszlo obviously felt Ambrose could never fully understand what it was to be him, and perhaps he was right. The most Ambrose could do was try to be understanding, and treat him warmly as a friend.

He stood suddenly, swayed a little bit as his leg pained him, then squeezed his hand tighter about Laszlo's and pressed the other against the table for stability. "This place is atmospheric and all, but I'm starving," he murmured, giving Laszlo his usual bright smile. "Is there something more you intended to do here? Or could I persuade you to come with me to find a place to eat? On the other hand, the city's been such a pest to me today--to both of us--that perhaps we ought to settle for just getting back to the inn."*

[Laszlo]

Even when Ambrose stood up, he didn't let go of Laszlo's hand. The Ethaefal wasn't altogether sure what he thought of his friend's insistent affection, but it felt more comfortable to simply go along with it, just as he had the other night. It was intrusive and a little annoying to have someone insert himself into Laszlo's personal space, but at the same time it was oddly pleasant to have Ambrose want to be near him. Laszlo rose to his feet as well, his fingers slackening a little in Ambrose' hand, but not entirely. Giving one last parting glance to the moving ceiling, he finally gave a light nod of his pale countenance. "No, I had no other plans here. I just visit, from time to time, because Alvadas seems to insist." Pocketing his opposite hand, Laszlo angled his cautious violets back toward the human. He gave the offer a little thought as he studied the earnest look in Ambrose calm, brown eyes. The Ethaefal's heart quickened just a little. Ambrose was so kind and easygoing. What interested him so much about Laszlo? Back to the inn… he wasn't sure he wanted that—to invite Ambrose for another night, that is. Although it seemed as if they'd made amends for their light argument a few days before, Laszlo still wasn't prepared to let someone spend so much time around him. "Minding your leg, we'll see where the city takes us: to dinner, or to the inn. I wouldn't mind the company for the rest of my walk."

[Ambrose Kain]

Having expected a refusal, Laszlo's acceptance had Ambrose raising his brows and deepening his smile. "Alrighty then." He finally let go of Laszlo's hand, more so that he could use his own for stability than self-consciousness of the distress he was putting the ethaefal with his tendency towards physical contact. To be honest, he was eager to get out of the abandoned bar. The ceiling was breathtaking, but the mundane nature of the rest of the surroundings left much to be desired. Mostly, Ambrose longed for fresh air again--the dust motes and pale lighting in the bar tasted too strongly of unfinished business and regrets. For a paranoid second, he had the feeling the door wouldn't open, as if the place was really haunted and wouldn't let them leave. But, though it required a bit of effort to shove past the aged hinges, the door squeaked open, providing a beguiling view of the street beyond. Still wary of the city's mistreatment that day, Ambrose warily stepped out of the building's shadow and onto the main road. It remained stable--for the moment. "Um, that...business with your friend. Did you manage to resolve some of it?" he asked Laszlo, both to keep the silence between them from drawing too poignant and because it seemed Laszlo was in a better mood, and more likely to humor him. "The one that had you so preoccupied when we first met?"*

[Laszlo]

In a practiced flourish, Laszlo hooked two sharpened nails into the hem of his cloak's hood and pulled it over his head. A tuft of silver hair strayed attempted to escape cover, but in the same motion, Laszlo tucked it back behind his ear. Retracting the thin arm inside his cloak once again, he slipped that hand into a pocket as well, and fell into an easy gait alongside his friend. "Ah…" Laszlo's breath hitched as Ambrose asked him about Seven, who the Ethaefal had forgotten about up until this moment. He'd managed to avoid the halfblood for the most part, and occupied his mind with other things so that wouldn't have to remember that bizarre night. "No, I haven't," he said in a sigh, thoughtful eyes searching the road at his feet. "I'm not sure what I'll do just yet, but I'm in no hurry to solve it." He spared a curious glance to Ambrose' legs, looking for any sign of a limp. The gash wasn't so bad that he'd need to worry about the man's ability to walk, but his time spent with the physician Duvalyon in the Place of Purging had made him sensitive to injuries, particularly ones that could become infected. "Did you hear about the Alvadas tournament? I think there are still matches going. I went to the first one because I knew the man taking part. There was a… murder in the stands. I mentioned it before. Have you heard the rumors?"

[Ambrose Kain]

"Oh," Ambrose gasped softly, pausing to blink at him. "No, I hadn't. A tournament?" Thinking quietly for a moment, he broke into a faint smile. "Not really. Or rather, I've heard so many rumors that I can't keep them straight anymore. A murder, how sad." Something about the way the ethaefal paused in his speech caught Ambrose's attention. The ethaefal seemed so disinterested in most everything else, it didn't make sense for him to be bothered by the murder, unless he was somehow involved. Yet he'd been in such an awful state that night at the Withering Rose, Ambrose didn't wish to do him the unkindness of putting him back in a similar state. "I'm sure it..." he began, but hesitated, his hand raised in preparation for a comforting pat also hesitating. After a moment, he lowered both hand and gaze, and started walking forward slowly. He wanted to reassure Laszlo that whatever happened, he couldn't be at fault, but the truth was Ambrose had no idea what the situation was. It might very well be Laszlo's fault, and Ambrose would look like an insincere idiot telling him it wasn't. Ambrose wasn't used to finding himself in such an awkward position. What should he say? Should he hold his tongue entirely? "...Who was murdered?" he asked finally, carefully, since Laszlo might be comfortable enough telling him that much, given that the ethaefal was the one to bring it up.*

[Laszlo]

"A Symenestra woman, I didn't know her name." Up ahead, Laszlo recognized one of the shops he'd passed earlier that day. Appreciating the irony that familiarity meant nothing on the streets of Alvadas, he stared at it for a while, wondering if the city was being intentionally misleading, and whether he should turn right or left in the fork ahead. "She was lovely, in the short moment I saw her before that Oaf attacked her. She said something sharp-tongued, and he hit her with his wooden shield. Over and over and over…" Laszlo shuddered, swiping a hand through his hair. "By the time he was through, she didn't have a face. She didn't even look like a person, just… ugh…" Pressing his forehead into his palm, Laszlo clutched the fringe of his hair in his curled fingers momentarily, closing his eyes as he tried unsuccessfully to purge those images from memory. There had been so much blood. When she could no longer scream in pain, a wet gurgle would still escape her throat. The Oaf just kept beating her until she stopped moving, and kept going. "What would possess a person to do something like that? I've seen murder justified, Ambrose, but that… that was just… needless. I can't get over it."